2. Jude
2
jude
“ W hat! What the fuck happened?” Heat washed over me, and my jaw went slack.
“I don’t know exactly.” Uncle Chuck’s voice sounded raspy over the phone, as if he’d been yelling all day. “But Jesse was shot in the head, and Hazel was found driving her truck down Highway 20 like a bat out of hell. She had the gun on her, Jude. There’s still crime tape around the bunkhouse, and the ranch has been crawling with cops. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Nothing like this has ever happened in Willows.”
Shit! I pushed my cap back, scratching my forehead, before turning it backward. Was I hearing him right? I checked the clock on the waiting room wall. I wasn’t going to find out very much five minutes before my appointment.
“Have you been able to talk to Hazel? What about Romy?” Just her name coming out of my mouth was like a gut punch, yet it felt damn good. It had been too long since I said it aloud. I bit my lip just to keep myself from repeating it. Fuck! Get it together. “Has anyone gotten ahold of her?” Romy had a complicated relationship with her sister, Hazel, but she needed to know.
“Frank spoke to Hazel. She called from jail, but she’s not talking. He said he’s been trying to get ahold of Romy all day, but she hasn’t answered his calls. I texted her to call me, but she hasn’t replied yet.”
“Wait. What? You have her number? How did you—” All these years, and my uncle had it. Of course he’d have it. Romy and Hazel practically lived at the ranch. Uncle Chuck loved those girls as though they were his own.
“Romy and I text from time to time. Just to check in. Mostly around the holidays, we?—”
“Can you give me her number?” I cut him off in a hurry. All I was concerned about was Romy and how she was going to take the news that her sister was in jail for murder. I didn’t know if she would speak to me, but I felt that I should try.
I heard a loud sigh. “Sorry, bud. She asked me years ago not to share it with anyone.”
“What the hell?”
“I’ll tell you what. If I can get ahold of her and she’s okay with it, I’ll give you her number.”
But I knew she would not be okay with it. Not with the way we ended our friendship.
The office door opened, and Dr. Deborah stepped out with her last patient. I turned in my seat, quickly flipping my cap back around and pulling it low to hide my face.
“Hey, I gotta go. Can I call you back later?” I asked quietly.
“Sure thing, bud. I’ll keep you posted.”
“So how long has it been since you went home?” Dr. Deborah asked, looking up from her notepad.
“Twelve years. I haven’t been back since …” I remembered the last day I was in Willows, Oregon. Uncle Chuck’s call made it all rush to the forefront of my mind. It felt as if I got bucked off a horse or thrown in a fight. The air rushing out, my lungs frozen in my chest.
“Since when?” she prompted.
“About twelve years ago, right before I left for college. I had a full-ride wrestling scholarship to Ohio State.” It started out as one of the best days of my life, then ended in one of the worst. It was the day Romy and I finally gave in to our childhood crush … or maybe it was just my childhood crush. Fuck if I know. Romy never said shit to me after that. She did the only thing she knew how to do—run.
“That’s a long time to be away from home. You haven’t wanted to go back?”
“No. No, I haven’t wanted to go back.” I released a heavy breath, leaning back into the couch. “My heart was fucking left shattered there.”
Her brows pinched, studying me over the rims of her glasses. “Should we visit that today?”
No, I didn’t want to fucking visit that today. Or any day, really. I had bigger things to worry about now. More pressing matters. More fucked-up matters. Like a murder on my family ranch.
“Another time?” I offered, grimacing. “My uncle Chuck is dealing with a lot of shit at home, and I’m not there.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I should be used to the therapist’s “how do you feel” questions, but they still bothered me, even after four months of therapy. It always made me uncomfortable, as if I had an itch I couldn’t scratch. I had to release a big breath before reminding myself to check in with my emotions, identify them, then communicate how the fuck I felt. No one ever taught me how to do that.
Growing up, I was surrounded by good ol’ boys. Grandpa and my uncle Chuck raised me after my mother took off when I was a tot. They were always saying “just rub some dirt in it,” or “quit your blubberin’,” or “I’ll give you something to cry over.” Larsen men did not do feelings. We were men of action, showing we cared through the dedication of time and effort.
Huh, maybe that’s why the women in our lives never seemed to stick around? They probably needed more than just a kitchen remodel.
Good for me. That had to be growth right there!
Yet I still hit rock bottom. It was my third knee surgery in five years. My MMA career was essentially over. At least, that’s what the doctor said. Time to set down the gloves.
It was Jessica, my girlfriend, now my ex, who said, “It’s been a good run, sweetie.”
I still didn’t know if she was talking about our relationship or the fact that she could no longer sit cageside for a four-time light-heavyweight champion. Perhaps the relationship expired long before it ended. We wanted different things. More than anything, I wanted a family—someone waiting for me when I stepped out of the cage, someone to make me a dad, to be the mother of my children.
She didn’t want that, though. Her career came first. But even if she had, she wasn’t who I wanted. It was better if she just remained my publicist and not my girlfriend. So, while she managed her other clients, she suggested it was time to get some help with my depression. I knew she was right. I wasn’t happy. I hadn’t been happy for a long time. Now the one thing that had ever made it manageable was being stripped from me too soon.
MMA was my life. It was my career. It was all I ever knew once I lost my scholarship to failing grades and had to find something to pay the bills. Uncle Chuck told me that if I came home, he’d put me to work. But I hadn’t wanted to. I didn’t want to be a failure and have to go home.
I was young, wanting to make my own mark on the world, and even if my uncle was there, there was no way in fucking hell I’d return to the place where my heart was ripped from my chest.
Fighting was in my blood. I loved the adrenaline rush, the strategy of facing off against an opponent, the blood and sweat. Every time, it felt like a total release. A purge of the angry parts of my soul. I reveled in the feeling of complete exhaustion after going three rounds, the high of victory. The cash reward and sponsor payouts were the cherries on top.
The cash was still there, nice and fluffy in my bank account, in mutual funds, in the Vegas house, or in whatever Uncle Chuck was willing to take for the ranch. If anything rubbed off on me from my country-boy roots, it was frugality. Money was not the issue. I could live comfortably for years. No, the real issue was that my passion was being stripped from me before I was ready, and now I had no choice but to go home.
Dr. Deborah stared at me silently, her pen poised over the notepad.
How did I feel?
“Like shit, that’s how I feel. I’ve done nothing to pay my uncle back for all the years he took care of me.” I stretched out my right leg. Sitting for long periods of time still made it lock up. I needed to remind myself to do my physical therapy exercises when I got home. “Now, with this fucked-up situation at home, I feel as though it’s all out of my control, as if I’m helpless.” I shook my head, still in shock.
Dr. Deborah scratched some words on her notebook and clicked her pen closed, bringing me back to the present. “You’re going from one disappointment to another; what you’re feeling is totally valid. You’re still living in the trauma and grief of a possible career end. It will be a big lifestyle change … a change in how you see your value. A lot of this is out of your control. Is there anything you can do right now that is in your control?”
I nodded, leaning over my knees and clasping my hands to keep them from balling into fists. “I need to go home.”