Chapter 15 Timothy
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Timothy
The punching bag thuds under my fists, over and over, until my knuckles burn through the wraps. I don’t stop. Not yet.
Each strike lands with a sharp jolt up my forearms. Sweat drips into my eyes, stings, blurs the room. The wraps have slipped, and the fabric’s soaked through. Skin’s probably splitting underneath, but I don’t care. That’s the point.
The gym is quiet for a Friday night… just the soft clink of weights, the rhythmic hiss of someone’s jump rope, and muffled music bleeding through shitty earbuds across the room. My own thoughts are louder. That’s the problem.
I came here to work them out of me, beat them into submission, but they’re clinging on. Stubborn as hell. Gnawing.
Mitchell’s been avoiding me.
Freddie’s been quiet, too, ever since we all found out the truth.
I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know how to fix it, either.
I land another hit, harder this time. The bag jerks violently, swings back like it’s had enough. I catch it with one hand, steadying it, breathing heavy. The leather is slick with sweat, warm under my finger tips.
Mitchell should have said something sooner…
Freddie shouldn’t be fooling around with his nanny and his best friend’s sister…
And I…
Well, I should have seen right through Mitchell’s facade.
That’s when I hear the gym door creak open.
I glance up, expecting a regular, Boone, maybe, or Jesse if he's feeling masochistic, but it’s not. Three guys walk in together, framed by the flickering entry light. One of them nods at the girl at the front desk and scans in. The other two trail behind.
Wait.
I do know one of them.
Ezra.
He catches my eye and lifts a hand. "Timothy! What’s up, man?"
I straighten, grabbing my water bottle and wiping my face with a towel. My chest still heaves, but I manage to nod.
"Not much," I say, stepping forward. "How’s it going?"
He grins, boyish and tired all at once. "I had cabin fever. Figured I’d see if lifting something heavy clears my head." Ezra nods to the guys beside him. "This is Roman and Creed. They’re up at Meadow Creek with me."
"Timothy," I say, shaking their hands. Roman’s tall and wiry, his sleeve of tattoos blending into the darkness of his hoodie. He’s got an intense stillness to him… one of those guys who doesn’t move more than necessary. Reads the room before he speaks.
Creed’s broader, a little younger maybe, with military short hair and eyes that flicker over every exit. He nods once, no smile, and starts unzipping his gym bag without a word.
"Nice to meet you," Roman says, voice low and smooth.
Ezra’s already peeling off his hoodie. Beneath it, he’s leaner than I expected. Not frail, just stripped down. Like life shaved off everything that wasn’t necessary.
I nod toward his arm. "How’s the ink healing?"
He lifts the sleeve without hesitation. "See for yourself."
The lyrics Mitchell tattooed across his forearm last week are still scabbed at the edges, but the lines are clean. Crisp. My brother’s work always speaks for itself.
"Pretty damn good, actually," Ezra says, rotating his wrist. "Didn’t even peel too bad. Mitch is a machine."
"Yeah," I say. "He is."
Ezra glances at me then, long enough to clock the tightness in my jaw, the not quite there smile. He doesn’t press, just lowers the sleeve again and claps me lightly on the shoulder.
"We’ll be over by the squat racks. Join if you want."
I nod and watch them walk away. Roman moves with quiet confidence, like he’s always one step ahead. Creed stalks more than he walks, like he’s been in rooms that taught him to be ready for impact.
New people in town always catch my attention. Most of the time, they’re passing through. Some stay. Some disappear. Some leave damage.
What will these guys do?
I shake the thought loose and return to my corner. Wraps sticky. Pulse still racing. I throw one punch, then another, but the rhythm’s gone. The control. My fists land wrong, too shallow, then too hard.
Focus.
But all I can think about is her.
Ivy.
The way she looked at me in the dark, like she saw me. The raw pieces. The cracks.
She didn’t flinch.
She kissed me like she meant it. Touched me like she wanted to remember. Like she needed to.
And I let myself believe it. For one second, I let myself hope.
I throw another punch, miss the center. The bag jerks. My knuckles scream.
I step back, chest rising and falling like I just ran a sprint.
Now?
Now I don’t know where I stand with any of them.
Mitchell. Freddie. Ivy.
I let it get messy, and now it’s tangled up in every part of my life.
If I’m not careful, I could lose my brother.
If I say the wrong thing, I could lose Freddie.
If I let this thing with Ivy mean more than it’s supposed to, if I let it matter, I could lose everything.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to the bag, breathing in the smell of sweat and leather and rubber and pain.
Let it ground me.
Let it remind me what I can control.
My breath.
My fists.
My damn heart.
At least for now.
I take one more deep breath.
Pull the wraps tighter.
And throw one last clean, centered hit.
Not out of rage.
Out of resolve.
Afterwards, I sit in the parking lot, gripping the wheel like it might keep me tethered to the present. I should go home. Shower. Sleep. Pretend things aren’t unraveling at the seams.
Instead, I text her.
Is it wise?
Who the hell knows, but I do it anyway.
Timothy: Any chance we could meet? I think we have a lot to talk about.
I stare at the message, heart pounding harder than it did during the workout. I almost delete it. Almost.
The three dots appear, disappear, then come back again.
Ivy: Yeah. After I finish work. Around seven?
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Timothy: Okay. Just tell me where.
Ivy: The Lookout Trail?
Timothy: Sounds good. See you then.
I pocket my phone and drive straight to the shop.
The bell chimes when I push through the door, and the air smells like green soap and citrus cleaner. Normal. Familiar. Safe.
But the tension?
It’s immediate.
Mitchell’s already here, hunched over his station, sharpening a pencil down to its bones. He doesn’t look up.
Freddie’s in the back with a client, voice low, careful, like he’s trying not to disturb the balance of the whole damn place.
No one says a word.
Even the radio, usually a steady stream of indie rock or 90s hip hop, is silent. Just the low hum of the autoclave, the scratch of graphite on paper, the occasional buzz of a machine.
I go to my own station and sit, pretending to scroll through emails I’ve already read. My eyes flick to Mitchell. His jaw’s tight, like he’s been grinding his teeth all morning. He hasn’t spoken to me since Ivy.
And honestly, I can’t blame him. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
The bell over the door jingles, and I expect another client or maybe someone looking for touch up work, but instead, in walks Karl, in full uniform with his radio clipped to his shoulder and a coffee in each hand.
"Gentlemen," he says, lifting the cups in greeting. "Don’t mind me. Just dropping off caffeine before I head over to check a busted hydrant. See how you all are."
Mitchell grunts from his station, still not looking up. Freddie glances over from the back and offers a short wave.
Karl strolls in like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he always does. He shows up a couple times a week, always with a story, always with coffee, and never in a hurry to leave. He sets one cup on the counter and leans his forearm there like he’s settling in for a chat.
"Place feels like a funeral in here," he says. "Y’all lose a bet or something?"
No one answers.
He raises his eyebrows but keeps talking like he doesn’t notice… or like he’s used to awkward silences.
"Anyway," he says, blowing across his coffee lid. "You won’t believe what went down at Granger’s this morning. Marla Jenks and Carol Spence had it out in the baking aisle."
Freddie raises an eyebrow. "What this time?"
"Carol accused Marla of ‘setting the curriculum back ten years’ by letting the third graders do a play about composting. Said it was ‘an attack on traditional values.’"
Mitchell snorts before he catches himself, then returns to his sketchbook.
Karl grins. "Dottie was standing right there. Heard every word. You know that woman’s already written a whole special edition for the Farmers Market flyer. She called it… wait for it… ‘The Muffin Showdown at Granger’s Gulch.’"
Despite myself, I chuckle. Karl always has a story. And half the time, he’s not even exaggerating.
"Anyway, hope the coffee is good. I better get to it. See ya later, okay?"
The door swings shut behind Karl with a soft click.
No one speaks.
For a beat, the only sound is the low hum of the autoclave, the faint buzz of a needle running in the back, and the sharp scratch of Mitchell’s pencil dragging across paper.
Then Mitchell’s hand stills.
I glance up, just a flick of the eyes, and find him already looking at me.
His expression is hard to read. Not angry. Not exactly. Just… sharp. Focused. Like his brain is running through every possible outcome now that Karl’s just reminded us we’re living in a glass house with a hundred open windows.
Across the room, Freddie exhales through his nose. But when his gaze lifts, he meets mine too.
And just like that, all three of us are locked in this wordless standoff.
We don’t say it.
We don’t have to.
Jesse can’t find out.
Not like this.
Not through Dottie’s Facebook group or some overheard whisper at Coyote Cup. Not in the middle of a shift when Penny’s clinging to his shoulders and someone jokes about nannies and naughty tattooists.
I’m sure he’s a protective older brother, and it seems like she’s been through enough.
We’re sitting on a damn grenade, and none of us knows who’s going to drop it first.
Mitchell breaks eye contact first, going back to his sketchpad with a scowl and a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. But he doesn’t pick the pencil back up. He just stares at the half-finished design like it personally betrayed him.
Freddie runs a hand through his hair, mutters something under his breath, and carries on with his work.
And me?
I just sit there.
Pulse steady. Stomach twisted. Heart in my throat.
Because Karl didn’t even mean anything by it. That was just him shooting the shit.
But it was a warning all the same.
People talk.
And if we don’t figure this out, if we don’t stop tiptoeing around like one more step won’t shatter the whole damn thing, Jesse will hear about it. And when he does?
He won’t just come for our heads.
He’ll never look at us the same way again.
I reach for my phone again. My message with Ivy is still open.
Seven o’clock.
We have to fix this before the whole town knows more than we do.
Before we lose her.
Before we lose each other.
Before we lose the one damn thing we didn’t mean to ruin.