14. Deniz
Chapter 14
Deniz
“ K eep your hands up!” Taf yells from outside the ring, but it’s not for me. Bashir’s left hand keeps dropping, and it’s giving me too easy an opening.
I throw all my frustration into my punches, breathing hard through my mouthguard as my glove makes contact with his ear, his arm, his chin. Again and again, I let the repetitive motion and physical exhaustion wipe out everything else. I don’t think about Clara or the fear in her eyes as she left the surveillance room, or the way her skin looked as she pulled herself out of my pool, or the name she searched my files for, or the taste of her as she came on my tongue.
Terry’s blood. Clara’s scent. Kerem’s laugh. Chase’s jokes. My mother’s screams. The smell of embers. The click of a gun being cocked. The whispers of those girls in the basement. The boom of fireworks exploding overhead. My heart in my ears, beating faster, harder, choking me as it climbs into my throat, deafening me, blinding me as it pumps red blood too fast through my veins?—
Suddenly, there are arms around me, and I shake myself back into the present. Bashir is leaning over the ropes at the other end of the ring, and Taf has jumped in, yelling my name, shaking me as I struggle to free myself from his hold.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Bashir demands, blood dripping from the corner of his lip. I blink back at him. I can’t even remember hitting him in the face, much less hard enough to draw blood. In fact, the last few minutes are a blur of visceral emotion.
So much for not thinking about Clara.
I finally shake Taf off, tossing my gloves onto the mat and rolling my neck.
“Sorry,” I admit, trying to recenter myself. “I don’t know what happened.”
Bashir scoffs, sliding between the ropes and walking toward the lockers without a word. I can’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to spar with me like this either. Taf walks over and places a hand on each of my shoulders, forcing me to turn toward him.
“It’s getting worse, Deniz,” he whispers, like it’ll soften the blow.
Of course it’s getting worse. Every day I feel myself becoming more and more mad with grief. Clara’s presence magnifies every emotion exponentially. Despite wanting her dead, I still want her. And that desire fills me with indescribable guilt.
“I know,” I admit. When Kerem died, I became predictably closed-off, even around the people who knew me best. I knew my friends were also grieving—they raised my brother as much as I did. But Kerem was always an externalization of the best parts of myself. He was brilliant, but he had a confidence and charm that I never seemed to manage. He was kind and self-sacrificing to a fault, always giving more than he had and putting himself in difficult positions to be there for others.
When I lost him, it was like the happiest parts of myself were cleaved from me. And though I still feel him with me like a hole in my chest, his memory only brings me pain. Without his brightness and laughter and wit, I don’t know what to do with that pain except funnel it into rage. Not simply at Clara or The Syndicate or whoever ordered that fire to be set, but at everyone around me. At myself, for breathing when he doesn’t.
“I think maybe it’s time you talk about it,” Taf says as I grab my gloves and exit the ring.
“Oh, you’re a psychiatrist now?” I ask, trying to loosen my coiled muscles. “Stick to physical trauma. It suits you better.”
After the four of us—Chase, Taf, Bashir, and I—left undergrad, Chase disappeared to Moldova and returned as a sketchy real estate investor. Bashir and I went to CalTech, studying civil engineering and computer and mathematical sciences, respectively. But Taf stayed at Khalifa, securing his medical degree and living up to his family history of medical practitioners. He’s a trauma surgeon at Cedars Sinai now, more competent and cool under pressure than any of the rest of us could hope to be. But his need to fix things, to solve problems, has always been a sticking point. His family has always aired out their problems and talked through their issues, while Bashir and I would rather eat glass than talk about our feelings. I think Taf takes that as a personal challenge.
“I’m just saying, we all miss him. But the look in your eyes…” he trails off, walking to the edge of the ring and staring at me with a mix of empathy and trepidation. “I worry you could have killed Bashir and not even known you were doing it.”
I swallow harshly, walking to the industrial sink in the corner of the gym and splashing my face with water. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s probably right. I didn’t feel like I had full control over my mind.
Bashir comes back, jet black hair dripping wet and his expression calmer. Taf may be the most patient of us all, but Bashir understands my grief the most, and gives me more latitude to be an ass about it.
“Sorry I kicked your ass,” I say, trying to infuse some lightheartedness into my tone. Bashir’s eyes flash with something like regret, but he cracks a smile and plops down on the worn leather couch in the corner of the gym. He’s shorter than both me and Taf, but quite a bit stronger, the muscles beneath his copper skin bulging without flexing. It’s been a while since we’ve sparred, but I know there’s no way I could beat him in a clean fight.
“Yeah, I could have taken you if you weren’t losing it,” he says, cracking open a beer that he snags from the small refrigerator that acts as a side table. Like the sound of alcohol being opened summoned him, Chase appears at the side door of the gym, dressed in leather pants and a metallic button-down shirt. His head is shaved again, pale skin glinting unpleasantly under the harsh gym lights. Even worse is the goatee he’s sporting.
“Are we drinking?” he yells from the doorway, holding a bottle of rum in the air. Bashir shakes his head, and Taf grabs a bottle of water from the fridge since he’s on call.
“It’s ten in the morning on a Tuesday, and you look like you just left the club,” I call over, but he takes the insult as a compliment, as he always does.
“You like the pants! They’re surprisingly comfortable, but I’m sweating my balls off.” Chase plops down on the couch next to Bashir and takes a swig of rum straight from the bottle. I sit, flinching as he grabs Bashir’s beer and chases the shot.
The four of us have few boundaries, having met when we were barely legal and absolutely out of our minds with the freedom of college. But still, sharing drinks with Chase is an exercise in trust I’m not fully on board with. Who knows where his mouth has been.
We haven’t all been in the same room together for months, especially with Chase living on a yacht off the shore of the Bahamas. We catch each other up on our lives, mostly about work, but also asking after Taf’s sister and Bashir’s mom. I bide my time, knowing that I’m about to fuck up the nice moment we’re all having. But when the conversation finds a natural lull, I know it's now or never.
“I’m engaged.”
The room is silent, and all three of my friends' heads turn toward me, incredulous looks on their faces.
“What do you mean, you’re engaged?” Bashir asks, shaking his head, eyes wide and jaw slack.
“Is she hot?” Chase asks. “Wait, is he hot? They? Is the person hot?” I don’t even get a chance to respond before Bashir cuts back in.
“You haven’t had a steady partner since undergrad, and even that was so casual you didn’t mention it to us. There’s no way you’re fucking engaged .”
“I date,” I argue halfheartedly, but all three of them have such skeptical looks, calling my bluff.
“You don’t, not before Kerem and especially not after,” Taf says, dragging my guilt back to the forefront of my mind. “You’ve barely been taking care of yourself. Deniz, this is concerning…”
“Ah, let the sad sap get married,” Chase says, tilting his bottle toward me and taking another swig. “It’s good for the soul.”
“No, there’s something wrong. There’s no fucking way you’d get engaged, not now and not without us ever even meeting them.” Bashir stares at me, and I know he sees right through me, as he always has. “Tell us what’s really going on.”
“Bashir, Deniz falling in love doesn’t necessarily mean there’s something wrong ,” Taf sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the umber skin of his forehead carved with deep lines of concern. “ But Deniz, I’m worried that you’re rushing into this because you’re not dealing with your grief.”
“I’m not rushing anything. She and I have been seeing each other for a while now.”
“A while!” Bashir cuts me off, throwing his hands up in the air, spilling beer on the floor. Taf glares at him, but Bashir is only getting started. “What? You’re really going to accept this, no questions asked?”
Of course, I’m not that lucky. Between Bashir’s yelling, Taf’s gentle concern, and Chase’s shit-eating grin, they grill me with questions—how long have we been seeing each other, how did we meet, is her ass nice. I smack Chase over the head on that last one, but he’s undeterred as usual. I need them to get used to her as a part of my life, at least temporarily. I should have planted the seeds earlier, told them I was dating around and trying to find connection, some bullshit a shitty therapist would recommend. But I was too focused on hunting down Clara to even keep up with my friends, much less concoct lies about my love life.
“Maybe it’s good for him to find someone to connect with,” Taf offers, pulling me out of my own thoughts. “Love might help him heal.”
Finally, Bashir stands up, tossing his can toward the trash and missing. The way he looks at me, like he doesn't even know me, cuts me to the bone. I hate lying to them, but what else can I say? How can I explain why I’m in this situation without ruining my plans and putting them in the danger that The Syndicate’s secrets bring?
“This isn’t about Kerem, and this isn’t about being in love,” Bashir says with finality, grabbing his jacket. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re not the man I know. And until you’re willing to come clean about it, I don’t want any part of this.”
He stomps out, headed toward the door to the parking lot. I think about going after him, but I can’t say anything to convince him. My friend knows me well enough to see through my lies.
“He’ll come around,” Taf says, standing and grabbing a roll of paper towels. He cleans up Bashir’s mess while Chase leans toward me, holding out the bottle.
“Well, I think congratulations are in order. A shot!” he shouts, and against my better judgment, I take the bottle and pull a swig. It goes down smooth—you can always trust Chase to bring high-quality liquor. “So, what’s your future wife’s name?”
“Clara Costa,” I reply, and out of the corner of my eye I see Taf still. He’s turned away from me, but his steps hesitate as he walks toward the trash can and throws away the towels. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes through some notifications. When he turns back around, there’s only that same compassionate concern in his eyes. My skin prickles with discomfort, but I convince myself it’s unrelated. Taf gets called in to work constantly. He probably felt his phone buzz exactly as I said Clara’s name.
Probably.
“Well, regardless of the circumstances, I truly hope you’ve found happiness,” he says, looking down at his phone again. “Damn, I’m getting paged. But seriously Deniz,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”