Chapter 2 Gloves Off #2
I forced myself up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood slowly. Pain flared hot and immediate. I breathed through it, waiting for the worst to pass, then started moving. Shower. Coffee. Routine. The things that kept me functional when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
The bathroom mirror showed the damage. Bruise blooming across my ribs, dark purple and ugly.
Cut above my left eyebrow from an elbow I hadn't fully blocked.
Knuckles scraped raw despite the wraps and gloves.
I looked like what I was: a man past his prime still climbing into the ring because he didn't know what else to do with himself.
The shower helped. Hot water loosening muscles that had seized up overnight. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting heat work through the ache, thinking about the last time Troy had been home.
We'd fought. I couldn't even remember what about now, just that he'd left angry and I'd let him go without trying to stop him. Told myself it was what he needed. Space. Distance. Time away from the house and the memories and the man who reminded him of everything he'd lost.
But the truth was simpler and harder than that. I'd let him go because watching him leave hurt less than watching him stay while hating me.
I got out of the shower, dried off, and dressed in clothes that didn't press against the bruises. Jeans. Black t-shirt. Boots. The uniform of a man who'd stopped caring about looking put together years ago.
The kitchen was cleaner than it had been in weeks. I'd spent yesterday evening scrubbing counters and mopping floors, trying to make the place look like someone actually lived here instead of just survived in it.
Coffee helped. I made it strong, drank it black, stood at the counter watching the street through the window. Chicago in December looked gray and cold, snow threatening but not quite falling yet.
The knock at the door startled me out of thoughts that had no business being thought.
I knew who it was before I opened it. Mara, holding two cups of coffee and wearing an expression that said she was here to meddle whether I wanted her to or not.
“You look like shit,” she said cheerfully, pushing past me into the kitchen.
“Good morning to you too.”
“It's barely morning. It's like nine.” She set one of the coffees on the counter, popped the lid off hers, and took a long drink. “How're the ribs?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.” She reached out and poked the bruise through my shirt. I flinched. She grinned. “Thought so. You ice them?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now sit down and talk to me before you spiral into one of your brooding episodes.”
I didn't sit. Just leaned against the counter and accepted the coffee she'd brought. It was from the good place two blocks over, the one that charged too much but actually knew how to make a decent cup. “I'm not brooding.”
“You're absolutely brooding. You've got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you're thinking too hard about shit you can't change.” She hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging, completely at home in my space. “Troy's arrival got you twisted up.”
“I'm fine.”
“Declan. We've been friends for what, ten years? I know when you're lying.” She tilted her head, studying me with those sharp dark eyes that missed nothing. “Talk to me. What's really going on?”
I took a drink of coffee and bought time. “I don't know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would be nice.”
“The truth is complicated.”
“It always is. Say it anyway.”
I set the coffee down and ran a hand through my hair.
“I raised him. Loved his mother. Tried to do right by him after she died.
And somewhere along the way, he started hating me and I still don't know why.
Don't know what I did wrong or what I could have done different. Just know that every time he looks at me, all I see is resentment.”
Mara was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “Come on. We're going shopping.”
“What?”
“Shopping. You know, that thing normal people do when someone's coming to stay. You need groceries.” She hopped down from the counter. “And sitting here brooding isn't gonna help anyone.”
“I'm not—”
“You keep saying that. It's still not true.” She grabbed her coffee and headed for the door. “Get your coat. We're leaving in five minutes whether you're ready or not.”
I followed because arguing with Mara was a waste of energy and because she was probably right.
The grocery store was too bright and too crowded for a weekday morning. Mara grabbed a cart, shoved it at me, and started navigating the aisles like she had a plan. I followed, trying not to think too hard about what I was doing.
“What does he eat?” she asked, stopping in front of the produce.
“I don't know. Whatever's there.”
“Helpful. Thanks.” She started grabbing vegetables anyway. Stuff that looked fresh and green. “When was the last time he was home?”
“Six years. Maybe seven.”
“And you didn't pay attention to what he ate?”
“He avoided me most of the time. Hard to pay attention when he wasn't around.”
Mara shot me a look. “You're making this difficult.”
“I'm being honest.”
“Same thing with you.” She tossed carrots into the cart. “Fine. We'll get basics. Stuff anyone would eat.”
We moved through the store. Mara filled the cart while I pushed it and tried not to feel pathetic. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Coffee.
“Beer?” Mara asked, pausing in front of the alcohol section.
“Yeah. Get the good stuff.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The good stuff or the stuff he actually likes?”
“I don't know what he likes anymore.”
“Then get a variety. Cover your bases.” She started loading different six-packs into the cart. “Worst case, you drink what he doesn't.”
I didn't argue. Just watched her work, grateful for her presence even if I'd never say it out loud.
We hit the meat section. Mara grabbed steaks, chicken, ground beef. Enough protein to feed someone who actually ate instead of just survived on coffee and takeout.
“You gonna cook?” she asked.
“If he's hungry.”
“He'll be hungry.” She paused and looked at me. “You nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I didn't deny it this time. Just kept pushing the cart while Mara filled it with things I probably wouldn't use and Troy probably wouldn't want.
By the time we finished, the cart was full and my credit card was lighter and I still had no idea what I was going to say when Troy walked through the door.
Mara helped me load everything into my truck, then stood there with her arms crossed while I climbed into the driver's seat.
“You'll be fine,” she said.
“You don't know that.”
“I know you. You're tougher than you think.” She leaned against the door frame. “And Declan? Whatever happens, don't let him make you small. You stayed. You cared. You did your best. That matters, even if he can't see it yet.”
I nodded, didn't trust my voice.
She stepped back and let me close the door. I started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed home with a truck full of groceries and a chest full of dread.
Troy was coming home.
And I still had no idea what the fuck I was going to do about it.