Chapter 16 Johnny
JOHNNY
The salt air hits me the second I step out of Natalia’s little sedan, sharp and briny with November’s bite.
A boxing gym. Not exactly the first place I pictured when she said she wanted to get out of the house.
But I’m not complaining.
Morning walks and movie nights with her are the best part of my weird-ass life, but there’s something restless coiled up inside me that beach strolls can’t touch. My body needs to move. Needs to hit something. A boxing class sounds like exactly the right kind of stupid.
The gym sits at the edge of a row of buildings that’ve seen better decades, wedged between a bait shop and a place advertising $5 tarot readings.
Natalia climbs out of the driver’s side wearing black leggings that hug every curve of her body and a fitted zip-up over her tank top, the collar pulled high against the wind.
The leggings are a problem. Around the house, I’ve gotten used to her in oversized sweatshirts and bare feet. This is different. This is every line of her on display, and my jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
We’re here to punch things. Focus.
I round the hood and fall into step beside her, my hand finding the small of her back without thinking about it.
She glances up at me, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Ready?”
I wink down at her. “Born ready. Probably.”
The gym smells like old sweat, rubber mats, and stale air conditioning.
It’s crowded for a weekday morning. We’re not three steps past the front desk before every guy on the floor finds a reason to look at Natalia.
Two near the free weights stop mid-rep. A trainer by the water fountain tracks her from the waist down.
A low, primal hum starts up at the base of my skull.
I don’t have a claim on her. Doesn’t stop every instinct in my body from acting like I do.
It doesn’t stop me from stepping closer, putting myself between her and the worst of the stares.
Nothing dramatic. I don’t say a word. But I catch the eye of the guy by the free weights and hold it. Just long enough to make my point.
The guy swallows hard and looks away. His friend follows suit.
Natalia chats with the woman at the front desk while I position myself at her back, arms crossed, projecting enough don’t-fuck-with-us energy to clear a perimeter. By the time she turns around, the audience has found somewhere else to look.
“This way.” She loops her arm through mine, completely oblivious to the territorial nonsense I just pulled. “Let’s go hit something.”
I keep my hand anchored to her spine, guiding her toward the glass-walled studio in the back.
The instructor, a wiry woman named Blaire with forearms that could crack walnuts, is already blasting bass-heavy hip-hop. She runs through a quick demonstration of a basic jab-cross combo, emphasizing stance and guard.
“Partner up,” Blaire calls out over the music. “One on mitts, one on gloves.”
A guy in a cutoff tank materializes next to Natalia before I can blink. Mid-twenties. Too much cologne. A smile so polished it probably gets rehearsed in mirrors. He’s already holding up a pair of mitts like he’s doing her a favor.
“Need a partner?”
Natalia opens her mouth, but I’m already there, my hand settling on her hip. The guy’s eyes drop to my fingers, and his smile flickers.
“She’s got one.”
He lifts both hands, mitts and all, in a quick surrender before backing off. “Alright, man.”
Natalia tilts her head up at me. “I could’ve handled that.”
“Faster my way.”
Heat climbs into her cheeks. She doesn’t shove me away, though. Just gives me a look I can’t quite name before turning to claim a corner for us near the heavy bags.
I slide the curved focus mitts onto my hands. My knuckles are healing but not healed, and there’s no reason to be stupid about it. The leather sits worn and comfortable against my palms.
Blaire walks the room, correcting stances and barking encouragement. By the time she moves past our corner, I’ve already clocked three things Natalia’s doing wrong.
“Keep your guard up,” I say, tapping the mitts together. “Left hand stays glued to your cheek. Leaving an opening gets you hurt.”
The words slide out with zero friction. Huh. Guess I know how to box.
Natalia squares her hips, face scrunched in concentration. She breathes out and throws a right jab. It lands against the mitt with a soft thud, barely enough to register through the padding.
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“It’s my first time,” she huffs, brushing a stray hair out of her eyes.
“Princess, I’m wearing pads the size of dinner plates. Stop being polite and hit me.”
Her eyes narrow. The spark of irritation is exactly what I wanted. She steps in, twists her hips, and snaps her fist into the mitt hard enough to push my hand back.
“There we go.” I grin. “Now aim dead center, not near my wrist.”
“Are you teaching this class now?” One eyebrow up, challenge bright in her face.
Before I can answer, she fires another punch square into the sweet spot with enough force to jolt my arm backward. The smack echoes off the glass walls.
I stare at her. She grins, wide and unguarded, so goddamn pleased with herself that I forget how to breathe.
“Well, shit. Fast learner.”
“Why, thank you.” She takes an exaggerated bow, and then we’re back at it. She hits me again. Harder. Faster. We fall into a rhythm, a dance of advance and retreat. My feet move on autopilot, pivoting, shifting weight, anticipating her strikes before she throws them.
Then, it happens.
I slip a wide hook, pivot on my back foot, and raise the mitt for a counter.
Weight on my shoulders, a growl in my ear. Again. Faster. You drop that guard one more time and I’ll put you on the mat myself. The smell of leather and sweat. A neck like a concrete pillar. Ice-blue eyes that never blinked first.
Matteo.
The name surfaces with absolute certainty, and then another flash: the two of us in a ring somewhere, no gloves, going until my knuckles split.
He hit like a truck and expected me to hit back harder.
My ribs ache just remembering it. He didn’t let up because letting up wasn’t love to him. Pushing me until I broke was.
Then it’s gone. A door slamming shut in my skull.
“Johnny?”
Natalia’s voice pulls me back. I blink, the basement gym dissolving into the bright, sterile light of the Moratoc studio. She’s standing with her gloves lowered, her brow furrowed in concern.
“You okay?” she asks. “You spaced out.”
I force a smirk, tapping the mitts together. “Just admiring your footwork. You’re dropping your left again.”
She rolls her eyes, the tension breaking, and goes back to the drill.
I match her rhythm, but my head’s somewhere else.
Matteo. The name sits in my chest like something I’ve been missing without knowing it.
A guy who gave a shit. A guy who pushed me because he believed I could take it.
I want to grab that memory and hold it, but it’s already dissolving at the edges, like always.
An hour later, we’re sitting at a small mosaic table inside a smoothie shop near the gym. The shop is nearly empty, the way most places on the island seem to be this time of year. Half the storefronts on the strip are boarded up for winter, and the heat is cranked high enough to fog the windows.
Natalia is glowing. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is damp with sweat, and she’s downing her peach smoothie like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
She tips her head back to get the last of it, exposing the long line of her throat, and my grip tightens on my own cup.
Fuck.
All I can think about is the last time my mouth was on her skin there. I clear my throat and look away before I do something stupid in public.
“I feel amazing,” she says, leaning back in her metal chair, oblivious to the turn my thoughts have taken. “But my arms are going to be useless tomorrow.”
“Worth it, though. You did great.”
“So worth it.” She’s practically bouncing. An hour of hitting things lit a fuse in her, and it’s still burning. “I want to come three times a week. I’m putting it on the calendar.”
“Easy there, tiger.” I grin at her eagerness.
She kicks me under the table, but she’s smiling. Her foot stays against my calf a beat longer than it needs to, and the contact hums through me like a low current.
Blenders buzz in the background, and somewhere outside a truck door slams. Natalia’s smile fades into something quieter, more thoughtful.
“It’s weird.” She’s spinning her empty cup between her palms. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Boxing?”
“Any kind of workout class.” She shrugs. “My dad doesn’t like me going out and about too much. ‘Unnecessarily’, as he’d put it. So we have a home gym.” She picks at the edge of her cup. “There’s a lot of stuff I wanted to try that just... weren’t possible.”
She frowns but catches herself. “Sorry. Not trying to bring the vibe down.”
“Don’t apologize for that.”
Her lips tug up in a half-smile, but it’s a little resigned.
And I fucking hate that.
“What else?” I ask.
She blinks. “What else what?”
“What else haven’t you done? That you want to.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her finger traces the rim of her cup, and I can tell she’s running the question through whatever filter she uses before she lets anything real out.
“Rock climbing,” she says. “On an actual mountain. Not a gym wall. I want to feel real stone under my hands.”
“I love that. What else?” My thumb drags across the condensation on my cup, but my eyes don’t leave her face.
“Kayaking. In one of those bioluminescent bays where the water glows when you touch it.” She’s leaning forward now, elbows on the table.
“Hiking. Real hiking, not walking on a paved path in a gated resort. I want to sleep in a tent and wake up smelling pine trees. Make s’mores over a campfire.
Stay out past midnight just because I can. ”
I could listen to her talk like this all day. The want in her voice is electric. “Keep going.”
“Surfing. I’ve watched people do it from that beach for two months and I’ve never once gone in past my knees.” She laughs, and it comes out almost angry. “I live on the ocean and I’ve never been in it. How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic.”
“It’s a little pathetic.”
I hold her gaze until she looks away. “Nat.”
“Fine. It’s just...” She trails off, looking out the fogged window. Wind kicks a paper cup across the asphalt. “It’s a long list, Johnny. That’s all.”
I take another sip of my smoothie, but it tastes like nothing. Everything she just listed. Every single thing. These are things people do on a random Saturday because they’re bored and the weather’s nice. And she’s been locked out of all of it.
Fuck her father. Fuck the cage. Fuck every man who’s ever made this woman feel small.
I don’t know my name. I don’t know what’s waiting for me when the rest of my memory kicks in. But I watch her start to tuck those dreams away, and I know I want to see this woman stand on top of a mountain.
“We’ll start small.” My voice is rough.
She frowns. “Start what?”
“The list.” I reach across the mosaic tiles and wrap my hand around hers. Her fingers are cold from the smoothie cup. “You want to live, Natalia? We’re going to live.”
Her breath catches. She stares at our joined hands, and I watch her pulse jump at the base of her throat.
She doesn’t pull away.
And my brain—my stupid, broken, swiss-cheese brain—starts filling in pictures I never asked for.
Her on a rock face, chalk on her fingers, laughing down at me because I can’t keep up.
Waking up in a tent with her hair in my face and her elbow in my side.
Watching her paddle into water that glows blue every time she moves.
I’m in every single frame. I didn’t mean to put myself there. I just am.
Somewhere underneath, the other memories are waiting. The blood, the violent flashes, the scars I can’t explain. But right now, none of that matters.
She matters.
Natalia squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, and whoever I was before this moment is someone I don’t need to be anymore.
Whatever’s locked in the rest of my memory—whoever that guy was, whatever he did—can stay buried a little longer.
Actually, it can stay buried forever, for all I care.