Chapter 22
Rowan
Julian hates his birthday so we rarely ever celebrate it. Instead, today—December ninth—we are gathered upstairs in his gym. Christian is off grunting and punching a bag on his own with headphones in his ears and I’m punching the mitts on Julian’s hands.
In my peripheral, I see a black shadow coming at me and I duck a millisecond before it makes contact. “Hey, what the fuck! You almost punched me.”
“Wake the hell up,” Julian grits. “You’re just standing there.”
I sniff and push my fists together in the gloves, adjusting the fit. “I’m good now.”
His brow arches.
“I’m good,” I say again as I get into a proper stance. “Come on.”
“What’s going on with you?” Julian asks and holds up his hands again for me to punch as I practice different combinations again and again. “Where’s your head at?”
I’ve been noticeably in my head. Natalia teaching me how to bake the simplest of pastries, and what happened after, has been on repeat in my mind since it happened over the weekend.
Fuck, will I ever be able to get her out of my head?
She’s in my fucking dreams. Fantasies. It’s her face I look for everywhere I go. She has completely invaded my entire existence, centering it around her while she walks about freely.
“I’m fine,” I grunt and follow through with a simple one-two-three combo, releasing barely a quarter of my frustration. “All good.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Julian pushes. “Is it Nat?”
“No,” I grunt with a hard punch.
Julian staggers back a bit but finds his footing and takes the same position. “Sure it’s not.”
“What’s going on?” he asks. “Is it the way she’s been acting lately?”
I punch again. “You noticed?”
“A bit hard not to,” he says. “We’ve known her forever. Is it bad again?”
I grunt my reply, knowing that talking about it will hurt me more because there’s nothing I can do to help her or heal her.
“It’s fine,” I grit through my teeth. “Hold them up.”
Julian rolls his eyes and we continue our combinations.
I keep punching until there’s sweat on my eyelashes and my back is sticky, while Julian looks simply unbothered.
Prick. He ducks and I swing. He swings and I duck.
All while Christian is in his own world in the corner, grunting with every punch.
I duck with Julian’s next swing and ask, “He okay?”
“Yeah, just a bad day,” Julian says. “Come on, we’re almost done. A few more.”
I grunt my agreement and swing, my glove meeting with something much harder.
“What the fuck!”
“Shit!” I hiss. “Shit, shit, shit—”
“Fuck, Rowan,” Julian shouts, shaking the mitts off his hands and reaching for his nose. “What the fuck?”
“You moved!”
“You threw a fucking punch!”
“I thought you were ducking!” I gag at the sight of blood trickling down his nose.
“Rowan, what the fuck?” Christian barks from the punching bag in the opposite corner, pulling off his gloves as he races toward us.
“I thought he was ducking!” I shout back and begin ripping the gloves off my hands, removing the velcro from my wrist. I flex and curl my hands, both wrapped in the stripped cloth, feeling the ache in my knuckles from the past hour and a half.
I grab for a towel slung over the ropes of the ring and race back toward him, hoping to get rid of some of the bleeding without vomiting in my mouth.
I gag and hold up the towel. “I swear, I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s his fucking birthday and you made him bleed!” Christian snatches the towel from my hands and I practically thank him as I squirm at the sight of blood.
I stammer and point at Julian’s face. “I—Okay well, he—He doesn’t even like to celebrate.”
“That doesn’t mean you fucking punch me!” Julian hisses. “Ow, be fucking gentle.”
“I’m trying. Stop moving—”
“At least it was with a glove?” I try to reason with a half-shrug but all I get in return in a growl.
Christian swaps out the towel and Julian’s blood collects on his hands, and I gag.
“You make me bleed and you throw up?”
I gag again and cradle my churning stomach. “Oh god.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Christian brings tissues to Julian and inspects the nose. “You’re squeamish?”
“I just—” I make the mistake of looking again and gag. “I just can’t do blood. Or see it come out of someone.”
“Too bad because you’re driving us to the emergency room,” Christian says, holding tissues to Julian’s nose.
I grimace and take one last look over my shoulder. “Please don’t get blood on my seats.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Julian hisses, shaking his head. “I’ll bleed on your fucking seats if I fucking feel like it.”
“Language,” I hiss, trying not to projectile vomit as we get into my car.
#
“You fucking dick,” Julian mumbles in the chair beside me, sitting between me and Christian. “It’s my birthday,” he whines. “And now my daughter is going to see me with a bloody nose.”
I lean forward and whisper to Christian, “I think he’s concussed.”
“Oh you think?”
“I apologized,” I mutter.
After another fifteen minutes, a nurse comes out asking for Julian and Christian helps him stand. “You don’t like the blood. I got him.” He jerks his chin toward the exit. “Go get Gracie.”
“Go get Gracie, please,” Julian mumbles.
“Okay, just update me?” I ask, patting my pockets to ensure I have everything and averting my gaze from Julian’s face.
“I think I know her,” Julian mumbles and squints. “I think I know her!”
“Shhh!” Christian hisses. “Go.”
After leaving Julian in the emergency room with Christian, I do Julian the favor of picking up Grace from his parents and dropping her off at Isabelle’s studio.
Picking up Grace is never a hassle; it’s always fun.
That little girl—my niece—is like a rainbow and a chaos of glitter.
Because of her, I keep essentials safe in my car—a stuffed animal, kiddie snacks, and a backup carseat.
I think we all have these things somewhere in our cars for emergencies.
I walk Grace into Tip Toe Dance Studio with her tiny hand in mine, while the other kids file into the studio for their afternoon class.
She’s dressed in her tutu and leotard with her hair in a small high bun.
Isabelle waits outside for us and Grace lets go of my hand to run inside.
I’m about to walk away when Grace comes back outside and shouts, “Uncle RoRo!”
I turn around and find her running back to me. I squat down and she wraps her arms around my neck
“Thank you,” she says.
“Go dance your little heart out, Grace.” I kiss the top of her head.
The little ray of sunshine smiles. “Love you, Uncle RoRo.”
“Love you too, kid.”
Grace rushes back and takes Isabelle’s hand as they walk into the studio. With Grace happy and safe with her Aunt Isa, I walk back toward my car and see a familiar car down the block.
Natalia steps out of her car, closing the door, and slowly turning toward the building she’s parked in front of. My mouth opens to call out to her, to see her face and to see if she smiles when she sees me the way I’m smiling now.
But she pushes open the door and I finally see a sign for the office above the crafts store. Doctor Sasha Boyd—her therapist.
I can’t help but feel overwhelming relief that she’s getting help.
Despite the madness of the day, I feel a tad more settled. I’ve known something was going on with Natalia for a while now. I’ve noticed it getting worse with how she closes herself off and is putting up walls with all of us again.
I only want her to be okay. I need her to be okay.