Chapter 33
Uncle Vito: The gym is ready! You gotta see it, Jay. Meet me there?
Jamie: On my way!!!
Jamie
The brightness hits me first.
My heart thumps with anticipation as I pause in the doorway of Uncle Vito’s gym, blinking at the flood of natural light streaming through the enlarged windows. There's no musty smell now, just the smell of fresh paint and new flooring.
The renovation took Ethan’s large construction team three weeks to complete, and the whole time I’ve been staying at his place, it’s been killing me wondering what’s been happening here. Now finally, I get to see how the place has been fixed up.
But instead of the rush of joy I expected, my stomach churns.
Looking around at how new the place looks, it’s not joy I feel… it’s loss.
"Jay!" Uncle Vito's voice booms across the gym. He's standing by the new boxing ring, beaming like it's Christmas morning. "Come and see what they've done with the place!"
I cross the floor, my footsteps oddly quiet on the new surface. Gone is the familiar squeak and give of the old rubber mats. This flooring is professional grade, perfectly sprung for training.
"Look at this ring!" Uncle Vito slaps one of the corner posts. The fresh padding gleams under the new lights. “It’s the highest quality you can get! And check out the speed bags."
He leads me to a row of pristine equipment mounted on reinforced walls. It’s all brand new. No more duct tape holding things together, no more jerry-rigged repairs.
"The roof doesn't leak anymore," he says. "And the air-conditioning actually works now. No more swamp in summer."
I force a smile. My stomach feels hollow, but that’s dumb. I should be happy. I should be leaping with joy.
"It's amazing," I say, trying to mean it. “The place looks incredible.”
He motions to the folding chairs stacked up against one wall. “They’re for Saturday’s match. You’ve got everything organized for that, right?”
“Rachel has. She’s done most of the organizing.”
He claps his hands together, his glee radiating from him. “Hosting a fight here feels like old times, Jay. Remember those big bouts when you were a kid? Hurricane Hayes and Micky the Fist? Never thought we’d get to have those again, but now our place is like new! We can do anything we want!”
Nodding, I rub my sternum with the heel of my hand. I’m trying to feel his enthusiasm. Trying to ease the tightness in my chest.
One of the construction workers approaches. “Hello Ms. Jennings. I’m Petrov, the site foreman. Want to see what we did with the structural improvements?"
I follow him as he explains about ventilation and insulation. He shows me the new lockers and upgraded bathroom facilities. The gleaming showers that don’t leak, and the water pressure that doesn’t dribble.
“When we realized how bad the rot was, we had to gut every single wall and replace all the beams and joists,” Petrov explains. “But don't worry, everything's up to code now."
My eyes go to where those old walls used to be. Where posters of boxing legends used to hang, most of them signed by the fighters. Where the poster of Micky "The Fist" Martinez used to be, the one he autographed for me the day he told me I had talent.
Gone. All of them, gone.
I try to listen to what Petrov is saying about rust and asbestos, but it takes all my energy not to let my dismay show on my face. I had no idea they were going to change so much.
“Are you okay?” Petrov asks with a concerned frown, drawing my attention back to him.
“Yes. Sorry.” I pull up the corners of my mouth. “I’m excited about the changes. What were you saying?”
“Come and look at the training area,” Uncle Vito calls, his voice booming with enthusiasm.
Petrov and I walk over to him. The new training equipment is stacked up in the corner, a lot of it still in its protective wrapping.
It’s top of the line. Everything a serious fighter could want.
But as Uncle Vito shows me the new weights and benches, I can't stop looking around for the little things that are missing. The odd lump in the floor I was used to avoiding. The dent I accidentally made in the wall when I was learning how to do roundhouse kicks. I even miss the tattered heavy bag that leaked foam, the one I’ve bitched about for as long as I can remember.
All those things are gone. Replaced. Improved.
This is a good thing. This is what I wanted.
“Wait till you see your old room," Uncle Vito says. "They turned it into something special."
“Can’t wait.” My voice is hollow, but at least it doesn’t tremble. I’m keeping it together.
“We boxed up the personal items you’d left behind and sent them to Mr. Kane’s apartment,” Petrov says, as the two of them lead me toward the back of the building, to the stairs that go to my attic bedroom.
A sharp spike of dismay stabs through my chest. I stumble before managing to catch myself, and I’m glad neither of them notice.
When I packed a bag to stay at Ethan’s, I only took my clothes and toiletries. I left all my photos on my bookshelves, all my posters on the walls, all my keepsakes in my drawers. I never imagined I’d need to move them. Never thought they’d gut the old gym and rebuild it so completely.
“All your things are safe,” Petrov adds, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to let me and my uncle go up alone. “When you’re ready, we’ll bring it back so you can set up the new room. Fresh start, right?"
Fresh start. Right.
The old stairs leading up to my attic used to creak with every step. I used to count those creaks like a ritual. Seventeen steps to my sanctuary.
These stairs are silent.
The door to what used to be my bedroom is different too. It’s solid wood instead of the old hollow core. Uncle Vito swings it open with a flourish.
"Ta-da! Look at this!"
The room is bigger now. They must have pushed out a wall. There are clean lines and fresh paint in a soft gray.
It's beautiful. It's perfect.
It's wrong.
My shelves are gone. So are all my things, including the basketball hoop that was on the back of the door. There’s no peeling paint or old stickers. No posters. No battered furniture.
I step inside, trying to orient myself in this bare, sterile space.
This was the first permanent bedroom I’d ever had, after years of moving from place to place.
When Dad’s schemes would catch up with him, we’d often have to slip away in the middle of the night, moving on to the next place like rats sneaking out of a ransacked pantry.
It would happen without warning, and the next week I’d be at a new school, trying to make friends and figure out how many classes I’d missed.
I came to live here when I was thirteen, and it took me a long time to accept this was permanent. That it was real. This was the first place that ever felt safe. Like a home.
It doesn’t feel that way anymore.
The shoulder-shaped dent in the wall? Gone. The broken board in the ceiling that cast a shadow like a T-Rex when viewed from the bed? Fixed. The window where the wind used to whistle in on stormy nights? Replaced with one that looks perfectly sealed.
It smells like paint and fresh carpet. It looks like a waiting room.
"Isn't it great?" Uncle Vito squeezes my shoulder. "No more drafts. No more leaks. You can move right back in if you want to."
But this isn't my room anymore. This isn't even my gym.
"It's perfect," I tell him, not wanting to spoil his happiness. He deserves this, a place where he can train fighters and teach kids without worrying about the rain coming in.
He kisses my forehead. “I’m still figuring out where we’re going to lay out all the new equipment. Want to help?"
"Maybe later," I say. "I should get back to work."
He heads downstairs, whistling. I linger in the doorway of my not-room for a moment, trying to pep-talk myself into being happy.
My phone buzzes with a message from Ethan.
Ethan: How are the renovations? Everything you hoped for?
I stare at the message. He did this for me. He made everything better, safer, more professional. Uncle Vito is in heaven. I should be grateful.
Jamie: It’s amazing. Thank you.
My short reply sounds forced and unconvincing.
I put my phone away before I can say more. Before I can tell him that I'm standing in my childhood bedroom feeling like a ghost. Before I can admit that every improvement makes me feel like I’m being erased.
Downstairs, I can hear Uncle Vito exclaiming over something, his enthusiasm echoing off the perfect new walls. I head down the silent stairs, past the gleaming equipment, and manage to slip unnoticed out of the gym’s front door.
My phone buzzes again.
Ethan: I’ve got a late meeting. Dinner at 6:30pm work for you?
I stare at the message, my fingers hovering over the buttons, not sure what to say.
Jamie: Problem with a client. Can’t get away. Eat without me.
I’ll have to face him eventually. But for now, I just start walking, striding quickly with no destination in mind. I need to move, to feel my muscles working, and hope the exertion eases the ache in my gut.
This is what Ethan does. He replaces old buildings with new, luxury versions. He’s done me a huge favor by doing the same thing to my home… except that in the process, he’s removed its heart.
And as I walk, I can’t help but wonder what else Ethan might try to fix. What other rough edges might he want to smooth away?