J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

“Fucked up my back today deadlifting.” I dig fingers into my aching spine.

“You gonna get that shit checked out?”

The sharp spasm mellows, and I take in a full breath. “Yeah. I’ll take some anti-inflammatory pills. If it’s not better in a few days, I’ll go see the Doc.”

“Why not go in tomorrow? Get a jumpstart on that shit. Hate to see you go down over something stupid, like pride.”

“Pride? You know as well as I do that I will pound Wade’s ass, jacked-up back and all. His game’s fuckin’ pre-school compared to—” My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Jonah laughs to himself. “Yeah, no pride there.”

I scowl at my dickhead friend then check the caller ID. “Shit, it’s Brae. I better take this.”

I stand and walk across the room to the back door, thankful that being on my feet eases the pressure on my back. “Brae. What up, man? Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, bro. How’s the desert?” My little brother’s voice is a welcome sound. I don’t get to talk to him often, and when I do, I’m reminded of how much I dig the guy.

“Nice and dry.” I walk out back and sit on a lounger, poolside. “What’s up with you? How’s things on base?”

He laughs low. “Same. Southern Cali never changes. Camp Pendleton’s quiet. Dad’s keeping me close.”

Yeah, I bet he is. Asshole wants us to man up, be members of the few and proud. But when combat time rolls around, he can’t let his boy go overseas. At first, I assumed it was because he didn’t want to see us get hurt, but he’d have to give a shit for that to be the case. No, everything with my dad is about control. And I’m sure his keeping my brother stateside is no different.

“You gonna make it to my fight?”

“I’ll try. I really want to. But Dad knows about it. Heard him pissin’ and moanin’ about shit. He’ll probably come up with some bullshit booter-duty for me that weekend.”

I’ll never understand why my brother tolerates our piece of shit dad. I got out of there as soon as I could. The second I got discharged from the Corps, I ran like hell to Vegas.

No use in arguing with Brae. He’s set on pleasing the General.

“Right. Well, you’re twenty-one now. Vegas is your playground. If you ever make it out, I’ll show you how the other half lives.”

“I’d like that, man.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Getting a little sick of this place.”

I’m thankful we’re not face-to-face so he can’t see my grimace. Chances are, Braeden only sticks around to play shield to my mom. Just like I did until I was dragged out in the middle of the night and dropped off at military school.

“How’s Mom?” I want to know but cringe waiting for his answer.

He blows out a long breath. “Same.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“She misses you. Maybe you could give her a call sometime.”

My stomach drops at the mere mention of talking to my mom. I went from being a protective kid to a resentful adult. The conflicting feelings I have toward her make me irritable and… fuck! “Yeah, I’ll do that.” No, I won’t. “But, uh… until I do, tell her I’m good, okay? Tell her I… that I’m happy.” It’s so messed up that I can’t say I love my mom. It’s just so fucking complicated and easier left alone, locked away with the rest of my secrets.

Safe from the prying, judgmental eyes of others.

“Will do.” He clears his throat. “I better run.”

I rub my forehead and try to push back the wave of shitty thoughts that are taking over. “Alright, bro. If you ever feel like getting out of there, you can come live with me in Vegas. You’ll always have a home with me, ya hear?”

“Yeah, I know.” He’s quiet.

The silence hangs between us. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—what our lives would be like if I’d just obeyed our dad back then. Does Braeden blame me for where he is today? Locked on some military base, taking orders?

“Catch ya later, Brae.”

The phone call ends. I stare into the black night, contemplating my ugly childhood. Giving up on dreams, throwing away the things that I enjoyed, things I was good at, all so that I could keep peace in my house. Protect my mom and brother.

A lot of good that shit did them.

I’ve heard men end up just like their fathers. Whether they like it or not, the DNA demands it. I hate that I see him in me, in the rage that draws me to the octagon, the need to have control over my life, my refusal to let anyone influence what I do. But unlike my dad, I’d never subject a kid, or a woman, to that kind of life. Lord knows I’ve seen how that turns out.

No attachments. No risk. No pain.

I jam my fists into my eye sockets. Talking to my brother always brings back the things that keep me awake at night.

My dad thought he could exorcise me of those demons by shipping me off. He was wrong. First thing I did when I got my own place was take back that part of my life he robbed me of. And now it’s the only thing that brings me peace when my head goes down these fucked up paths.

Party’s over. I need to get the hell out of here and to the only place that can bring those evils to heel.

The room.

Layla

“Breakfast for dinner. Yum.” Elle pushes her eggs and bacon around her plate, avoiding my eyes.

“I get my first paycheck in two weeks. Until then, we have to live on a budget.” I fork a bite into my mouth.

It’s funny how these eggs taste better than any others I’ve had. I know now what it means to appreciate the simple things. Like food. And health and work.

In my old life, I had a walk-in pantry full of food, but it all tasted the same. A clean bill of health but always felt sick. And work—well, my job was to stay home and keep house. And it was a gorgeous house. But it felt like a prison cell.

“Have you talked to him?” Elle is staring at me, her head tilted, eyebrows low.

“Who?”

She slides her eyes to the ceiling then back to mine. “Dad. You were just thinking about him, weren’t you?”

How’d she know?

“You always get that look.” She motions to me with her fork. “Lost or empty when you think about him.”

I study my plate, hoping she doesn’t notice how uneasy I am about her ability to read my expression. I wonder what else she’s figured out.

“I wasn’t thinking about him. But I was thinking about our old life.”

“Do you… miss it?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Do you?”

She stabs at her eggs then drops her fork. “I don’t miss listening to you and Dad fight.”

I drop my head and close my eyes. Shit. There’ll be a day when I can talk about this with her, but now is not it. Every day is a battle to maintain the illusion that I’m strong and can handle taking care of us on my own. This conversation will expose how weak I really am.

“I bet you miss your friends.” Changing the subject is my way to skirt the difficult subject. “Leaving school halfway through the year was hard on you, I know.”

She glares at me. “What are you talking about? I only had a couple friends, and neither of them has even called me since before Christmas break.” She holds her head in her hands and grips her hair.

Even with the past behind us, I’m constantly reliving my mistakes. The biggest being that Elle had to endure a life with parents who weren’t in love, who barely spoke to each other. When they did, it was through verbal insults or an attitude of indifference. The guilt presses into my sternum.

I take a deep breath, hoping to relieve regret’s suffocating pressure. I remind myself that there’s one thing I always made sure to protect her from. The one thing that finally sent me running scared. If only I would have left sooner. I may have saved myself from years of—