J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

I hold open the front door. “They were just leaving, right girls?”

With a few mumbled “nice-to-meet-you’s”, they scurry out the door. I give them each a parting kiss, thankful that my raging headache is holding back my libido.

Closing the door behind them, I turn to Raven and Jonah, who are both watching me with a mix of amusement and disgust.

“What?” I stretch my arms high and yawn. “I had to ring in the New Year properly.”

“Hope you got it out of your system, bro. Training for your fight with ‘The Fade’ starts first thing tomorrow.”

I rub my aching head. “Good. That’s about how long it’ll take me to sober up.” A grin tugs at my lips. “And recover from my extracurricular activities.”

Jonah laughs humorlessly. “You better be careful, man, or your shit’ll fall off and—”

The sound of a door slamming sends their gaze toward the hallway. Ginger strolls out and freezes at the sight of my guests.

I do a quick introduction. “Jonah and Raven are here to pick me up.”

Ginger takes her cue like a good little one-night stand. “Oh, right. Well, you guys have a happy New Year.”

I open the door for her. “You too.”

She mouths, “Call me,” and slips a piece of paper into my palm. After shutting the door, I take a peek at her handwritten note.

If you’re looking for a playmate, I’m game.

Her phone number’s there too, along with a fresh lipstick kiss. Nice. She’ll never get in the room, but I like that she’s open to play. I make a mental note to add her number to my phone for a rainy day.

Only twelve hours into the new year and I’ve got a no-strings playmate at the ready, and the fight of my career to train for that will put me up for title contention.

Yep, this year’s promising big things.

And nothing short of a damn tsunami in the desert will get in my way.

Layla

New year, new career.

I can do this.

I shove my hand between two hangers in the tiny closet overflowing with my clothes. The apartment’s crap because I’m broke. But at least I brought a few nice things from my old life. Wearing designer clothes will be the perfect way to veil my poverty.

I grab a pair of black pants then toss them on the bed to look for a top. It’s colder in the desert than I thought it’d be. It’s nothing like a Seattle winter, but there’s a bite in the air that calls for long sleeves.

Red silk blouse. Perfect. I’ll need a power color to make a strong impression.

I slide my towel off my body and shiver from the chill in the room, or possibly my nerves. Slacks in hand, I sit on the edge of the bed to get—

Black pants are for fat girls .

The sound of his voice knocks around in my head as if he were standing two feet away. My stomach cramps then rolls. With the offending pants halfway up my leg, I shake my head.

No. I won’t let him ruin this for me.

I shove my other foot into the other pants leg— dammit . I gaze down at my body and feel my confidence drain. I’m 110 pounds, far from overweight. Although, I suppose I could lose a little around my waist. Maybe I should start doing a few more sit-ups before bed— no .

I rip the pants off and toss them to the floor. He’s doing it again. He’s not even here, and I’m questioning myself. Baby steps. Today isn’t the day to tackle my black pants issue. I can’t show up at my new job feeling like a whipped dog.

Without looking, I reach into the closet and grab an outfit. Anything will be better than wearing his memory.

“Elle, ten minutes,” I shout towards the hallway while sliding on a cream-colored sweater dress.

“Duh. I’ve been ready for the last ten,” she says from what sounds like the kitchen.

Who knew raising a teenager would be so much fun? I don’t remember sassing my parents this badly at sixteen. Coming home pregnant, yes. Sass, not so much.

I squint at my reflection in the murky glass of the old full-length mirror that came with the apartment. Business casual and fashion forward. After all, the Universal Fighting League isn’t some stuffy corporate establishment. From what I could tell from the pictures online, it seems like a pretty hip place.

I yank my hair up into an extreme ponytail at the crown of my head then wrap it into a tight bun. It’s important that no pieces of hair escape, or I’ll end up twirling them obsessively, like I always do when I’m nervous. I finish by spraying a cloud of hairspray that’s so thick it makes me cough.

You look like a bimbo when you twirl your hair.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe deeply to block out his voice. How long until his constant taunts fade?

I want to come across as confident and capable. Chewing my bottom lip, I look through my closet again. Maybe an accessory will help. A scarf? No. Suit jacket? Too hot. I turn away from my closet and find exactly what I’m looking for on my bedside table. Thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses.

I slide them on and give my reflection another once-over. Perfect. I’m ready.

While walking the short distance from my bedroom to the kitchen, I push back the resurfacing butterflies. One of the benefits of a 700 square foot apartment is that everything’s only a few steps away.

“I get off at five. Since we’re still new in town, I’d like for you to come back here after school and hang out until you have to pick me up.” I grab the things I’ll need for the day and pile them on the small chrome and yellow table that seats two.

Elle’s leaning against the stove, one hand on her slender hip. She shrugs her shoulder that’s carrying the weight of her messenger bag. “Fine.”

Purse, keys, water bottle, and nutrition bar. Check. “Did you pack a lunch?”

“No. That’s for dorks. I’ll eat there.” She grabs an energy drink from the fridge.

“I hate those things. You should get your energy from healthy food and exercise. Not caffeine.”

“That’s such shit,” she mumbles to the floor.

“Elle, seriously? Watch the langua—”

“You drink coffee for breakfast.”

“That’s different.”

“Whatever.” She uses that affected tone that makes me want to shake her.

After locking up, we head down the stairs into the parking lot, where our 1991 Ford Bronco is waiting. We got it the day we rolled into Vegas. It was parked on a street corner with a price painted on the windshield. One phone call later, and it was ours.

“Mom, come on,” Elle says, and unlocks the driver’s side door.

First official day of our new lives.

I hop into the passenger side and listen as Elle tries to get the truck started. On the third try, it finally starts.

We drive toward the UFL Training Center. Since we only have one car, it makes more sense for Elle to drop me off and pick me up. She seems happy about the arrangement. I guess being picked up and dropped off by your mom when starting a new school mid-year is equivalent to social suicide.

After one wrong freeway exit and a missed turn, we finally arrive in the parking lot of my new job. I have a job. My nerves flutter behind my ribcage.

I check my watch. Thirty minutes early. “So you’ll pick me up at five?”

“Yeah.” Elle smoothes her long dark hair and checks her dramatic make up in the rearview mirror. I should tell her to tone it down, but she might be nervous. I wouldn’t want to make her any more self-conscious than she already is. Not on the first day at a new school.

“Elle.”

Her crystal-blue eyes dart to mine, and she gives me an annoyed look. “What?”