The fight that I definitely wasn’t going to.
No matter how badly I wanted to…
Five
Melissa
Three days later, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the stranger glaring back at me, green eyes blazing with defiance.
“What are you doing, you idiot?”
The muttered question was to myself, but I felt so split in two, I was half-surprised the mirror me didn’t reply.
On the one hand, I knew I should just get it out of my head. Forget all about Robbie and his thoughtless invitation. On the other…well, there was no frigging way that was ever going to happen. In fact, I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since that morning. And now, as I stood in the bathroom of the boxing venue dressed in a cheap white-blond wig, a pair of ill-fitting glasses, and a skin-tight dress I’d never wear in real life, I knew one thing for sure.
There was no way I was leaving this place without watching that fight. I physically couldn’t bring myself to do it, no matter how many names my brain called me, no matter how much I castigated myself. I was here, and I was staying. I was an addict, and Robbie was my drug.
“One last fight,” I murmured to mirror me, a sick feeling settling in my gut as I said the words and noted the glassy gleam in my eyes. Lies. I was lying to myself, and rationalizing what I knew was bad behavior.
And even that wouldn’t stop me.
I tugged my cell phone out of my purse and glanced down one last time to make sure Ash wasn’t looking for me. The screen was blank and I blew out a sigh that was half relief, half resignation. That would’ve been my last shot at freeing myself from Robbie’s hold. If Ash’s date had turned out to be a bust and she needed me. But this was the third day we’d spent time with one of the guys we’d played volleyball with and things seemed to be going really well between them. He was a little nerdy, a little sexy and a lot sweet. Best of all? He thought my friend was the most awesome, gorgeous, funny human being he’d ever met. Exactly what she needed right now.
We’d been spending our time together as a threesome, with various buddies of his rotating in and out depending on our activities, but she didn’t even question it when I had bowed out of tonight’s plans. Which was good. Saved me from having to lie to her.
I jammed the phone back into my purse and straightened my spine. Robbie’s bout was scheduled to start any second, and I wasn’t about to miss a second of it. And when it was over, I’d walk away for real this time. True closure.
My heart gave a squeeze as I headed to the will-call window. Had he even remembered he’d asked me? What if, after all this, I showed up and there was no ticket?
“Melissa Halpern…there, um, there might be tickets here for me?”
I waited as the woman behind the window thumbed through a sheaf of paper before slowly shaking her head. “No, sorry, I don’t see—Oh, yup. There you are!”
She shot me a smile and handed me a pair of ticket stubs, but I slid one back to her with a shaking hand. “I’ll just need the one.”
I almost didn’t even need that, because when she hadn’t seen my name, I’d almost died. With every passing second, it was becoming more and more clear just how badly I wanted to be here tonight. How much I needed to see Robbie fight. He’d been through countless battles in our time apart, but there had always been some weird connection between us that made me feel like I was a part of it all. That, when he could feel me there rooting for him and absorb my strength or something.
I knew it was silly, but as I pushed my way through the crowd to find my seat, it felt true to this very day. If I wasn’t here tonight and Robbie lost his big break, I’d never forgive myself.
Ironic, considering how badly he’d hurt me.
When we got back home, I seriously needed to look into getting a therapist, because I had some major masochistic issues to work through.
I ignored my empty seat in the first row and headed for an open one in row five instead, trying to block out the chatter around me. Lots of talk about how fast Robbie’s opponent, Paul O’Malley, was. Even more talk about how one clean uppercut would end it in round one in favor of the Irishman due to his precision.
I’d barely had time to add those worries onto the pile when the announcer came into the ring to the roar of the crowd.
He started speaking but the blood was rushing so hard in my ears, I couldn’t make out the words.
It wasn’t until he got to the important part, that it finally started penetrating.
“In this corner, weighing one hundred ninety pounds, with a professional record of 12 wins, 9 of them by way of knockouts, and 1 draw, Robbie “Sledgehammer” Stevens!”