“Your coach is the one renting you this place now,” I said.
“Yeah, his wife died a couple years back – I wasn’t here then – but I know he took it pretty hard. This was the first place I came right to when I came back to West Bend a few months ago. I didn’t even go to see my mother for a while after I got here,” he said. “I just came to see Coach.”
“What about the furniture?” I asked. “Is he the one who got you into making it?”
“Oh, yeah, the furniture,” Silas said. “It was Coach’s thing. He had his whole garage set up as this workshop, and he’d go in there and hole up and make things. After you left, he got me started in doing it. He said I needed to have something other than wrestling to occupy my mind, and wood-working was just relaxing.”
I wanted to tell Silas that he wasn’t the only one who had been devastated when I’d left. But instead, I touched the headboard of the bed, let my fingers linger on the surface of the wood that had been painstakingly carved and sanded until it was soft and smooth. “This is really cool, Silas,” I said.
“It’s aspen,” Silas said. “It’s local.”
“You should make pieces like this and sell them. You’re really good.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, I could never do that.”
“Why not?”
Silas shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “People aren’t going to buy that stuff. Not from me, anyway. It’s just a hobby.”
Stretching back out on the bed, I pulled Silas down beside me to face me. “You could do something really cool with this,” I said. “When you have talent like that, you shouldn’t waste it.”
“The talent I have is beating people up,” Silas said. “And even that isn’t exactly talent.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” I asked. I suddenly realized that Silas had been probing into what I’d been doing for the past seven years, pulling information from me piece by piece. Meanwhile, I knew only what I’d assumed about him, and that was turning out to be different from real life.
“What, since you left?” Silas asked. “I haven’t been doing anything much. Nothing important.”
“Tell me anyway,” I said, my hand smoothing the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest, feeling the harness of his muscles as they flexed underneath his shirt in response to my touch. “Did you get that scholarship you were up for in high school? The wrestling one?”
“To Oklahoma State?” Silas asked, his face reddening.
“What?” I asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, yes, I got the scholarship. No you didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just – I got kicked out.”
“You got kicked out of college?” I asked.
“It happened at the beginning of sophomore year,” he said. “After that I went to Albuquerque, worked some odd jobs and got on the fight circuit out there. There’s a lot of unofficial stuff in that area - MMA, boxing, that kind of thing. I’d fight anyone and anything, didn’t matter what it was.”
“Why’d you get kicked out of college?” I asked. “What happened?”
Silas exhaled heavily. “I beat up this guy,” he said. “And I got kicked out for assault. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but the kid had money. His parents donated a wing of one of the buildings or something. They didn’t end up pressing charges, but only because of what happened being public.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were at some party, and he was arguing with this girl – I didn’t know who the hell either of them were, but he hit her. The girl had a fucking bloody nose; I mean, she was bleeding all over the place. And someone was standing there with a cell phone recording. So I kicked the shit out of him, and took the girl to the hospital.”
“So they kicked you out of school for that?” I asked. I hadn’t been to college, but it seemed to me that they wouldn’t want someone who was hitting their girlfriend to be a student.
“Money talks,” he said. “You of all people should know that better than anyone. Anyway, what the hell would I have done with a degree? You don’t need a degree to fight in the ring.”
“You’re one of the smartest people I know, Silas,” I said. “You were always reading all those books when we were in school.”
“Yeah, but knowing a bunch of shit about history and philosophy doesn’t pay the bills, does it?” Silas asked, his voice bitter. Then he smiled, and touched my arm. “Water under the bridge, right? No use crying over spilled milk and all that. Is there another cliché I could use that would be appropriate here?”
I laughed. “The past is the past?”
“Exactly,” he said, his hand cupping my ass. “Why don’t you distract me with the present, instead?”
“Mmm,” I said, as Silas leaned close and kissed me. He started pulling on the sides of my shirt, but I stopped him. “Wait.”