Two Weeks Page 29

  I email Ally and tell her about my plans. I send her a link to the page where all the videos and fight stats will be posted. As much as I don't want her to worry about me, I also want to show her that I'm actually doing something and not just rotting here in Red Lake. I want her to see that my fighting career has forward momentum.

  But forward or not, it still doesn't feel like anything. I'm doing things, but I'm still numb.

  As I prepare to leave for our micro-tour, something strange happens. There's a knock at the door and I saunter down the stairs. The guy standing there looks unmistakably like a farmer, one I feel I should recognize. His hair is short and tidy, his skin leathery and tanned. He's almost as tall as me and clad in dirty boots and jeans and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  The man, Doug Carpenter, my next door neighbor and old friend of my father, wants to expand his farming operation. He wonders if I'm interested in selling the house and land out here. His offer is quite lucrative, and it would leave me better off than I ever would have imagined.

  But the whole thing hits me like a ton of bricks when he starts talking about demolishing the house to make room for some silos. To my great surprise, I'm feeling more sentimental than usual.

  "This is all I've got left of my parents," I say firmly. It's suddenly clear that without Ally, this is all I've got. For real. "I've got my gym in the garage, too. Sunk a lot of money into that."

  Crumbling walls feel like crumbling memories.

  This guy stands on the back porch with me, the back porch that my dad built himself. We point at the barn that my dad constructed. Everything out here is just him. Monuments, relics, whatever.

  "Well," he says apprehensively, "if that's what it came to, maybe we could work something out where you keep the house. Or I could increase my offer based on the value of that gym you built."

  "I don't think I want to sell," I say. "I never even considered this."

  "You plannin' on sticking around Red Lake?" he asks.

  "I guess so," I say. "I haven't put much thought into leaving. But that doesn't mean it's a no."

  "It's a lot to think about," Doug says. "I understand. Just trying to be friendly about it. I'm not gonna pull any tricks or anything if you say no. Just one man talking to another. I don't know your plans—I'm just asking."

  "Yeah, I don't know what to say." I stare off into the fields, the empty fields that he wants to fill with potatoes or soybeans. I can't decide if it's a good or bad thing. I mean, I'm preserving this place, but it's not clear why.

  Maybe I'll raise a family here like my parents did.

  He hands me his card. I take a cursory peek at it and then slide it between my fingers. "Just think about it, Jackson. Take your time. You can call me if you have any questions." He reaches out his hand and I shake it with a firm grip.

  "Okay." I nod.

  Doug walks back to his truck. The engine roars to life, and then he drives off.

  I head back inside and continue packing my bags with something new on my mind.

  We leave tomorrow.

  ***

  Ally

  As soon as I return to Boston, all hell breaks loose at work.

  I don't mean that things have gone wrong—we just become insurmountably busy. The contracts I have been working on for months all come through in the same week, which means ten times the paperwork as usual to put things into motion.

  Everyone always jokes about all of the paperwork in the bureaucracy—but it's no joke, no laughing matter. Everything has to be documented and scanned and filed, and then all of the documenting has to be documented and scanned and filed, and by the end of the day, I'm drowning in a violent paper sea.

  On the bright side, I get another unexpected raise after the random surge of success. It's a pretty serious raise too. I wouldn't have expected it in a million years after getting promoted so recently. I'm saving a lot of money, but it's only because I just don't have any time to spend it.

  The thing is, whenever I get a moment to myself, my mind always trickles back to Jackson. Well, it starts as a trickle. It's like a tiny hole in a dam that erodes slowly over the years until suddenly it's huge and the dam breaks and stuff gets destroyed and they have to call in the National Guard.

  I think about when he said he loved me almost every day. I didn't say it back, but it wasn't because he told me not to speak. I hadn't expected him to say it, and it felt so right in that moment that I was literally speechless.

  Did I want to say it back?

  What makes it worse is the fact that I don't know what the hell to do with it. He's so far away and I'm so situated here. Everything that happens every day just makes me more cemented to Boston.

  I need to call Jackson more often, but I also don't want to keep reminding him of the fact that physically, we're so far apart. The whole thing is driving me crazy because I don't know where to go from here.

  And I'm so busy I barely have time to think. I haven't had time to practice any of the boxing stuff we worked on either. I fear I'll forget it all soon.

  Marlena has taken me out for drinks several times after work, encouraging me to get back into the dating game after Max.

  I haven't told her about Jackson. I don't know why.

  Her suggestion is ridiculous because I can't even look at other guys without immediately thinking about Jackson. No one seems to measure up in my mind. I wonder when this phase will pass.

  Well, more importantly, I wonder if this phase will pass.

  So Max. When I initially got home and entered my apartment, I found a pile of handwritten notes he had been sliding under the door each day as he waited for me, a makeshift doormat comprised of apologies. I read the first one, figuratively gagged, and then tossed them all in the recycle bin without reading anymore.

  I met him for coffee one day after that, just to give him back the spare key I had to his apartment. It made me really thankful that I never gave him one to mine, because if I had, who knows what I would have found when I returned home.

  He actually pleaded for me to take him back—the two of them weren't doing so hot after all—but I knew I couldn't trust him. The fact that he even considered staying with Angela and having the child made it clear to me a long time ago that his loyalty was long gone.

  There's no coming back from that dark place, and no amount of begging will ever change my mind.

  I stared at him the whole time like he was some science experiment gone wrong, not a man at all. Compared to Jackson, he is nothing. A tiny, fragile little man that can't keep it in his pants. He ruined damn near everything he touched. He's got money, but he doesn't have love.

  Angela didn't call me again after the confession. Even though it really doesn't compare at all, my relationship with her is pretty much the only other thing I think about outside of Jackson.

  Can we ever be friends again?

  Can she ever be forgiven for what she did?

  In my mind, I have forgiven her, but I feel like she's nothing but an allergen now. If she comes around, she's just gonna irritate me until I make her go away—or take some "medicine." I don't need people in my life that I can't stand unless I'm drunk. It's not healthy.

  I read Jackson's email late Monday night. I've just concluded my work stuff for the day and it's nearly midnight. I've been at it since eight this morning with only a short break for lunch. I'm exhausted.

  I'm thrilled to learn that he's doing things and I'm certain that Todd had a permanent smile on his face after Jackson signed. However, that same feeling of fear creeps in. He's going to be fighting a lot more, which means that his risk for injury increases. I don't actually know how serious his spinal stenosis is.

  It's as easy for me to think about him as some indestructible giant as it is to imagine him as a frail man in great danger.

  But I have to let my fear go. He's his own man, and he gets to make his own choices, whether I approve of them or not. He lives for fighting, and I've seen it in him, that competitiv
e glimmer in his eyes as he approaches an opponent in the cage.

  I actually look up his condition on Wikipedia and WebMD one day. Plenty of athletes have walked away without any long-term problems. It's not always bad.

  But it can be.

  What I do know is, despite every attempt to be realistic, I still feel something for Jackson that I've never felt for anyone before. It's a humbling feeling as much as it is one that empowers me. My only choice is to wait it out.

  Clarity will catch up with me soon, I'm certain of it.

  ***

  The week goes by in a blur as usual. It moves fast, but the fact that the conclusion of one week only brings another identical week doesn't leave me with any respite when I walk out Friday night. I'm always too tired to go out—unless it's on the clock, of course—and Saturdays and Sundays are usually spent catching up with household stuff.

  I've been considering adopting a cat from a local shelter. I want something cute that will have some attitude and keep me company. But as I much as I want to run straight over there and take one home, I still deal with the lingering fear that I won't be able give it enough attention due to my relentless work schedule.

  Marlena promises that things will slow down eventually, and I think about her promise every day as I feel overworked and hollow.

  I check on Jackson in the middle of the week. As of Wednesday, he's won his first two fights. I grin uncontrollably as I remember how he deftly manipulated the emotions of the crowd at the fight I went to. It makes me long to see him fight again.

  I try to bring up a video, but it won't load on my phone for some reason. Technology fails me and I'm not savvy enough to fix it. I give up and move on with my week. As much as I'd like to call him, I don't want to confuse or upset him while he's on the road.

  And I don't even know what I'd say.

  I walk out the door on Friday, hoping to relax a bit, but when my dishwasher causes a flood in the kitchen on Saturday morning,

  I end up screwing around with that all day, praying that maintenance will actually make it to my apartment before the end of the day since they probably don't work on Sunday and I really don't feel like waiting until Monday to use my sink again. At six, a guy shows up and fixes a pipe that burst under the sink.

  Crisis averted.

  On Sunday morning, I sit down with my coffee and stare out the window. Right away, I'm thinking about Jackson, wishing I was cuddled up with him. That he was keeping me warm, not this coffee in my heart-shaped mug.

  I grab my laptop and open up the email he sent me last week to find the links that refused to work on my phone. I click on his profile on the site and start looking through the outcomes of the fights—he won them all, except last night's in his home turf. When I look at the notes, it says that he was eliminated due to injury.

  The ceiling suddenly feels like it's coming down on me. Okay, that could mean a lot of different things, I think. Something compels me to check the video section, and I quickly realize that I shouldn't have looked.

  There's a video titled "Jackson Ames Knockout!" on YouTube. In the description is yesterday's date. I click play and hold my breath.

  He's fighting against a guy much larger than Goliath. Just seeing him makes me smile, but my smile fades fast. They're dancing around in the cage until finally Jackson seems far more worn down than I've ever seen him. His defense and posture make it clear how exhausted he is.

  "He shouldn't even be fighting!" I scream at the screen. I'm unable to tell that I'm not actually in the audience.

  And then the other guy nails him more than once in the face. The video cues some obnoxious metal music as Jackson flies toward the mat, collapsing like a piece of crumpled paper. His body hits first, and then his head thumps hard against the floor.

  He doesn't move. The camera zooms in on his head and there's blood dripping from his nose onto the mat. Todd jumps into the cage and rushes to Jackson's side. The video fades to black as that abhorrent metal anthem continues roaring in the background.

  My heart is pumping blood so fast I'm worried my limbs are going to swell up until they burst. I can barely believe that what I witnessed is a real thing. I've just watched this on my computer, this video clip that people are probably laughing at. A sports blooper. A crowning achievement for the other guy.

  But to me it feels totally different. This is my greatest current fear come to life. I run over to my window and open it; I feel like I can't breathe. There isn't enough air in the room. I struggle to fill my lungs with cool fall air and sit back down, panting.

  Clarity hits me fast. I try to occupy myself, but I can't stop thinking about this. I try to call Jackson, but he doesn't answer. His phone goes straight to voicemail.

  Of course, because he can't answer it!

  That was it, the final blow that did him in. His spine is broken and it's over. He can't answer the phone because he can't move his fingers. Hell, maybe he's dead, even. I have no idea what to do.

  It's like I know I'm overreacting, but I don't want to stop. I can't stop until I know he's okay. It's now that I realize how much I've been suppressing my real feelings for him. I've suddenly caught a horrible, visceral glimpse of a world without Jackson—and I just can't take it.

  I need to find out if he's okay. I need to see him and let him know that I haven't forgotten what we had over those magical two weeks. And that I need more.

  Before I even realize it, I'm trying to find a flight back. Everything is full, but that won't stop me. I'll go straight to the airport and try to fly standby. That's what I'll do.

  I haphazardly pack my bag and then call Marlena.

  "M-Marlena?" I stammer.

  "Ally? What's up?"

  "A good friend of mine is in the hospital back home. He's hurt." Vague, yet truthful.

  "What happened?"

  "Somebody attacked him." It's the best answer I've got.

  "Oh, God." Her voice fades to nothing.

  "I need to go see him. Just for a day or two," I say. I'm nervous about Jackson, and I'm also nervous about asking for more time off. "I know we're busy, but I'm going crazy here."

  "No, no, it's okay," she says lovingly. "You do what you have to do. I know what that feels like."

  I rush to the airport after the call. I'm not totally without a plan. I have a listing of all of the direct flights home and their respective airlines. Thankfully, the airline attendant I speak with is reasonable. We work out a plan and she gives me a tentative terminal to wait at.

  I'm fidgety every second that I'm waiting and every bathroom trip is rushed as much as possible so I don't miss any announcement. My stomach grumbles constantly, and I forgot to bring any snacks.

  Finally, people are lining up to board and I'm biting my nails down to the bone. It's too bad they don't satisfy my hunger.

  A stocky, bearded flight attendant approaches me. "Are you Allyson Moore?"

  "Yes," I say.

  "We've got an open seat for you. Meet me at the counter and we'll get you a boarding pass."

  I struggle to keep myself from jumping up and down and cheering. I can't believe this all worked out. Once I'm on the plane and waiting for take-off, I call the rental car service and make arrangements for a vehicle.

  When everything is done, I buckle up and head off into the sky.

  ***

  Against all odds, everything happens with no delays. We arrive on time and the car is waiting for me. I grab the keys at the rental desk and then start driving.

  When I'm roughly halfway to Red Lake, I realize that I don't actually know where Jackson is right now. Hell, I don't know anything. I pull into a gas station and sit there. I'm not sure what to do.

  The video starts replaying in my mind and it riles up my guts. I see all of that brutality happening once again...

  ...and then I remember Todd running up to the stage—and that he gave me his number!

  I grab my phone and start flying through the contacts until I find Todd's lonely first name. He's
just "Todd." I don't know his last name.

  I dial and wait with shaking hands. "Hello?" he says, his voice subdued.

  "Todd!" I shout. "It's Ally. I heard what happened and came back home. Where is Jackson?"

  "Barton City Memorial Hospital," he says quickly.

  "Is he okay?" I ask.

  "He's stable. Waiting for them to finish their tests."

  I don't know what any of this means aside from the fact that he's actually alive. That's good enough for now. I realize I'd prefer to be there in person to receive any other news.

  "I'm coming, Todd," I announce. "I'll be there in about an hour."

  "Give your name at the desk," he says. "I'll be waiting."

  I hang up and type the hospital into the GPS. Once it's figured out the route, I pull back onto the highway and speed the rest of the way there. It's a miracle that I don't get pulled over.

  After what seems like an eternity, I arrive and rush into the hospital, stopping at the desk once I find it. I ask for Jackson Ames and they send me upstairs. As I approach room 214, I see Todd sitting on a flimsy chair out in the hall. He looks totally exhausted.

  Like a man that hasn't slept all night.

  "Todd!" I shout. I run up to him and hug him.

  "I don't even know how you knew to come," he says. "I tried to get a hold of someone, but he really doesn't have any family."

  "He doesn't," I say. "I saw the video. He sent me the links to the stats page before he left."

  "I just can't believe this shit," Todd says quietly, pathetically. "I've been hounding him for months, and when he finally says yes, this happens."

  "What happened?" I ask. "I mean, I saw the video."

  Todd's face is pallid. "You might want to sit down."

  I swallow hard and take his advice. The chair isn't comfortable at all, but comfort is not my priority right now.

  "He broke his neck," Todd says. "Just got hit the right way. He also has a concussion."