"You could be a world champion," he said. Now we were making our way over to the big punching bag.
"I'm too old to be a world champion," I said. Jacky was always trying to get me to fight professionally.
He snorted. "You're, what, thirty?"
"Thirty-one, and thank you."
However, Jacky was closer than he thought. I was indeed thirty-seven calendar years old, but I was frozen in a thirty-one year old's body.
The age I was when I was attacked.
Granted, if a girl had to pick an age to be immortalized in, well, thirty-one would probably be near the top of her list.
And what happens ten years from now when you're forty-seven but still look thirty-one? Or when your daughter is thirty-one and you still look thirty-one?
I didn't know, but I would cross that bridge when I got there.
Jacky took up his position behind the punching bag. "So what's eating at you anyway, Sam?"
"Everything," I said. I started punching the bag, moving around it as if it were an actual opponent, using the precise body movements Jacky had taught me. Ducking and weaving. Jabs. Hooks. Hard straight shots. Punches that would have broken jaws and teeth and noses. Jacky bared his teeth and absorbed the punches on the other side of the bag like the champion he was, or used to be. I took a small breather. So did Jacky. Sweat poured from my brow.
"Let me guess," said Jacky, gasping slightly, and looking as if he had taken actual physical shots to his own body. "Is it that no-good ex-husband of yours?"
"Good guess."
"Does he realize you could kick his arse from here to Dublin?"
"He realizes that," I said. "And why Dublin?"