again and again. My whole body feels like it’s trembling, and my jaw aches from being clenched.
“Thank you again. You have no idea…” the girl says, her cheeks stained with makeup and tears.
Arlo shakes his head. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Do you want us to wait with you?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head as she points. “There’s my mom.”
A gold sedan is parked at the curb, a woman with dark hair and glasses sits in the front seat.
“Thank you.” They say a final time before dashing to the car.
We walk the last couple of blocks to the lot we’d parked in silence. I feel ashamed, guilty for having just stood there. My thoughts are tangling around what I could have done—should have done to help.
Arlo stops at the passenger door, and I slowly stretch my fingers to loosen my grip, and I realize how tight I was holding on to him as my muscles and tendons ache. His eyes dart over my shoulder as he opens the door and offers me his hand.
“Are you worried they’ll follow us?”
His eyes cut to mine, and he shakes his head. “Those guys were idiots who thought they were tough. There’s no way they’re going to follow us.”
I want to ask him why he’s looking for them if he’s so sure, but I get it. I understand how easy it is to look for something even though you know it’s gone.
He closes the door, and with unsteady hands, I grab my seat belt and slide it into place as Arlo climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. He moves the controls to heat so that once the engine is warmed, it will likely bake us, but at this point, I welcome the idea. Every part of me is cold and wet as the threats those guys said play in my mind, chilling me further.
“How’d you know you’d win?” I ask.
Arlo glances at me as he cuts across traffic. “I didn’t, not at first. But I also didn’t think they were going to want to fight me. Even street fights usually have a little honor—basic shit like you don’t try to fight someone when there are ladies around, and you don’t try to pick a fight when someone’s grossly outnumbered. But then the first guy came toward me, and his friends didn’t move, and I knew they either had no idea what they were doing, or we were going to be in trouble. Then I smelled the alcohol and knew we’d be fine.”
“You gathered all of that in the few steps it took him to walk closer to you? Where’d you learn to do that?”
“What?”
“Fight. I mean, I know you said you were in a few fights in high school, but that was like … you knocked three of them out cold.”
“They made it look easy because they left themselves wide open. There are a couple of spots you can hit someone and almost guarantee it’ll knock them out. The chin, the jaw, and behind the ear. The throat will, too, but I think those are dangerous. Hell, all of it is because you never know how a person’s going to fall. But they didn’t give me many options.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Fifteen years of Taekwondo and Muay Thai training. My mom signed us up because we had a lot of energy, and she thought it would teach us discipline.”
“And how to beat the shit out of people.”
One side of his lips slides up like he’s trying to smile. “I told you that I’ve never really enjoyed fighting. Sparring, yes. Hitting people out on the field, absolutely. But trying to hurt someone has never been my thing—I’ve got my dad’s heart and my mom’s empathy, which Theo will tell you translates to I’m a pussy.”
“I thought I educated you that pussies are way tougher than balls.”
He laughs this time, his shoulders slowly relaxing. “I’ll call him a testicle next time I talk to him.”
“This is only the third fight I’ve ever seen, which means you’ve been there for two of them.”
“Yeah, how’d the first one go?”
“Terrifying. I was a freshman in high school, walking into the cafeteria, and this guy grabbed someone’s tray of food, threw the food over his shoulder, and then cracked this kid on the head with the tray.”
Arlo winces. “That’s what we’d call a reactionary move. Hotheads are the ones you don’t want to fight because they’re loose cannons.”
“Really? I figured that would be easier. It seems like