If I Could - B. Celeste Page 0,22
I decided not to step on any toes. Plus, they knew too much already about why I sought after their comfort. I’d brought up Brea around the anniversary of her death after a meltdown in the middle of Sunday dinner. It was embarrassing, but also freeing in some ways. It took almost three years to say Brea’s name to anybody in Exeter, and both Iverson and Claire told me the loss I suffered was one I would feel a lifetime, one to never be ashamed of crying over. I needed them in that moment like I needed my parents, except I refused to let Mom and Dad see me so torn up when I always had a brave face on. I needed the homecooked meals I was more than capable of cooking for myself, and the gentle smiles and hugs goodbye that I missed getting from my own parents. It was hard letting that go, but I didn’t want to get in the way of their relationship with their son Ryan.
I still see them in town, in the store, and always make sure to stop and say hi, peck Claire on the cheek, and shake Iverson’s hand. But I never stay, never officially agree to another dinner, and they stopped pushing after a while.
So, yeah. It has been a hot minute considering the times I come into the gym are when Iverson is usually home with Claire. The off chances I do see him in the evenings is when he’s stepping in for another trainer or doing finances for the month. He says the same thing every time, “don’t be a stranger” and then I go about being exactly that.
“I understand.” He squeezes my arm and gives me a quick once-over. “You look good, kid. Maybe a little scrawny, but we’ll fix that right up. Rocco is teaching a class right now, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you stepping in.”
Rocco is one of their trainers, the same one who taught me how to kickbox. Iverson told me when I first started coming that it was a good way to blow off steam, work out the aggression. And it works. I used to come every other week, unless work kept me busy, and double that in the summertime. Now, I added running to the mix as much as possible because I’m too chickenshit to face Iverson for bailing on him and his wife when they’ve been nothing but hospitable to me.
“Sure,” I finally say, hauling my bag over my shoulder. He tells me to head to the locker and that he’d let Rocco know I’d be joining in.
An hour and a half later, sweat dripping from my face, my legs the blissful kind of overworked and numb, I feel better. Not enough to accept the dinner offer that Iverson slips me before I shake his hand again and leave for the night, even if I do feel the tug in my chest when his lips waver into a tiny frown that he recovers from quickly.
When I get home, I call my parents, knowing my mother’s relief to hear my voice is all thanks to Lawrence McKinley.
When I arrive to school the next morning, I’m tired after only getting about five and a half hours of sleep despite being exhausted after my gym session. My muscles hurt, coffee hasn’t helped so far, and I know today is going to be the day that students test me.
And I’m right.
Third period, Red Bowen. I suspected he’d be trouble when he showed up to my class five minutes late yesterday, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he’s new. Unfortunately, he also made a spectacle when I asked him to take any seat he wanted, making one kid get up and move for him because apparently specifying an empty seat was what I should have done. I talked to him after class, but he wasn’t listening, so I dismissed him and hoped it was a one-day thing.
Today, he’s on his phone. He doesn’t think I notice since he’s in the second row, but I do. It’s hard not to when I’m trying to breakdown the lesson plan for the next few weeks, introducing our first novel, while he stares down at something in his lap.
“Red,” I say slowly, “can you please put your phone away? You know it’s against school policy to have them out during class.”
His unoriginal retort is, “Maybe I’m staring at my dick, teach.” To which I have