After dropping Reed off, I have to stop myself from calling Daria. It felt so natural working with her today. We’d never done something like that before. Making it seem like with no effort at all she could just be back in my life.
Which begs the question: why couldn’t we just work together to bring down the bad guys? She could easily be an agency consultant. She has the resources and certainly knows enough. It would help to insulate her further from Reed or anyone else finding out what she’s done. Of course, she’d have to stop what she’s doing and I’m not so certain she’s willing to.
I know it’s important to her to take the guys down who hurt her sister. Not only did they get her hooked on drugs, but they forced her into porn and sexual slavery. In some ways her sister is lucky she didn’t get shipped off to some third world country in the process. I can only hope that with enough drugs, women in those situations don’t realize what’s going on. Otherwise, it’s a horrific existence.
I could help Daria in her quest, during my off hours, to track the guys down. Of course, the agency’s resources aren’t as vast as Daria’s, but they are legit. And so when we find something on someone, it will stick and we can bring them in. Unlike some of the things that Daria comes up with that I can never find legal justification for using.
I grab my burner phone, my thumb hovering over her name.
If she answers, what would I say? How would I ask? What rationale could I possibly give that would work?
I find myself turning the car in the direction of her house. But when I pull up across the street, all her windows are dark. And I don’t see the SUV anywhere. Not that it would necessarily be out in plain sight.
Like many other nights before, I hunker down into my seat and settle in for a long night of watching out for Daria and making sure she arrives home safely.
I wake early and head to the boxing gym. The only gym open on Christmas Day. The sun is barely starting to peek above the horizon as I round the final corner and sprint down the street. I jog to the entrance as a warm-up, then I can tape up and immediately hit the speed bag when I get there.
My breath is hot against the crisp morning air, leaving trails of smoke in its wake. Even though I barely slept a couple hours last night, it feels good to stretch out my muscles today. Invigorating, even. Daria didn’t come in until after three in the morning. And when she did, she looked agitated. I can often decipher her mood by the way she walks. She would hate to know that she’s so transparent. But I’m also probably one of very few people in her life so observant of her mannerisms.
The parking lot for the gym is empty so I’m sure there won’t be a lot of people here. I enter through the front doors and the familiar smell of sweaty socks and rubber mats greets me full force as I make my way to the locker room.
“Mack!” one of the coaches calls out in greeting. I return the acknowledgment with a chin nod, unzipping my hoodie as I go. Having worn shorts and a tank underneath my sweats, all I have to do is step out of them and stuff them in a locker along with my hoodie, and I’m ready to start wrapping my hands.
Do I suffer for the vigilance of Daria? Sure. Depending on my schedule, my watching out for Daria either involves trailing her to a site and making sure she makes it out okay or parking in front of her house to ensure she comes home. Hours spent cramped in the driver’s seat of a car, loss of sleep, increased worry, and stress. Is it worth it the daily validation that she’s okay? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Most days I agree with the two of us being apart. Intellectually speaking, at least. Emotionally speaking? Hell no. I want my girl. I want a life with her. I want my happy ever after.
I finish wrapping my hands, flexing my fingers to ensure a tight fit, then head over to my preferred speed bag. My sneakers squeak on the freshly mopped linoleum floor. My fist raised and at the ready as I reach the bag, starting with a slow and steady rhythm.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
Right. Left
And when I need a bit more I work up to:
Right. Right. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left.
And finally:
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Which is my preferred rhythm—the sounds of the bag rapidly hitting the board, my fist, the board, and my fist acting as a meditative mantra for my movements. Because what I need more than anything after time with Daria is a physical release and mental meditation. It’s exhausting spending time with someone you can’t have but still want. She’s all I think about. I’m borderline obsessed. Fuck, maybe it’s not borderline and I’m just obsessed. I watch her house by night, keep her at the forefront of my mind by day.
Why can’t I just find a normal girl to fall in love with? Someone who’s not a killer. A girl who will stay at home, raise my babies, have dinner waiting for me at six o’clock, and be content with that. Not that I’m against female empowerment and equality. I’m all for it. But I’m also all for having a woman take care of me.
Sexist?
Probably. Not gonna apologize for it though.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
I push through at the same pace for over half an hour before stopping. My arms aching between the rigorous workout I’ve just given them and the cramped muscles from having spent the night sitting up in my car. I move through the rest of my workout, ignoring the other guys who come in. Most are disgruntled single guys like me anyway.
Later today, I’ll hit my sister’s house for Christmas dinner and to bring my twin nieces their gifts. My sister is that girl I’m looking for. She stays at home and cares for the twins while her husband works, she cleans the house, cooks the food, keeps a smile on her face, and, if you ask, she’ll tell you she’s satisfied and fulfilled. Her husband is a college professor though, so his hours are regular and he takes summers off. He’s never sent to parts unknown with a moment’s notice and never gets beaten up or shot at. But he can’t bench three hundred and fifty pounds either, so there’s that.
Ninety minutes later, I’m spent. I’ve done all that I can do for today. The jog home will be grueling, but once there I can shower and take a nap. Sleeping never feels as good as after I’ve been awake thirty-six hours and pushed my body to the brink for the final two of those. I grab my shit from my locker, glancing at my phone as I pocket it. I have a message from Reed but decide not to check it until I get home.
We committed to taking today off, regardless. And I don’t have the energy to listen to him whine about how his best friend is a douche bag of the worst kind. So, unless he’s calling about a new case, which I would have also heard about, I don’t want to deal right now.
We’re partners, Reed and me. I trust him with my life, respect the hell out of him, but I don’t always want to be his friend. It blurs the lines too much between work and personal. Except for everything involving Daria, I don’t like blurred lines in relationships. Fine with them with her, just not anywhere else. What’s that saying? It’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. That’s me to a T.
It isn’t until I’m back home, showered, and in bed with my eyes closing that I remember two things.
One, I didn’t check the message from Reed.
Two, I didn’t wish Daria a Merry Christmas.