“Can I come in?” His hands are on his waist. He’s wearing his gym gear, and I wonder if Ty sent him to talk to me. I motion him inside while he scans my apartment looking for…what, exactly? A voodoo doll?
“What’s up?” I choke on my heart. I’d started to fear that Ty had forgotten about me and moved on.
Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he’s still stuck on me like I am on him.
“What’s up?” Jesse challenges. “Nothing is up. Everything seems to be going to hell, baby girl.”
“I hear accusation in your voice.”
“What you hear in my voice is pure concern.”
I offer him an annoyed pout and some coffee. I know he doesn’t take his with sugar. Goddamned athletes and their clean-eating ways.
“Sit your ass down,” he orders, and I perch on the barstool, sulking. Jesse is not as charismatic as Ty, but they both fall under the category of people who can tell you to do just about anything, including rimming a dead donkey, and you’d do it.
“Ty is a big boy,” I say. “He can come up here himself if he has something to tell me.”
“Tyler didn’t ask me to come here, Blaire.”
My stomach knots. Maybe he’s moved on after all.
“Right. So are you here just to rattle my cage? Or is this a social call?” I take a sip of my coffee without even tasting it. All my senses are focused on figuring out what’s new with Ty and why Jesse paid me a visit.
“I’m here because I need your help.” Jesse leans forward and locks eyes with me. “Tyler is in bad shape. Really bad shape. He’s drinking himself to death. Not showing up to the gym. Not eating—at all. He’s losing muscle mass when he should be putting it on.”
“The horror,” I gasp sarcastically.
“At this rate, he’ll have to cancel his match with Vasquez.” His tone vibrates with worry. “If he doesn’t get his shit together soon, he might as well tap out now.”
Considering Ty is the most undramatic person I’ve ever met, this is news. He was all about issues with anger, not partying. I never pegged binge drinking to be his style.
But I was wrong.
“What the hell do you want me to do? Get back with him so he can win the championship?”
A part of me is hoping he'll say yes. That would be a great excuse to contact him. I know I should be devastated to hear Ty is falling apart, but the truth—the raw, rotten, disgraceful truth—is that it makes me happy to learn he’s struggling like I am. I’m not drinking, but I’m dead inside. I don’t go out. I don’t smile. In some ways, it’s even worse, because at least Ty is already dealing with our breakup.
“He has no one, Blaire.”
“He has you.” I rub my forehead.
“I have a fight coming up next month. I’m training and have a lot of hype to sell. Don’t have time.”
“He has Dawson.”
“Dawson’s wife is pregnant, and he’s got three kids, his plate is full.”
“He has his mom.”
Jesse lets out a hostile laugh. “That's who I wanted to talk to you about. There's no way in hell Mary will ever talk to me. Last time I saw her, I helped Tyler box up shit from her house and she almost called the cops on me just for helping him take some of his old stuff. She won’t listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to you. Try to get her to drag her ass down to Concord and take care of her son. Ty needs her." He leans forward to watch my reaction.
Do I really have a choice? I don't think I do. And even if I had a choice, a part of me is dying to see Ty's mother. It might sound pathetic, but she is a piece of him. Who knows? Maybe I can actually get these two to get back in touch. Wouldn't that be something? The fact that I'm not even thinking this through is enough to tell me how much I love him, still.
“I'll need her number.” I shift on my stool.
Jesse makes a face. "I think you're better off driving to her place. A face-to-face meeting will have more impact."
This sounds like a recipe for disaster, but I have to man up. I want this. I want to help Ty.
I want a chance to see him again.
***
Mary Wilder lives in Redwood, NorCal in the kind of neighborhood that would make even an MMA champion fear for his life. I don’t know what drove her here, but I sure know it couldn’t have been a real-estate upgrade. The house is small and wooden, and desperately needs a coat of paint and a new roof. The yard hasn’t been mowed in months—or years—and all the plants, trees and weeds are either yellow, orange or covered in mud. Random junk clutters the yard—children’s bicycles, empty carton boxes, rusty pieces of metal, rotting wooden pallets. Man, this place looks rough.