Work Me Up

He sounds so formal now. So cold, where a moment ago he was all heat and fire, trying to get through to me. It makes my heart ache and twist in my chest, thinking about the hurt I just caused. But it’s for the best. I have to remember that. This is for his own good.

If he gets close to me, things will only be worse in the end.

“Great,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice only wavers slightly. “Goodbye then, Antonio.” I hold my chin up, my shoulders stiff, as I stride out of the garage. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess, but at least I manage to wait until I make it all the way outside and into the parking lot before the tears finally spill over.

10

Antonio

I land another hard punch on the bag. It spins and twirls, then nearly smacks me right back in the face, until I catch it at the last minute with both fists, wrapped up tight in my boxing tape.

I would’ve deserved that smack to the face.

With a growl, I land another punch, and watch the bag spiral away once more, dangling as it does from a hook in the center of the garage, where I hang it up whenever I need a workout, or just to blow off some steam after a long day.

In my head, our voices replay, over and over. The fight’s on repeat, torturing me.

Why did I say all that? Why did I push her, why did I keep bringing it up when she clearly didn’t want to talk about it? I regret it, and I’ve texted Selena as much, telling her I’m sorry. If she doesn’t want to talk about her past, I’ll stop trying to make her.

She read the text hours ago. But she never replied. When I finally gathered the courage to call her a few hours after that, the call went straight to voicemail.

My fists throb, but I hit the bag again. Again.

All I want to do is rewind time. Go back and take back all the things I said. All the things she said, too. Start over fresh, just the two of us, the way we fell asleep last night. All tangled up in each other.

The bag isn’t giving me the release it normally does. Finally, I give up and take it off its hook, stash it in the corner, and go to shower. But even in the shower, I can’t escape. I just keep picturing the last time I was in this very same shower stall with Selena. Everything we did. How soft and warm her body felt under my fingertips or pressed up against me.

Fuck, will I never be able to get this girl out of my head?

After the shower, I try calling her again. Once again, it goes straight to voicemail. Then, because I can’t think of anything else to do, I dial her father’s number instead. His rings, at least. But it keeps ringing, and ringing, until it too goes to an answering machine.

I hang up without leaving a message. I stare at the wall. And then, an idea forming in my head — probably a terrible one at that — I yank my jeans off the sink and start to get dressed.

* * *

By the time I pull up outside the Browns’ place, it’s already getting dark. I stopped by Selena’s apartment on my way here, but the lights were all off, no signs of her anywhere.

So here I am, acting like a total madman, pulling up her parents’ drive at dinnertime on a random weeknight. For a minute I just sit in the car, my hands fisted around the wheel, debating. Should I actually go in there? She ran away — again — because she was mad at me for pushing too hard, asking questions she didn’t want to answer. Will she really appreciate me coming here and asking her parents where I can find her?

But on the other hand… I can’t shake the expression on her face when she ran. She looked like she was in a lot of pain, as if I’d been torturing her, not asking simple questions about whose photo was on her wall, or why she freaked out so badly around cars. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about whatever it is she’s not talking about. As if her past is a dark shadow cast over her present.

I couldn’t live with myself if she got hurt, somehow, or wound up in trouble because I riled her up and sent her off into the world angry and confused.

So, after that solid minute of debate, I climb out of the car and slam the door, approaching the house.

I only make it about halfway up the driveway before the front door opens, and a woman emerges, bags on both shoulders. “Mrs. Brown?” I call, so as not to startle her, since she has her back to me and she’s busy locking the front door.