Chapter Twenty

Like he does every Sunday morning, Dad is sipping coffee from his recliner when I finally stumble downstairs.He must have forgotten to shave last night because his thick beard makes him look ten years older than he is. It stresses me out. I hate thinking about my only parent aging.

"Can I skip therapy today?"

He puts down his World's Best Dad mug. "Why?"

Truthfully, I don't want to go because I'm afraid that Dr. Taylor will be able to see right through my bullshit. He'll notice the color fading in my eyes, and the new similarities to my mother. He'll want to fix me in ways that involve more than weekend therapy.

"I've been talking about my emotions with Gemma nonstop. I need a break."

"What do you want to do instead?"

"We could go to the pumpkin patch?"

In November, a church on the other side of town sells hundreds of leftover Halloween pumpkins for charity. Reject pumpkins. There's something sad and endearing about them. I can relate. We used to go when Mom felt up for it.

"Fine," my dad agrees, much to my surprise. "Go get dressed."

I put on an orange sweater and combat boots. The air outside is chilly, and the hair on my arms sticks up as we walk down the driveway. The leaves on the trees have fallen into tall piles.

"We should carve one," I suggest.

In years past, we bought a basket of pumpkins and never carved them. Dad didn't want Mom near a knife.

His voice drops as he recalls the memory. "Sure."

These moments without Mom are difficult for him, but despite all the hardships we've faced in the past few years, we are still a family. It's nice to remind him of that once in a while. As the car drifts down the road, I relax my head against the cracked window and inhale fresh air. It smells new, like starting over.

At the pumpkin patch, small children run around and play in the leaves. One of them stumbles into my father. His face lights up when the child laughs, and I recognize the smile on his face from when I was young. Before everything fell apart.

I drop to my knees in the dirt. I pick out a giant, ugly pumpkin with brown spots across the sides and hold it up proudly to my father.

He chuckles. "Really? That one?"

"Don't be rude!"

He takes the pumpkin to the counter to purchase. Much to my father's amusement, I keep it in my lap throughout the entire car ride home. He parks the car in the driveway, and I hop out, pumpkin in hand. Dad puts down a pile of newspaper to protect the garage floor from pumpkin guts.

"What should we carve?" I ask.

He sizes up the hideous fruit. "Something beautiful. Like a flower?"

I smile. "Sure. I'll grab some knives."

Walking back into the kitchen, I pause in front of the last drawer. Next to the one that used to hold our medications, before dad locked them all up in the upstairs bathroom.

She probably took the pill bottle from this very same drawer.

I still don't know what my father did with that bottle after the ambulance arrived. I remember it falling from her lifeless hand when the EMTs picked her up off of the bathroom floor. They were delicate with her. I thought she might be alive. Hoped. Prayed. The bottle hit the floor with a little clink, heard by no one else but me. Why was I fixated on that damn bottle?

"Rose? You good?"

The screaming in my head silences.

"Yes," I pant. I carry a handful of knives into the garage. "You take the lead."

I sit down, playing music from my phone while I watch him work away at the reject pumpkin.

"So, colleges. Where are you thinking of applying?"

I pause, putting down the pile of seeds in my hand.

"Georgia State has a good creative writing program."

"Remember when you were a kid, and all you would talk about was school in New York City? You used to dress up like Miranda Priestly."

We both laugh as we recall the nights that I spent in my mother's pearls and hoop earrings. Of course, I've thought about applying to out-of-state schools, but there's no way we could ever afford it.

"You're saying that you want me to go to NYU?" I joke.

"It could be a good experience. You should apply."

His serious tone catches me off guard.

"Really?"

"You may as well try, Rose. I don't want you to limit yourself. If you get in somewhere you love, we'll figure it out."

I can't prevent the smile on my face. I honestly wouldn't mind staying in Atlanta, but the idea of moving somewhere I've never been, somewhere with new places and massive libraries and museums to explore, makes me more excited about college than I have been all year.

"I'll apply as soon as I get my updated transcript."

We spend the rest of the afternoon attempting to carve a tulip into the side of the pumpkin. When the sun finally sinks below the horizon, we take it outside. I light a candle and place it in the center of the not-so-hideous-anymore fruit. It glows, revealing the messy but beautiful image.

"I love it," I profess, staring up at my father.

He wraps his arm across my shoulder and pulls me close to him. Moments like these remind me that everything will be okay. Maybe not now. But eventually.

"I love you," he says.

He follows me up to my bedroom and tucks me in. It feels childish, but he's happy, so I don't put up a fight. He savors the small moments, too. After he leaves, I lay in bed with only one thing on my mind: I can't avoid boxing anymore.

Seeing Elliott there terrifies me, but my thoughts are scarier. I need to regain control over my brain, and one lesson a week with Andre isn't enough to cut it. For the rest of the night, I Google other gyms around the city. None of them compare to the location and cost of Midtown Ring. Defeated, I put my phone back on the nightstand.

Ten minutes later, my alarm goes off.

"Screw Mondays," I mumble, falling face-first out of bed.

The day passes slowly as usual. I linger in the hallway after the final bell, watching as he leaves the building. A pair of boxing gloves peek out of the top of his bag. I slip through the crowd of students outside, carefully avoiding Elliott's gaze. The BMW speeds out of the parking lot in the direction of Midtown Ring. Once he turns onto the next street over, I break away from the crowd and head toward the train station.

I sit in the chair closest to the window and examine my right hand. I peel off the bandage in one fluid motion so as not to prolong the stinging. Relief floods me. The injury is healed. There's a thin red line—a scar—but apart from that, nothing to show that I ever shattered the mirror. I touch the skin with delicate fingers, and it doesn't hurt.

The train stops at the Midtown station.

I spot Elliott first. He's lurking in the opposite corner talking to Sofía. He doesn't turn around when I open the door. I crouch near the line of navy lockers and wrap both of my hands.

"Alright everyone, circle up!"

Our eyes meet.

I turn away as soon as they do, but not before seeing the shock on Elliott's face. Andre gathers the group in a circle. I stay to Elliott's right, out of his line of sight. Andre assigns stretches that are difficult for my aching muscles.

"We're going to do a partner exercise today. Rose, you'll be with Elliott."

No.

I shoot Andre a death stare, but he shrugs smugly, as if this was something he had planned all along. Elliott's face is tomato red. He walks cautiously toward me as if approaching a hissing cat. At least I'm not the only one who feels like screaming.

"Hey," I murmur.

"Hey."

Elliott's gaze remains across the room. He won't look at me.

Good. He should be afraid.

"Each of you give me a jab, cross, hook, cross. Your partner needs to duck at every hook. Do it five times and then alternate," Andre instructs.

I get in position to duck. Elliott throws his hook high. High enough that could never hit me, even if I didn't duck. I huff, annoyed. "You can go lower than that."

"I don't want to hit you—"

"You won't."

This time, his hook is much lower, but still nowhere near low enough.

"I'm not a baby," I grumble.

He swings. I dodge it without stumbling, just like I knew I could. Elliott seems impressed, but he tries to hide it by pursing his lips, which pisses me off even more.

"Your turn," he says.

I throw every punch within a few centimeters of his body. It's refreshing to be able to use both hands again, although my right arm is noticeably weaker. My left knuckle brushes lightly against the skin of Elliott's cheek.

"If you want to hit me, go ahead and do it."

The desolate tone of his voice stops my movements. If truth be told, I want to knock his head off of his body. I know that wouldn't fix anything, but it would feel pretty damn good. But not if he lets me. So instead, I turn away and take a spot at one of the empty punching bags and strike it until Andre calls a water break. From inside of my backpack, my phone lights up with a call from Gemma. Weird. She never calls.

"Rose?"

Her voice is shaking.

"Are you okay?"

She sounds like she's been crying. She asks, "Can you meet me at Simone's?"

"Yeah, of course. Be there in a few."

I can feel Elliott watching me as my stress becomes obvious. I hang up the phone and jog over to Andre. He lets me leave practice without question. As I'm almost out the door, Elliott speaks.

"Do you need a ride?"

I turn around. He sounds desperate, but I shake my head.

Sprinting to the train station, I hop on the subway car and take it down to the closest stop to my house. Gemma's sitting on the curb outside of Simone's Chinese Restaurant with her face buried in her hands. As I approach her, she moves her head slightly, revealing globs of black mascara smudged down to her cheeks.

"What happened?" I exclaim.

I sit beside her on the curb. She lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob. "My parents found out about Nishi."

I freeze. There's no way that this went over well.

"They came home from dinner early. We were on the couch. Kissing. My mom made her leave."

"What did she say?"

She sighs a sad, empty sound that makes tears swell in my eyes. "That's the worst part. She didn't say anything. They won't speak to me. I spent the last hour trying to talk to my mom, and she wouldn't even look at me. So, I came here."

She lets out another sob, this one louder than the previous. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her close.

"Mr. Lin gave me these," she says, passing me a container of spring rolls. I can't help but laugh at the sentiment. Gemma smiles weakly.

"You're going to be okay," I promise her. "Your parents need some time to process. Were they angry?"

Gemma shakes her head. "Not angry. Disappointed."

It's not fair she has to deal with this. If only her parents could know how comfortable Gemma is around Nishi, they would understand she's nothing but a positive influence on their daughter.

"I'm so sorry, Gem."

She rests her head on my shoulder, letting the remainder of her tears drip down her cheeks and onto my skin. Her phone lights up with a call from Nishi. There're at least fifty missed calls beneath it.

Gemma moans, "She won't stop."

"You need to talk to her. She's probably worried sick."

"Do you think I should break up with her?"

"What?" I scoff. "Are you crazy?"

"Well maybe I'm bisexual, like you? Maybe I don't actually—"

"Gemma," I interrupt. "Bisexual or not, you like girls. You love Nishi. She's good for you, and she clearly cares, or she wouldn't be calling. Talk to her."

Nishi is good. She's patient and kind. They bring out the best in each other. There's no way that I'm letting my best friend lose the best thing that's ever happened to her. Gemma sniffles, then slowly nods. She dials Nishi back.

"Hey," Gemma whispers. "Can we talk?"

I don't go back to practice. Instead, I stay with Gemma on the curb of Simone's until Nishi meets us.

She turns to me and says, "Thank you. For staying with her."

"Of course."

I leave them alone; she's safe with Nishi. By the time I get home, it's dark outside. A pile of untouched homework taunts me from my desk. After an hour of struggling through it, I get a much-needed distraction: a call from Gemma.

"We talked to my parents," she chokes. "I don't know if they're going to be wearing pride flags anytime soon, but they might come around."

I exhale. Gemma's parents are traditional, but they're good people. They love her more than they'll ever admit.

As she speaks, I wander to the bathroom and pause in front of the mirror. I look exhausted—not a "haven't slept" tired, but full body tired, the kind I used to wear around in the weeks after my mom died.

In the center of my throat, something sparkles. Silver. A necklace, one Mom used to wear with my Hebrew name inscribed. I run my fingers over the cold material. It feels refreshing.

And wrong. Because I don't remember putting it on.

I move closer and realize there's no necklace at all.

Was Mom seeing things too? Dr. Taylor says her derealization made her feel like she wasn't fully present in reality. I didn't think that meant she was straight up hallucinating, but if I'm hallucinating, surely she was, too.

"Rose?" Gemma's voice calls through my phone speaker. I turn around and walk back to bed.

"Sorry," I say. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, I still feel like I'm going to puke. That was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. But I'm better."

"I'm proud of you," I say, smiling. "Now you won't have to hide anymore."

Gemma hangs up the phone to try and get some sleep.

I do the same, but the sleep never comes.

*

Mr. Ruse addresses the room dressed as Edgar Allan Poe. His top hat is tall enough to brush the ceiling fan. Students are crammed into all corners of the classroom; it's the last day of our poetry unit, so both English classes are combined for final presentations. Which means Harris is two rows behind me. I can feel his beady eyes staring into the back of me. I gulp, refusing to turn around.

"It's been an honor reading your work over these last few weeks. So many of you expressed your emotions in beautiful ways."

"Elliott's good at that." I know that voice. Gruff. Amused. My heart stops.

Harris is making an obvious reference to Elliott's love outburst on Saturday night. Laughter erupts from several students. I sink farther into my seat.

"What?" Elliott asks.

He turns in his desk, cheeks red with anger. He's laser focused on Harris.

Not this. Not now.

I bury my head in my hands. "Love is a powerful thing," Ruse interrupts, noticing the discomfort on Elliott's face.

Elliott is squeezing the top of his desk so hard his knuckles turn white, and the veins in his arms pop.

Let it go,I silently beg.

"So many great poets wrote about love," Mr. Ruse continues, but Elliott's grip on the desk doesn't loosen. "It's a feeling that never gets old, never hesitates to make itself known. Love is something to scream from the rooftops."

"I bet Psycho screams loud," Harris says.

Elliott's across the room before I can blink. He yanks Harris out of his desk, tossing him to the ground like a ragdoll, the tiles cracking beneath him. Elliott punches him in the nose. Blood pours from his face. I turn around to find Ruse, but he's nowhere to be found.

What the hell?

Harris cries out when Elliott raises his fist again.

"Stop!" someone yells.

Elliott's hand suspends like he's in The Matrix. His muscles poised to do what he does best: destroy. Mr. Ruse miraculously returns with another teacher. They both grab a hold of Elliott before he lands another blow and drag him into the hallway. The classroom door slams.

Everyone is watching me. I slide back into my chair. Maddy has her phone out, texting furiously about what I can only imagine has now become today's hottest piece of drama. It takes only a minute for Gemma to text me a string of question marks and exclamation points.

"Alright, everyone. Interruptions over." Mr. Ruse's returns, his voice shaky. His Edgar Allan Poe top hat is sideways on the floor. I feel bad for him. "Take your seats, class."

He shuts the classroom door with a quiet click, straightens his shoulders, and forces a "Who knew poetry would get everyone so worked up?"

As he continues with his lecture, I notice half the class sneaking text messages beneath their desks.

*

Gemma and Nishi have already heard the news by the time I meet them at lunch. Elliott's noticeably absent from his usual table in the cafeteria.

"Do you think they'll suspend him?" I wonder aloud.

"He'll be lucky if he isn't expelled," replies Nishi.

Gemma shoots her a dirty look.

"Sorry," Nishi grumbles.

"It's fine. You're probably right."

Our school has a no tolerance policy for fighting. They might make an exception given the status of Elliott's father, but that possibility is slim.

Rose: Are you ok?

I hate that I'm texting him first, but I can't help myself.

Elliott doesn't type back. By the time school ends and the sun sets, he still hasn't responded. I toss my phone across my bed.

Dad steps into my bedroom. "I'm off to work. Do you need anything?"

"No thanks."

He turns back down the staircase. I put on a pair of headphones to block out the creaking noises of the empty house. The orchestral music helps me get through my never-ending stack of homework. Slowly but surely, I plow through the remainder of it, only stopping for a break when my pen runs out of ink.

At midnight, I finally take out my headphones. The street outside is quiet except for the sound of a revving car engine. I freeze as it drifts closer to my window. Throwing open my curtains, I watch Elliott's black BMW race down the street.

He's driving in the direction of Midtown.

That can only mean one thing.

I didn't expect Elliott to tell me about any upcoming matches, but Andre could have at least provided a warning. I thought knowing about this secret made me a part of the pack. "The family," in the words of Elliott's father. Clearly, that ended quicker than I thought.

I huff as the car speeds down the street, making a sharp right at the stop sign.

You brought me into this, Elliott King. You don't get to walk away from me.

*

"Rose?"

Andre shuffles backward in surprise. He's standing in the doorway of Midtown Ring, blocking my path. Behind him, hordes of people shout and cheer at the sound of a fight.

I huff. "Let me through."

"I can't. Special request."

"From who? Elliott?"

His silence confirms my suspicion.

"Seriously? He's too much of a coward to see me?"

"You said it, not me."

"Please, Andre," I plead. "Let me in."

His stern expression fades. For someone of his size and strength, he's surprisingly easy to break down.

"I'm only doing this because you're nicer than Elliott," he says. "And I think you're good for each other. Talk to him."

He steps out of my way. Most of the people in the crowd are older than usual. The expensive looking men scattered around the building don't fit in against the urban background. I scan the throng of onlookers and eventually spot Elliott's buzz-cut blonde hair. Beside him stands his father. With his scowling lips and narrow eyes, Damon's a predator ready to pounce.

This can't be good. I'm about to turn around and give up when Elliott spots me. I take a step backward, falling into the crowd, but Elliott's at my side in a second. He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the corner.

In a hushed whisper, he asks, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"You need to go, Rose. My father is here. You can't let him see you."

"Why? I thought we were ‘family.'"

Elliott winces, the kind of painful expression that implies he's recalling a bad memory. I lean closer to him and lower my voice. The familiar tobacco scent on his skin comforts me, and I hate that it does.

I cut to the chase. "What happened? Are you expelled?"

"No. My dad bribed them with suspension. I'll be back next week."

As angry as I am, I can't help but feel relieved. "Why is he here?"

Elliott swallows. His square jaw turns as he speaks, revealing a developing bruise on his skin. "Remember when I left your house the night of the lake?"

"Of course," I mutter. "I'm not the one who left and then kissed someone else the next day."

Elliott grimaces, ignoring my comment as he continues, "I went home to tell my dad that I'm quitting."

I pause. I remember watching Elliott leave my bedroom, but nothing after that until I saw Maddy straddling him at the party.

"Quitting?"

A scream from somewhere in the gym reminds me of exactly where we are. He's talking about The Ring. Elliott pulls me farther into the crowd, hiding my face from his father's line of sight.

"My dad blamed you. He fed me drinks and god knows what else. I was wasted from the second I left your house until I saw you the next day at the party. He wanted me to forget about quitting."

I bite down on my lip, unsure of how to respond. Sure, Elliott's particularly vulnerable to alcohol, but he still kissed Maddy in front of half the school. No substance could have forced him into that.

When he speaks again, he rushes his words.

"I'm so sorry, Rose. I know that doesn't make anything better, but I am sorry. What I did was so stupid even I can't believe that I did it. I was drunk, and Maddy was teasing me and I—"

He curses under his breath.

"Rose, when I saw you for the first time, I couldn't get you out of my head. When you showed up to boxing, I thought I had to be the luckiest person in the entire world."

"Elliott—"

"Then I saw you in my shirt when you slept at my house, and I swore to myself that I had never seen anyone so beautiful. I told myself that I would change. I wanted—I want—to be better for you."

He inches closer. I don't step away. I don't want to.

"When you found out about The Ring, I thought it would be over. But you saw me. I think you saw more good in me than I even knew I had."

His words are a stab to the chest. Elliott's attention flickers between me and his father lurking on the other side of the gym.

"This is my last fight, Rose. My dad wants me to compete next week against a guy who would rip me to shreds. I said no."

I choke. Damon glances in our direction.

Elliott whispers, "Please, Rose. Go."

"But—"

"If you want to talk, meet me here tomorrow at midnight. I'll tell you everything. Okay?"

Hesitantly, I nod before the sound of the announcer shouting Elliott's name echoes across the gym. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but he's gone, disappearing through the crowd to take his spot in the ring.

I don't stay to watch. I can't bear to see the person I love get hurt.