Time Served (26 page)

I arrive in Camden in my work outfit, a striped shift dress with a fitted jacket and heels. I don’t exactly blend in when I enter the boxing gym, stopping suddenly when I encounter a wall of people. It’s more like a boxing arena in here tonight, with at least a hundred people—98 percent of them men—circling one of the three rings, cheering loudly.

I hear the sweaty, nauseating thud of flesh being pummeled and can just make out the top of Dean’s head. After a second I spot Oscar Hall’s blond hair, plastered to his skull with sweat. I don’t know much about boxing, but if they were starting when Reginald called and the trip out here took more than an hour, they’ve been going at this awhile.

I don’t bother trying to get closer. I’m not sure what Reginald expects me to do, but I’m not about to climb through the ropes to get Dean’s attention. I don’t even know if I want his attention, despite the countless needy looks I’d shot my phone over the course of the week. Besides, while the room is ripe with male sweat and testosterone, there are a handful of scantily clad women clinging to the ropes, Jailbait among them, tasseled dress fitting snugly. Dean’s got all the spectators a man could want.

I wedge my way through the throng of bodies, muttering the occasional apology as I step on a foot or bump an arm, but no one cares. They’re sufficiently enthralled with the battle in the ring and ignore me as I approach Reginald’s closed office door. I knock twice, hard enough to sting my knuckles, but there’s no answer. I try the knob and it turns easily.

“There you are.”

I jump as Reginald appears at my shoulder, urging me into the office and closing the door behind us. “I started to think you weren’t coming. You want a drink or something to eat?” Reginald is wearing his trademark green tracksuit, but now his weathered face is pulled tight with concern. He putters around the desk, picking up a half-empty box of cookies and putting it back down without taking one.

“No,” I say. My tone is curt. “I’m fine. What did you think I would do when I got here?”

He blinks. “I don’t know. Say something to him.”

“Like what?”

“You really hate him, Rachel?”

“I’m not the one who hates people in this...situation. That’s all Dean. I don’t know what you expect me to say, Reginald. He’s an adult. If he wants to get his ass kicked, he can. And if he wants to beat the crap out of someone else—” literally or figuratively “—that’s his prerogative.”

“You mad about something?”

“I’ve had a rough day. Being here isn’t making it any better.”

“Ruthie give you a hard time?”

I laugh mirthlessly. “I didn’t talk to her. My associate did. I read the transcript.”

“And?”

“What do you think, Reginald? You think she painted you in a bright light?”

“Is that an art joke?”

“Why don’t you tell me what she said? And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Try the truth this time.”

There’s something particularly sad about an old man’s face flickering with guilt. Like there’s no age at which you’re absolved of your sins, no matter how long ago they were committed. “I left,” he says simply, eyes dropping to the desk. “When she was pregnant.”

A roar comes through the door, loud enough to make the filing cabinets tremble. “Is there a judge out there or something? A referee, whatever you call it?”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

I want to ask more, but don’t. Questions would imply that I care, which I don’t. Won’t. “Why’d you leave?” I say instead.

Reginald strums his fingers on the desk, uncomfortable. “I made a mistake.”

“You could have fixed it.”

“The mistake was getting married. Leaving fixed it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not saying it was the best solution, but we were never going to be happy. We were too different. We shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“You were together for four years.”

“Three years too many. We weren’t going to last.”

“Why not?”

“Because we were different. We wanted different things. I wanted this, she wanted that. I left and we both got what we wanted. Only now she’s back.”

I think about the transcript. About Ruthie’s words. “She said she didn’t know you owned this gym.”

Reginald gapes at me. “What?”

“She needed a space and she found one. The fact that you’re neighbors is just a coincidence.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes you run into someone when you least expect it. She says you started causing problems and she just responded to them.” I think of Dean insisting we have lunch, finding me on that morning run. Keeping our chance meet and greet going.

Reginald argues with me a bit more, but we both know who’s in the wrong here. More cheers sound from outside, deafening as we open the door and step through. We say goodbye and I pick my way through the crowd, determined this will be my last time in this gym, and hopefully in this town. Somewhere behind me a whistle blows, long, loud shrieks that make me wince. Despite my better judgment I pause and glance over my shoulder toward the ring, hoping against hope the whistles don’t mean someone’s been hurt or knocked out, and that that person isn’t Dean.

But Dean isn’t down-and-out. He’s standing in the center of the ring, staring at me, shock mingling with the sweat and blood that gleams on his face. Next to him is Reginald, whistle clamped between his lips, shouting that the fight is over, cursing out the complaining crowd. Oscar Hall has his back to us, towel slung over his shoulder, apparently uninterested in the drama.

I can’t look away. A man in a polo shirt approaches Dean with a towel, dabbing at the blood dripping from the reopened cut above his eyebrow. Dean spits out his mouth guard and tolerates the attention, watching me the whole time. With the exception of his obvious surprise, no other emotions register on his face. I don’t know what he wants until finally he cocks his head to the left. I follow the movement until I spot a glowing red exit sign on the far wall, presumably leading out back.

I know I should shake my head, turn around and exit through the front, climb into a cab and never look back, but I feel myself nod and start the long process of working my way through the rowdy crowd. It takes a couple of minutes, and when I next glance up at the ring, both Oscar and Dean are gone. I reach the exit door and push through, finding myself outside in a narrow, dimly lit strip between the building and a long row of Dumpsters. It’s after nine now, and the sky is growing dark, the new moon hidden behind inky clouds. Dean is about ten feet away, pacing, his back to me. He’s topless, shoulders broad and glistening with sweat. He wears shiny black shorts and boxing shoes, and he’s peeling the tape off his hands when he turns at the sound of the door thudding closed.

He stares at me for a long moment, but doesn’t come any closer.

“Reginald called me,” I say at length.

Dean looks away, jaw flexing, and nods. He’s wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth but there’s a dark line where his lip split open. “You shouldn’t have come.”

The words sting. In a day of painful news, this entirely predictable statement still manages to hurt the most. My eyes fill with tears that I blink away, refusing to cry anymore. “I know.”

“So why did you?”

“You told me to tell you when I wanted out,” I reply instead. “You couldn’t do the same for me?”

“You got the message.”

“You said you were done with the revenge stuff too. You think I need to spend the rest of my life apologizing for something I did when I was seventeen?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond but I cut him off.

“You did your time, right? You got out. You’re forgiven. How long am I supposed to pay?”

He purses his lips and looks angry, but doesn’t speak.

“Caitlin got second chair,” I say suddenly.

“What?”

“They named Caitlin second chair today. On the Fowler case. It’ll be official tomorrow. I have to go to a party to watch them make it official.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you want me to be hurt. You dumped me, they passed me over and now I’m standing in an alley listening to someone tell me they don’t want me, like I can’t take a hint. Is this enough for you?”

Dean stares at me, but it’s too dark to discern his expression. “No,” he says finally.

“No, what?”

“I can’t go there with you, Rachel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t belong here, and I don’t belong in your world. I should’ve walked away when I saw you that first day, then none of this would’ve happened.”

Dean has pulled the tape off his hands and takes a few steps toward me to toss it into one of the Dumpsters. “Fucking you out of my head didn’t work,” he says finally. I lift my eyes to his and find nothing there but truth. “You’re in there. I don’t like it, but you’re there.”

I open my mouth to speak, but this time he cuts me off.

“I can’t let you in anywhere else. I won’t survive, you got it? Next time you walk away...” His eyes drift off and he shakes his head slightly. “I won’t make it.”

I feel sick. I hate knowing I hurt somebody so much that ten years later they’re still feeling the burn. That that last night in my apartment, when I called the shots, however briefly, reminded him that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—trust me.

I force myself to nod.

“You need somebody to take you home?”

I shake my head, not sure I can speak.

“All right, then.” Dean brushes past me. I don’t turn around when I hear the fire door open and close. I fist my hands at my sides and dig my nails into my palms, making it hurt. I take deep breaths until the nausea abates, then turn to go inside just as the door opens. I halt as Oscar Hall steps out. He’s freshly showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a butterfly bandage on one cheekbone.

“Surprise, surprise,” he says, smiling when he spots me.

I feel myself smile back. “They told me this is where the groupies wait.”

“I think the guy you’re looking for is in the showers.”

My smile turns rueful. “The guy I’m looking for is driving a cab.”

“Where’s he taking you?”

“Home.”

“You watch the fight?”

I shake my head. “Who won?”

Oscar lifts a shoulder. “Nobody. We were just sparring. Your boyfriend needs to blow off steam sometimes.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Just reminding myself.”

He transfers his big gym bag from one hand to the other. “Ah.”

“Anyway. I’d better get that cab.”

“Right.”

“Good night.”

“‘Night.”

I pass Oscar and pull open the door, pausing when I hear my name. “It’s not my place,” he says, squinting at the light that shines over my shoulder. “But you should talk to him.”

“I did.”

“I know. I just saw him. Nothing I could throw at that guy could make him look as bad as he does now. He’s alone in there.”

“That’s what he wants.”

“He took a few hits to the head tonight. He doesn’t know shit. And I don’t mean ‘alone’ metaphorically. I mean, there’s no one else in the locker room.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Thanks, Oscar.”

“Take care.”

He leaves and I continue inside, fully intending to ignore the well-meaning-if-misplaced advice. The crowd has dispersed somewhat but the gym is still crowded and smelly and I inch around the perimeter of the room, scowling inwardly when I spot Jailbait giggling with her trashy friends.

I feel a wave of heat as I pass a door and look over my shoulder to read the sign: Locker Rooms. The showers. That’s where Dean is. Without really meaning to, I lean back against the door, feeling it give way easily behind me. I close my eyes, trying to muster up the common sense to run out of here and all the way back home, but instead I step through into a small vestibule. I rest a hand against the Men’s door and hesitate. If Oscar’s wrong and Dean isn’t alone, I’m going to make an ass out of myself. And if he’s wrong and Dean doesn’t want to see me, I’m going to feel like an ass too.

The muted sound of running water cuts off abruptly and I count to ten before pushing open the door. I’ve never been in a men’s changing room, and am relieved to find that I’m alone. A hallway to the showers leads off from the far wall and I hear wet footsteps approaching.

I stay near the door, ready to bolt if it isn’t Dean. And maybe even if it is. I don’t have long to debate, however, because two seconds later he steps into the room, white towel wrapped around his hips. He spots me immediately and freezes. I prepare myself for the expected wrath, a derisive and dismissive, “Did I not make myself clear five minutes ago?” but Dean’s face falls for a split second before the features smooth out, and he shakes his head, almost desperate. “What are you doing here?”

I make myself speak, even though my lungs feel like crumpled paper bags. “I don’t want to break your heart.”

Dean inhales shakily.

“And I don’t want you to break mine.”

“You already walked away once.”

“I was seventeen.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and avoids my eyes.

“I’m not going to leave you,” I continue, taking a few cautious steps into the room. “And if you tell me to go this time, I won’t come back, either.”

I wait for him to tell me to get the hell out, but instead he drops onto a bench, facing away from me. The muscles of his back strain against his tan skin, fresh bruises already forming.

I move to the end of the bench, in front of Dean, whose hands come up to clasp my hips. His eyes are locked straight in front of him, as though he can’t lift them any higher.

“I don’t know what this is,” I say honestly. “All I know is that everything I thought I wanted isn’t enough.”

“I know.”

“We’re not the same people.”

Dean shakes his head.

“We won’t make the same mistakes.”

Another shake.

“Maybe we won’t fall in love.”

A pause, then another shake, less certain.

“But in the meantime...” I shuffle forward and spread my legs to straddle his thighs, skirt hiking up to accommodate him. I lower myself to sit on Dean’s lap and he slides his hands up my back, under my jacket. He pushes it off my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, reaching one hand up to cup my head as the other shoves the skirt over my hips.