Page 7

7

QUINN

I push through the apartment door, kick it shut behind me, and drop my bag onto the floor with a little too much force. My shoulders are tight, my pulse still uneven, my skin damp with sweat.

I yank the elastic from my hair, shaking loose the long braid that’s been pressing against the back of my neck all day. It sticks slightly to my skin, heavy and damp, like the heat of the day hasn’t quite let go of me yet.

Alyssa and Jordan are sprawled across the couch, picking at takeout cartons, half watching some trashy reality show. One of those fake dating competitions where everyone has the same haircut and too-white teeth, where the women act like falling in love on a sponsored yacht is the pinnacle of human experience.

Jordan barely glances up, arching a brow. “That bad, huh?”

I grab a water bottle from the fridge, crack it open, and take a long sip. Shrug. “People are annoying.”

Alyssa stretches, her tank top riding up slightly as she lifts her arms over her head. Soft brown skin peeks above her waistband, glinting faintly with leftover body shimmer. “Must be really annoying if it got to you .”

I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that mean?”

Jordan snickers, digging through the takeout box with her chopsticks. “It’s just that you usually don’t give a shit about anyone.”

I force a smirk, tilting the bottle back again. “Still don’t.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

I cross the kitchen in slow, deliberate steps, letting the cold water press against the heat of my palm. It’s grounding, a small relief. But my thoughts still buzz, Warren’s voice still sitting there at the base of my skull, looping through every last word.

I stopped being mad a long time ago. Now I just really don’t fucking care about you.

Flat. Hollow. A lie that somehow still managed to land like a fist between my ribs.

I exhale through my nose. Slam the water bottle down on the counter. My chest feels tight again, like I’ve been holding something in for too long, and now there’s no room left to breathe.

Alyssa doesn’t look away from the screen, but she catches it anyway. “You good?”

“Fine.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push.

Jordan tosses her chopsticks into the takeout box, leaning back against the couch cushions. “You know what you need?”

I don’t look at her. “A million dollars and a secluded island?”

She snorts. “Close. You need to hit something.”

That gets my attention. I blink, turning toward her. “What?”

Alyssa perks up, twisting toward Jordan. “Oh, you could try that old boxing gym down the street. Emberline, I think it’s called.”

Jordan nods. “Yeah, I pass right by it on my way to work. It’s a little old and dingy, but it’s legit. You should check it out.”

I scoff. “Right. Because what I really need is a mouthguard and a reason to sweat more.”

Alyssa grins. “No, but you do seem like you’d enjoy punching things.”

I shake my head, but something about the suggestion sticks. Not because it’s a good idea. Not because I actually want to go. But because I do want to hit something.

The thought lingers as I start absentmindedly cleaning the kitchen, picking up discarded napkins and stacking takeout cartons that aren’t mine. I don’t really care about the mess, but it gives me something to do. Something to control.

Alyssa watches me from the couch, expression vaguely amused. “Quinn, you know we have a dishwasher, right?”

I rinse out a coffee mug that isn’t mine, shake the water off my fingers. “You guys are animals.”

Jordan rolls her eyes, flipping to another channel. “Oh, the horror. God forbid a crumb touches your sacred countertop.”

I don’t respond, just wipe down the counter and keep moving.

I like Alyssa and Jordan. They’re good people. Fun. Easy to live with. But they don’t know me. Not really. They know I work at Sycamore every summer. That I’m an English lit major. That I can drink tequila without flinching.

They think I’m cool. Tough. Unbothered. The kind of person who doesn’t dwell.

And I let them think that. Because people don’t ask questions when they think they already have the answers. Because the moment you hand someone the real parts of yourself, they get to decide what to do with them.

Keep them. Twist them. Discard them when you become inconvenient.

So, I keep my cards close. Offer up just enough to be understood, never enough to be known. Because the only person I trust to hold on to me—is me.

* * *

The apartment is quiet by the time I make it to my room. My roommates have gone to bed, leaving behind silence and the occasional creak of the walls settling. Dark, still, and humming with the kind of tension that doesn’t let you rest.

I should sleep, or try to, at least. But it’s useless. So, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets, chest tight with the weight of everything unsaid. Warren’s words are still there. Still pressing.

I stopped being mad a long time ago.

I scoff into the silence. Such a lousy little liar. I squeeze my eyes shut, turn onto my side, and try to will myself to sleep until something else creeps in. It’s a flash of a memory. A gut punch.

We’re tucked away under the shadow of the Sycamore’s clubhouse awning, hidden just enough from view but not enough to be entirely safe. Rain drenches us both, dripping from his hair, his breath warm against my lips. His hands grip my waist, voice rough, low, desperate.

“Christ, Quinn. You’re trying to kill me.”

I sit up so fast it makes me light-headed. Cursing under my breath, I throw off the blankets, shove my feet into my sneakers, grab my bag. This restless, spiraling bullshit is eating me alive. I need to do something. Need to hit something, actually.

I think of Emberline. And then, not even five minutes later, I’m slipping out the front door, careful not to let it slam behind me.

Outside, streetlights flicker—some buzzing faintly, others already dead—leaving patches of darkness along the cracked sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, stretching long and low before fading into the night.

I check the time. 10:42 p.m.

The gym might not even be open. But it doesn’t matter. If I don’t do something—move, run, fight—I’m going to lose my mind.

I take the stairs down, two at a time, and step out onto the street, the heat still clinging to the pavement, thick and unmoving. The city is different at night. A little sharper. A little more dangerous. But I’m not afraid to be out here alone.

I keep my pace even and steady, my breath measured as I jog down the street.

I stopped being mad a long time ago.

I push harder, pick up speed, let my muscles strain with the effort.

Now I just really don’t fucking care about you.

I suck in a sharp breath, ignoring the way my chest tightens, the slow burn climbing up my ribs. I’m fine. It’s fine. I just need to move. Need to quiet the noise in my head.

The gym appears at the end of the block. A squat, nondescript building with a faded sign that reads: EMBERLINE BOXING CO. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t care about aesthetics. Old-school. No frills. The air inside probably smells like sweat and tape and bruised pride.

I slow my stride, jogging to a stop in front of the door. My hands brace on my knees as I catch my breath, lungs dragging air faster than they should. I’ve been walking miles all summer, but this kind of movement hits different.

I’m out of shape for it. Unused to running like I’m trying to outrun something.

I dig into my bag and pull out my inhaler, take a quick puff, wait for the tightness in my chest to ease. The lights inside are still on, but I hesitate, shifting my weight, my pulse still uneven.

What the hell am I doing here?

I should turn around. Go home. Sleep it off. But something about the thought makes my skin itch, makes the anger coil a little tighter in my chest. So, before I can overthink it, I pull the door open.

There’s a worn-out ring in the center of the floor, ropes sagging slightly at the corners. A few beat-up dummies stand in a crooked line near the wall, arms stiff at their sides like they’re bracing for whatever’s coming. Speed bags hang in a lopsided row by the back wall.

In the far corner, a heavy bag swings gently, still moving from the last person who took something out on it. Every few seconds, a low grunt echoes from somewhere behind a partition, followed by the sharp thud of glove on leather.

I take a hesitant step inside, feeling instantly out of place. It’s not polished or welcoming. And I don’t like feeling unsure of myself.

“You lost, kid?” The voice is rough, sandpapered with age, cutting through the quiet like a challenge.

I glance over. The man is probably in his sixties—wiry but solid, the kind of build that doesn’t fade with age, just hardens. He’s nursing what’s left of a cup of coffee, scowl etched deep into his face like it’s been there for years. His T-shirt, once black, is now faded to a dull gray, the Emberline logo barely legible beneath the wear.

His eyes sweep over me—quick, sharp, unimpressed. Like he’s seen a hundred girls like me walk through the door and bolt just as fast. Like he already knows I don’t belong.

I lift my chin. “I was just—”

“Leaving?” he cuts in, one brow raised like he’s daring me to confirm it. “Yeah, figured.”

Something about his tone pisses me off. My chin tilts, shoulders going stiff. “I was actually gonna say I’m just checking the place out.”

His mouth twitches in amusement. He huffs a short laugh, then tosses me a pair of old, beat-up gloves from behind the counter.

“First day’s free,” he says gruffly. “You look like you need to get a hit in.”

The gloves are heavy, the leather worn. They smell like old sweat and chalk, and I’m not sure if that’s comforting or deeply disgusting. I blink down at them, then back at him.

“Er, I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.”

He shrugs. “Good. That means you won’t think too hard.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. I could still leave. I should leave, actually. I should definitely, absolutely not stay. But I’m too proud to back down now.

I exhale slowly. “Okay.”

He nods toward the far wall. “Locker room’s through there. Wraps are in the bin. Tape up first.”

I nod back, forcing my steps forward before I can change my mind.

The locker room is dimly lit, the overhead bulb flickering like it’s on its last leg. I step inside and scan the space. There are dented metal lockers, an industrial fan humming lazily in the corner, and a plastic bin filled with rolls of hand wraps. Nothing that tells me what the hell I’m doing.

I crouch down, pull a roll free, and hesitate. I’ve seen this before—on TV, in documentaries, the occasional YouTube rabbit hole—but watching and doing aren’t the same.

I fumble with the material, trying to figure out where to start, how tight to pull, how to keep it from bunching awkwardly around my wrist.

The first attempt is too loose. The second cuts off my circulation. The third ... better. Not perfect, but good enough.

I glance up, catching my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair’s a mess, my tank top clinging to the damp skin at the small of my back. There’s something unfamiliar in my own expression. Tension, maybe, or anticipation.

I’m not sure if I’m waiting for this to explode in my face or if I’m excited about the prospect of letting something out for once. Of hitting back.

I pull on the gloves he gave me, flexing my fingers against the padding. They’re still heavy, still smell like someone else’s fight. But when I curl my hands into fists, something about it feels ... right. Like maybe this is what I’ve needed all along.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of a heavy bag. My muscles are loose, but my mind is coiled tight, waiting for the inevitable second where the doubt will creep back in.

“Hit it,” the old man calls from his perch behind the counter.

I turn, blinking at him. “What?”

He gestures lazily with one hand. “You’re standin’ there like it’s gonna hit you first. Get on with it.”

I glance back at the bag. Shift my stance. My fingers twitch inside the gloves.

Of course, it lands wrong. An awkward thud, my wrist bending too much on impact. A dull shock shoots up my arm, and I fight the urge to shrivel up and retreat, to shake it off and pretend I wasn’t just embarrassingly bad at something so basic.

“You ever thrown a punch before?” The man—he still hasn’t told me his name—steps closer, arms crossed, weight shifted slightly to one side like he’s been standing in rings and gyms his whole life.

“Not really.”

He grunts. “Again.”

I adjust my stance, shake out my hand, then try again. This time, it feels better. Still not good, but better.

“Not bad. Keep your wrist straight. Don’t let your shoulders get sloppy.”

I reset and punch again. Harder. Then again. Faster.

Without overthinking, I just hit. Over and over, breath coming in sharp bursts, fists slamming into the bag with more force, more certainty. I don’t stop until my lungs are burning, my arms aching, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Until the tension in my chest finally starts to uncoil.

I step back, hands braced on my knees, sweat dripping from my temple, muscles trembling from the effort. I fumble for my inhaler without thinking, take a quick puff, and press the back of my hand to my forehead. The old man doesn’t say anything about it, and I don’t care if he does.

The release is sudden. Startling. I expected to feel ridiculous, self-conscious. Instead, I feel lighter.

“You’ve got something to work with.”

I tense at the pseudo-compliment. “Yeah? And how would you know?”

“I own this place. Been doing this shit longer than you’ve been alive. Seen enough to know when someone’s got too much fight bottled up for their own good.”

I wipe my forehead, still catching my breath. “Yeah, well, I don’t really have time for this. I’d rather sleep.”

“Oh? You just spent an hour proving otherwise.”

I glance at the heavy bag. At my shaking hands. At the space I just carved out for myself here. Something real and raw and mine. Something that doesn’t ask anything of me except effort.

I don’t need this. I’m busy. Tired. Spread too thin already. I have things to do, bills to cover, plans to salvage. Priorities that should come first.

I shouldn’t come back, but I already know I will.