Page 6 of Made for Wilde

He hangs up, and I’m left staring at my phone.

Christ, I feel old.

It seems like yesterday that Jason and I were eighteen, sweating our asses off at the Cheyenne lumber mill, working double shifts just to make rent. I can still remember the exactmoment he told me Elaine was pregnant. We were sitting in his beat-up Chevy after our shift, sharing a beer, and he had this look on his face I’d never seen before.

He and Elaine had only been dating for eight months. But anyone with eyes could see they were crazy about each other.

I remember thinking they were too young. That a baby would ruin everything.

Shows what I knew.

Jason stepped up and married Elaine three weeks later in a courthouse ceremony where I stood as his best man. A few months after that, they had Charlotte.

And somehow, against all odds, they made it work. Those two built something real together. The kind of love most people spend their whole lives chasing.

Until eight years ago, when a semi-truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and crossed the median on I-25. Elaine died on impact.

I flew back from a fight in Vegas for the funeral and watched my best friend fall apart. I haven’t seen Charlotte since then.

My career kept me traveling. And by the time I retired and moved to Cooper Heights, Charlotte was in high school. Jason would sometimes show me pictures when we talked on the phone. But pictures aren’t the same as watching someone grow up.

I finish my water in one long pull and set the empty bottle on the counter.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be teaching a bunch of kids who think they want to be boxers. Kids who have no idea what they’re signing up for.

And tonight, I’ll see Charlotte Palmer for the first time in eight years.

I walk back to the window and stare out at the mountains. Up here, everything is simple. Quiet. Predictable.

By the time I get ready to leave, I’ve almost convinced myself that seeing Charlotte again isn’t a big deal. She’s just Jason’s kid. My best friend’s daughter. Nothing complicated about that.

So why does it feel like I’m walking into something I’m not prepared for?

TWO

CHARLOTTE

My heart drumsagainst my ribs as Ms. Lowell moves through the rows of styling stations.

She places each test face-down on the counter as she passes by, leaving a trail of silent judgment in her wake.

I hold my breath as she approaches my station, keeping my eyes fixed on my trembling hands. The sound of paper sliding across the counter makes me flinch. I don’t dare look up as Ms. Lowell moves on without comment.

For several seconds, I can’t bring myself to flip it over.

The edges of the paper seem to taunt me, promising disappointment. With a quick prayer, I finally turn it over.

“No, no, no...” I groan, staring at the angry red C- scrawled at the top of the page.

My stomach drops as I slump in my chair.

This is exactly what I was afraid of.

I know this material. I can execute every technique perfectly when I have scissors in my hand, but the moment I need to explain the theory on paper, my brain freezes up.

Ms. Lowell taps a pen against her clipboard, drawing everyone’s attention.

“For those of you who didn’t perform as well as expected, remember that your extra credit assignment is due Monday. No exceptions.” Her gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on me for a beat too long. “Class dismissed.”