Page 26 of The Revenge Game

It feels safer that way.

My phone buzzes as I’m heading out to the gym. Mom’s photo appears on the screen. It’s one I took of her on my last visit home, trying to capture her smile but only managing to catch a hesitant version.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says when I answer. Her voice has that careful quality she always takes with me. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, it’s fine, Mom. I’m just heading to the gym.” I adjust my gym bag on my shoulder. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know me, keeping busy.” There’s a pause, and I can almost see her twisting her wedding ring, which she still wears even though she hasn’t been married for five years. I can’t stand the sight of it, hate that a reminder of him is still on her, but I think it makes her feel safer when strangers assume she’s married.

Besides, I know how naive it is to think we can remove all traces of Bobby Ray just by removing the physical reminders. I still find myself checking my posture when I sit—shoulders back, chin up, none of that sissy slouching—while Mom still starts so many of her sentences with “I’m sorry,” like she’s apologizing for existing.

“The car’s been acting up again,” she says.

My jaw clenches. Of course it has. Because Bobby Ray made sure she couldn’t afford anything reliable when she left him.

“What’s wrong with it this time?”

“It keeps stalling at intersections. The mechanic says it might be the fuel pump, but honestly, something else seems to break every month.” Her voice gets smaller. “I can probably manage it…”

“No, Mom. Let me help.” I hate how sharp my voice comes out. I take a deep breath and soften my tone. “I should have some bonuses coming up if everything goes well. They will hopefully be enough for a new car. Something decent.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

The words slice through me. How many times had Bobby Ray used that word?Burden. Drag. Dead weight.

“You’re not a burden, Mom.” I pause at the entrance to the gym. “I want to help. Please let me help.”

“You’re such a good boy.” Her voice catches. “I’m so proud of you.”

I close my eyes, fighting the familiar mix of love and resentment. Because where was that pride when Bobby Ray was trying to make me into his version of a “real man?”

“Thanks, Mom. We’ll figure something out with the car, okay? I’m at the gym now. I’ve got to go.”

After I end the call, guilt settles in my stomach like a lead weight. Mom’s all alone in Texas, dealing with an unreliable car and the aftermath of Bobby Ray’s financial abuse, while I’m living it up in London.

But the thought of moving back makes my stomach clench.

Sometimes, I think the Atlantic Ocean isn’t enough distance between me and Texas.

I push through the gym doors, inhaling the familiar scent of rubber mats and metal.

I like the gym. I enjoy working out, pushing my body until my mind goes quiet, until there’s nothing but the burn in my muscles and the steady count of reps.

A woman on the treadmill keeps sneaking glances my way but, luckily, doesn’t approach me. I’m the master of a polite turndown, though it never feels particularly nice.

The endorphin high from my workout evaporates as I approach the locker room doors. My steps slow, the familiartension creeping back, like my body is automatically armoring itself.

Because the locker room is the only part of the gym I don’t like.

I’ve got my locker room strategy down to a science now though. Grab the corner locker, which makes it easier to keep your back to the room. Keep your eyes on your phone, your shoes, or that fascinating piece of lint on your gym bag. Never look up when that group of guys from the weight room comes in laughing about their weekend plans. Definitely don’t notice how the new guy who was just pressing three hundred and fifteen pounds on the bench has a smile that could power the whole gym’s electricity.

After the locker room torture is over, I head home to my apartment building.

As I head into the lobby, I notice a guy wrestling with the door that always sticks in humid weather.

And my heart starts to thud slightly faster. There’s something familiar about his dark brown hair and how he’s walking, with a particular combination of purpose and caution, like someone who’s mapped out every step but is still checking for obstacles.

“Drew,” I call.