My father says nothing back, simply throwing us a final glance of hatred. Disgust.
Until that moment, I don’t realize how badly North wanted my father’s approval. Man to man. Even after my father wanted North killed, didn’t believe him worthy of me. After all of that, he wants to feel that pride of having Simmons accept him. To believe him the right man for his daughter. “North,” I say, bringing his attention back to me, holding his eyes with every ounce of love and trust and confidence I have in him. “You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to prove what I know—that you’re a great man. The only man I’ll ever need or love. The best one I’ve ever known.” I draw his mouth down to mine, gently prodding his tongue with mine and listening to his breath stutter. “But on Friday, you’re going to step into that ring and become a god. And then you’re going to bring me home, to our bed, and rule over me. Any way you want. You’re going to be everything we already know you are. Everything I already love with my whole heart. A man that any loving and caring father would be proud to call his son-in-law. A man I’ll spend my life loving.”
And he does become that god on Friday.
To the roar of thousands.
The local boy from Southie knocks out the champ in two rounds.
When the referee raises North’s gloved hand up over his head, those golden eyes are zeroed in on me, as if the crowd doesn’t even exist. I love you, he mouths at me, emotion clouding his face. I love you, Gracie.
Then he takes me home and proceeds to show me how much. Every single day.
Epilogue
North
Five Years Later
I pick out the best bunch of flowers at the market on my way to get Gracie. At the register, I place the bouquet on the counter and realize I forgot to unwrap the tape from my hands after training, but I leave it there, knowing it turns on my wife. Not that either one of us needs assistance in that department. And not that I need an excuse to buy her roses, but today is special. Today is…perfect. In my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined this life. I’m married to the girl who makes my heart beat. Plain and simple. It doesn’t function without her. Thank God it doesn’t have to.
The public school in Southie where she’s worked as a kindergarten teacher for the last year comes into view up ahead, speeding up the rhythm of my heart. I would have moved anywhere once she finished school, but she wanted to stay in South Boston. This is where we fell in love, she says. This is the place that brought us together.
My stomach twists into eight kinds of knots on the way into the school. The receptionist at the front desk waves me in without a pass, because she knows my face well at this point. I walk Grace home from work every single day. Most of the time, I wait in the hallway so I don’t interrupt the education of young minds, but I can’t help venturing all the way to her classroom door today, needing to see her in action.
Needing to see her in one of those teaching outfits that drives me crazy.
Stopping in the doorway of her classroom, I brace my forearm high on the jamb, the flowers down at my side in the opposite hand. And I just take her in. Breathe easy for the first time since I dropped her off here this morning. There’s my wife. My heart.
She’s crouched down beside an art table, encouraging a little boy to trace the shape of a letter A, coaxing a smile out of him in the process. When she stands, I almost growl, because it takes a split second for her pleated skirt to fall into place, showing off the tops of her thigh-high stockings. The soft skin between them and her panties.
Ah Jesus, she’s going to get it hard tonight.
Who am I kidding? She gets it hard every fucking night.
As if I spoke out loud, Grace turns and spies me in the doorway, her face brightening, the heel of her hand flying up to her chest, pressing down on the heart I know is pounding in a frenzy. This is the way it is between us. Overwhelming. Heavy. Addictive. Life affirming. We hate being apart. If we didn’t have jobs, sometimes I think we’d sink into the oblivion of each other and never come out. Part of me wants that, even though I know we have to work. I have to get up every day and train for my next amateur fight. Grace has to teach. Our jobs make us happy and we’re good at them, but this, this reuniting at the end of the day is what we live for.
“Hi,” she says breathily, tucking some dark hair behind her ear.
Every young head in the room swivels in my direction. “Hi,” I return.
“Class, you remember Mr. Whitlock, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitlock,” they say in unison.
“He brought you flowers!” one of them calls out, kicking off a chorus of ooooohs.
Grace bites her lip and laughs. “So he did. Wonder what the occasion is?”
I don’t get a chance to answer, because the bells rings and everyone moves at once, collecting their backpacks from the row of wall hooks and filing out into the hallway. Me and Grace stare at each other through the commotion, anticipating the moment we’ll be alone. Swear to God, my heart is trying to beat its way out of my goddamn chest. There are so many emotions flinging themselves around inside of me at once.
Hunger for my wife.
Love. Affection.
Pride in her for becoming the teacher she wanted to be.
Between student loans and the money I made fighting, we put her through school. Not an Ivy League college, but a damn good one. At twenty-three, I’m right there on the precipice of going professional. I’m about to make it happen—maybe even as soon as next week. The loans will be wiped clean and we’ll be able to take vacations. Fix up the house. Every second of the struggle in my career has been worth it.
There were tough nights during Grace’s college years where I walked in the door bloody and bruised, making her cry, making her want to quit school so I wouldn’t get hurt anymore. I wouldn’t let her. It was a fucking honor sacrificing my body for cash so she could succeed. And after all, my girl gave up her family for me. Financial comfort.
I won’t let her be sorry. I’ll never let her be sorry.
The way she’s looking at me now, she’s far from it.
“Walk you home, Mrs. Whitlock?” I manage around the lump in my throat.
“That would be lovely, Mr. Whitlock.”
She collects her purse, locks up the classroom and we walk hand in hand down the street, stealing glances at each other every few steps until we’re standing in front of the three-story brick house we bought with the money from my first fight. Grace turned it into a home, putting out a bright welcoming mat, curtains in the windows, flower boxes on every sill that riot with different colored blooms. My chest hurts with pride every time we walk up the front steps…but today, I’m going to carry her.
Without giving my wife a warning, I scoop her up, making her squeal. I carry her up the steps to the front door, content to hold her while she fishes the key out of her purse and unlocks the door. I toe it open and carry her over the threshold into our big, old-fashioned kitchen, breakfast dishes still in the sink, her pink slippers still beneath the table. We both sigh, because it’s home. It’s ours. And we’re so fucking happy here, it defies explanation.
“Tulip called me during my lunch break,” Grace says now, her head resting on my shoulder. “She’s going to fly home from Michigan after finals.”