Page 11 of The Vow

“That’s the thing,” I said, still pacing and trying hard not to wonder what she’s wearing. “I don’t know. It’s Nick. He hasn’t opened the bar. A buddy called his wife, and she has no idea where he is.”

“You called?”

“I’ve been calling the bar and his cellular a million times. Dammit! I told him to get his crappy Jeep fixed.” Alex went silent, which is a tough thing for Alex to do. “What makes you believe it’s a car accident?” she finally asked.

“Because I’m a paranoid freak.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even an exaggeration. I’ve never told my mother this, but after pop died, I adopted a compulsive habit. Whenever a morbid thought entered my brain, I imagined a choo-choo train pushing that thought across my head, and out one ear. It was a coping tactic for my grief. The problem is that I began adopting it far too often, even for ordinary things like wondering if I had a cavity forming. That Little Engine that Could pushed that thought out of my mind so often, that I ended up needing emergency dental surgery. You’d think that a boxer would harbor more courage, but I look at my opponent’s fist the same way I do the train; it’s knocking those bad thoughts right out of me.

“I’m coming over.”

“What?” I scanned the room to see how many dust bunnies I needed to capture and release back into the wild.

“Just give me your address. I’m coming over.”

“But...”

“But what? He can’t call you back if you’re on the phone with me. We’ll wait together.”

She doesn’t know I have two phones, and as the saying goes, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

“Well?”

I could hear her exhaling smoke. Or maybe she was sighing, exasperated with me. Either way, I knew I wanted her next to me.

“11 Marcel Lane. It’s a bungalow. Not far from Nick’s bar. Look for the playground across the street.”

“Got it,” she said. “See you soon.”

“Hold on.”

“What’s up?”

“How’d you get my number?” At our last meeting, she had written her phone number on a bar coaster, but I didn’t give her mine, and not because I’m a big, macho, tough guy. When it comes to women, especially beautiful women, I’d rather maintain some semblance of control over that Goddamn train running through my head.

“It’s called a phone book.”

“Phone book. Right. Alex?”

“Jesus Christ. What?”

This time, she clearly sighed.

“Why’d you call?”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t know about Nick, so why did you call?”

“Oh. Because I started our love story,” she said, mocking me. “I wanted to run it by you.”

She hung up before I could say anything else.

The Nokia feels too light in my back pocket, devoid of life. Where the fuck is he?

There’s a single dish in the sink and I take my time scrubbing it, remembering what a guy told me at the gym. I asked him why he chose to box. He replied that it’s in his nature; that he can’t be a poet, or write stories, but sooner or later, someone would notice him. “At the very least,” Eli had said, “it will look cool on my headstone.”

Boxing is a duel to the end, a tango for two. There’s almost something sensual about being trapped in the ring, and only your strength, skill, and determination will allow you to leave a winner. I want to win at life.