Hard Knox

  But now? Now it looked like a fairy godmother had flicked her wand and changed the place into a warm and welcoming space for a girl who wasn’t “girly” but didn’t fit the tomboy mold either. It walked the fine line between girl and gender-neutral, and the room wasn’t only twice the size of my dorm room, it was also twice as luxurious.

  My bed in the dorm had been a twin; this one had to be a queen. My bedding had been standard—not quite scratchy, but a far cry from soft. The bedding on this bed looked like it had been ripped from the pages of a swanky home store catalogue. A full-sized desk butted up against a wall, right below a window that let in glowing afternoon light. An ergonomic chair was pushed beneath the desk, and my laptop and books had already been unpacked and situated on it.

  A recliner was stuffed into one of the corners. A throw and matching pillow were settled on it, and there was even a large flat-screen T.V. on the dresser across from the bed. The closet was empty—most of my boxes had been unpacked, except for a couple containing Clothes and shit—and even the gym smell had magically disappeared.

  “I was at the giant-ass bed-and-bath store looking for stuff, and I didn’t know what colors you liked or didn’t like, so I gave Harlow a call, and she told me. Apparently you’re convinced pink is your arch nemesis and purple should only be found in a rainbow, so that narrowed it down.” Knox shouldered up beside me and looked inside the room with me, something like pride written on his brow.

  “Blue and green. My favorites.” My smile spread when I read what the throw pillow on the chair read: Live, Love, Learn. Then get real. I probably had a shirt with something along those same lines.

  “Actually, turquoise blue and verbena green. That was what my informant mentioned.”

  All I could do was shake my head. “Just how in cahoots are you with Harlow?”

  “I can’t answer that question,” Knox replied in a stiff, formal voice as he crossed his arms. “Breaking confidence and all—that’s bad business.”

  It had been a long day, and if my shoulders weren’t aching from all of the packing and my head still in a semi-fog from last night’s water cocktail, I might not have been so willing to drop the topic. “So where’s all of the muscle-man stuff? Stuffed into the bathroom? Staggered on the roof?”

  Knox crossed the bedroom toward the big window. Staring out it, he motioned me over. “Now I can get my vitamin D at the same time I pump my daily iron.”

  I headed toward the window and glanced out. Sure enough, the weights and other contraptions were resting out in the small backyard. “Are we still talking about weights or have we moved on? Because you kind of lost me with the vitamin-supplement talk.”

  Knox came close to sighing. Either he was getting so used to my commentary that he knew sighs were pointless, or he was just plain burnt out on them. “Vitamin D is good for you. It helps create serotonin, which is a fancy brain chemical name for happy. It comes from the sun.”

  “Amazingly, I learned all of that in third grade. Maybe second.”

  Knox glanced at my forearms. “From the looks of it, you didn’t take that piece of advice either.”

  I held out my arm. By itself, it didn’t seem so bad, but when I pressed it against Knox’s, either he was brown or I was albino. I just might have been the palest person inhabiting the state of Arizona, but you know what? I didn’t give a damn. “I receive one-off insults on pretty much an hourly basis, but it’s a rare day when I get a double fired my way. Taking a jab at my color of is-it-pasty-or-is-it-see-through skin and my inability to take advice? Kudos to you, Mr. Jagger.”

  He took a mini bow. “I do consider myself something of an insult expert. Nice of you to give credit where it’s due.”

  “So sun-tanning and weight-lifting at the same time? Stagger a few mirrors around the lawn so you can check yourself out after every few reps, and you’ll be in Jersey Shore heaven.”

  “Not really sure what that means, but it’s definitely some kind of heaven.” Knox went from smiling out the window to glancing around my room with the same smile.

  I couldn’t tell if he was proud, happy, or content, but maybe it was some combination of the three. When I realized everything he’d done for me in such a short amount of time, my hand reached for his. My fingers threaded through his like I’d done it hundreds of times. It was as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. “Thank you, Knox. Setting aside that you pretty much cornered me into moving in, I’m really thankful for everything you’ve done. You know, so if I don’t always show it, you heard it now and can hold onto that when I’m cursing at you for using the last of the hot water or drinking milk from the carton or eating my last granola bar.”

  Knox’s smile drifted to me. There was a look on his face I was sure I’d never seen on him before. It was so out of place on him, he almost didn’t look like Knox anymore. The look was one of peace.

  “That might have been the strangest, most honest expression of thanks I’ve ever heard—yet another award that goes to you, Charlie Chase—but you’re welcome.” His fingers gave mine a small squeeze. “You know, in case I forget to show it when you’re yelling at me for using the last of the hot water, drinking milk out of the carton the way it was meant to be drunk, or eating your last granola bar, which—by the way—I’d never do.”

  His reply made me smile. I studied the backyard a bit closer. It was fenced in, but most of the boards looked to be in need of either being repaired or replaced. The grass was patchy in most places, especially around the giant cottonwood tree whose branches stretched across so much of the yard, as much of it was shaded as was drenched in sunlight. Off the back of the house was a small concrete patio, the edges of it almost crumbled away, with an old lounge chair on it. Other than all of the weights and benches that had just been in this room, there was nothing that gave the yard any indication that a person actually enjoyed it . . . or used it. No bird-feeders hanging from the branches, no picnic table, no flowers, no footballs or Frisbees scattered around. The yard was a lot like the house—sterile. But then again, most college guys weren’t too concerned with “personalizing” their spaces, so it shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did.

  “What’s that thing?” I pointed at something hanging from one of the sturdy branches of the tree.

  Knox stared at the thing hanging from the tree too. “A punching bag for a guy who isn’t a delicate little fairy afraid of bloodying up his knuckles.”

  Made from four or five giant tires stacked on top of each other, suspended by a couple of chains, it more looked like something you’d drop on a saber-tooth tiger if one came prowling through your backyard, not something a mere mortal would include in his exercise regimen.

  “And what is that translated into non-badass terms?” I asked.

  “A homemade punching bag.”

  My eyes widened. “You punch that thing?”

  “Along with kicking, hitting, and all around trying to destroy it, yeah.”

  My knuckles throbbed just imagining driving them into that thing repeatedly. “You use gloves, right?”

  “I did mention this is the non fairy punching bag, right?”

  My fingers brushed his knuckles. While they didn’t feel scabbed-over or oozing, they weren’t smooth. They were hard, almost calloused. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  Knox lifted his shoulders. “Yeah, while I’m doing it, but once I’m done, the pain’s over. It’s not the lingering kind that stays with you wherever you go.”

  Between those words and the creases that had formed on his face, I knew I’d crossed into uncharted Knox waters. It was the place where the him I knew and the him I wasn’t sure anyone knew met, and either I was right on that thin line, or I had a foot on the other side. I wanted to press on, to dig deeper to prove he wasn’t the person Neve and an apparent army of unnamed others were sure he was, but I could already see that familiar stunned expression forming—the one that made it seem like he was coming out of some temporary hypnosis where he had no idea what h
ad been said or done while he’d checked out. He was already backing up for the door, his fingers falling away from mine, before I’d realized he was leaving.

  “What? No bedtime stories?” I asked when he was almost to the door.

  His eyes drifted to my bed and almost immediately flickered to me. Then he lowered them to the ground. The look in them made my throat flash dry. His hand lifted, curling around the tarnished crucifix like it gave him strength and, at the same time, dished out punishment.

  “I’m positive I don’t know the kind of bedtime stories you’re used to hearing, Charlie.”

  There I was again, peeking back through the confidential Knox’s window. As tempting as it was to lift onto my tiptoes and peek further inside, I resisted the overwhelming urge. For the first time in my life, I repaid vulnerability with vulnerability. He’d given me a glimpse of a piece of him he liked to keep hidden, so I would too.

  “Good thing for you I don’t like typical, predictable, boring bedtime stories. I like mine with a few unexpected turns, game-changing twists, and—instead of the dreaded happily-ever-after—I prefer it’s less-well-known, not so spilling-over-with-shit cousin, reality-ever-after.”

  “Reality ever after?” He lifted a brow, still keeping his eyes down.

  “I don’t need the promise of happy from a prince or pauper or villain or whoever it is in the story.” That’s what we were still talking about, right? Bedtime stories? “Bursting at the seams happiness all the time isn’t reality. However, I’ll keep the ever-after part. Princes and princesses? Can you say tired cliché? Dragons and demons? There are monsters all around us, so why profile such a small minority? Love at first sight and true love’s kiss breaking spells? Stop dropping acid, reread your shit when you’re done riding the LSD snake, and tell me if that’s the kind of crap we should be filling young girls’ brains with, past fairytale writers.”

  At this point in my spiel, Knox looked like he was smiling. With his face angled toward the floor, it was hard to be sure, but his forehead had ironed out, hinting that amusement was responsible for it.

  “But the ever-after part?” I said. “That they got right. It might have been the only thing those sellers of lies and pushers of unattainable expectations got right, but I’ll give credit where it’s due, and ever-after earned them a solid chunk of it.”

  For the briefest moment, Knox’s eyes met mine. “Why?” was all he said before dropping them again.

  “Because I don’t care if you’re the prince or the nemesis, or if I’m the princess or the witch. If you dig me and I dig you, then ever-after is the only part of that story that matters.” I don’t think he actually repeated his question. I probably imagined it, but regardless, I answered the silent Why? “Ever-after promises that no matter what comes or what has been, no matter who I become or who I was, no matter who you become or who you were, nothing can break us apart. Ever-after means forever means no matter what. Ever is the glue that brings two broken pieces together, and after is the bond that keeps them that way.” I was staring at the ground as well, wondering if that whole vulnerability-for-vulnerability idea had been such a hot one. I’d just given a dissertation on fairy-tales and ever-after to the guy who was well-known for one-night stands and walks-of-shame.

  “So I’m going to end that disturbing lecture with another thank you and add a good night,” I said. The sun was just going down, and I hadn’t gone to bed this early since I’d caught the flu back in high school, but sleep might remind me that, when I woke up, openness wasn’t always a good thing. There was a reason so many people were closed off. They were the smart ones.

  “Good night, Charlie,” Knox said quietly as he stepped out of my room. Just as he was sealing the door, he paused. “There’s a problem with your whole ever-after theory, you know.”

  Besides me bringing it up with you? “What problem?”

  “Most glues will hold for a while but won’t stand the test of time. Most give out. There are very few kinds that can keep two broken things together forever.”

  I caught myself smiling, though I clearly should have been doing the opposite. “That’s why you have to hold out for the good stuff.”

  IT FELT LIKE I was still dreaming. Unlike the cacophony of voices and music and hairdryers I’d grown used to waking up to, it was quiet—serenely quiet—just like last night when I’d crawled into it, the bed, along with everything on it, made me feel like my body was being supported and hugged by a warm cloud. Orange light was crawling across my room, giving everything a soft glow. Either this was still a dream or I’d landed in heaven or I’d found nirvana. Either way, I wasn’t letting go of whatever it was.

  Mid-sigh, I was just rolling over and closing my eyes again when a sound not so nirvana-like echoed in the room. My eyes opened, narrowing as I tried to identify the sound. It was coming from the other side of the large picture window, and it was a sharp, low noise that repeated every few seconds. Was it a low groaning? No, not quite. It was more like . . . I paid closer attention . . . It was grunting—deep, staccato grunts that almost sounded like they were forcibly pulled out of a person, like an instinctual response when a guy was concentrating . . . repeatedly . . .

  Throwing off the covers, I broke through my dreamy haze and dashed toward the window. Instead of finding Knox on top of some girl on the dilapidated lounge chair, I found him throwing his fists at the jimmy-rigged punching bag, dripping in sweat and lacking a shirt. Upon closer inspection, he was pretty much lacking everything except his boxers. He threw fist after fist into the tires, lunging around it. From the swings and grunts alone, I could tell he wasn’t holding anything back, but from the way the tires swung, it seemed like Knox had rigged up a punching bag stuffed with packing popcorn instead of heavy old tires.

  The morning sun had managed to touch Knox, lighting him up with a glow that, combined with the sweat dotting his skin, made him glimmer. I couldn’t stop staring. I should have been able to stop staring at him. I should have washed my hands of the whole pull and attraction I felt for him and cut my losses before I sank any deeper.

  I didn’t need to believe Neve’s story to realize a shadow followed Knox wherever he went, a darkness he could never shrug off the way so many of the rest of us could. It followed him to bed. It waited for him when he woke. It was the purpose behind every hit he threw into those tires. It lingered in the irises of his eyes. That shadow had been a part of Knox Jagger’s life for so long he had probably forgotten what it had been like to live without it. I knew if I let myself be pulled beneath it with him, it would consume me too.

  But staring at him right now—glowing in the morning light as he almost seemed to dance around a hanging tower of tires with pain and anger and rage so raw that I could have reached out to touch it—things like shadows and secrets and pasts didn’t scare me away like maybe they should have. Instead, they drew me closer. Everything about Knox Jagger—the good, the bad, and the unknown—pulled me to him.

  Unlatching the lock on the window, I lifted it as far as it would go. “That’s impressive and all, but how do you do against something that hits back?” When he glanced over his shoulder, I waved.

  “Well, they’re not still upright after a few hits. This son of a bitch is every time I’m done with it.” Knox grabbed one of the chains to still the tires’ swinging as he wiped sweat from his face with his other arm.

  “Is that the ultimate goal? To beat that thing until it either breaks, crumbles, or deteriorates?”

  Knox’s chest was rising and falling hard, but his voice didn’t give much indication that he’d just been going all out. “That’s always the goal.”

  “Well, you have fun with that on a Sunday morning. This non-morning person is going to search for coffee and sustenance and attempt to convince myself I’m not living with American Psycho.” Really, the image of him in his boxers, sweating and panting from taking out his aggression, with that not-quite-but-almost-crazed expression hit too close to Christian-Bale home.

&nb
sp; “Funny. That’s the same question I was just working out over here.”

  In the morning light, Knox was almost hard to look at. I nearly looked away, but I didn’t. Instead, I stared harder, trying to commit every line and plane of him into my memory forever. This was the Knox I’d want to remember—the one fresh from a new day, glowing so brightly it was impossible to remember what he looked like caped in shadows.

  “I’ll meet you inside. I need a break anyway,” Knox said.

  He had long disappeared back inside the house before I stopped staring at the spot he’d just been. In fact, my gaze was still locked on that spot when the whir of a blender sounded.

  “Coffee, sustenance, and mutual psycho contemplation available in the kitchen for any roommates in need of some or all!”

  Knox’s voice above the sound of the blender broke through my temporary paralysis.

  “Coming, Sunshine,” I muttered as I moved away from the window.

  The sun had risen enough that the spot under the tree was dark again. As I headed for the door, I threw on my robe, combed my fingers through my hair a few times, and did a breath test to make sure it wasn’t in the offensive-to-vile zone. I could have made a detour to brush my teeth, and I was heading there to do just that when I reminded myself I shouldn’t care what Knox thought about my breath. I shouldn’t want him to get anywhere close enough to notice. That I did made me wish my breath were in the nasty zone and veering more toward the vile end of the spectrum.

  Magnetism or no, it was not reciprocated, and even if it had been, I didn’t need an analyst to run the numbers to devise Knox and I had about a .0001% chance of making it past the one-week mark. Two people as independent as Knox and I, two people as damn stubborn and opinionated as we were couldn’t have an ending that didn’t result in heartache, break, and decay.

  “Did you actually call me sunshine?” Knox asked as I meandered down the hall with my non-brushed teeth and hair.

  The worse I looked, the better. The more I repulsed him, the more I could keep him at bay. Actually . . . Flipping my head over, I wove my fingers through my hair and gave it a serious shake. Only after I was certain every last cuticle on my head was not pleasing to look at did I straighten up and continue down the hall.