Fighting Solitude (On The Ropes #3)(29)

WHEN I WAS EIGHT YEARS old, my mom’s latest loser boyfriend found a way to steal cable from the neighbors. It was short-lived, seeing as everyone in our apartment complex had figured it out months earlier, but for that weekend, Flint and I thought we had hit the jackpot. We huddled around the TV every waking minute. The picture was shit, constantly breaking into static, but we didn’t dare give up or turn it off for fear it would disappear for good. It was only a matter of time before we were rewarded for our dedication when the screen unscrambled. And, like the dumb kids we were, we gasped with excitement, hoping those minutes of clarity would last forever.

They didn’t.

The snow once again clouded our view, leaving us longing to reclaim those stolen flashes of clarity.

Over the years, my life began to resemble those days spent staring at a half-assed TV. There were bits of entertainment breaking up the otherwise monotonous drone of static, but for the most part, my life was nothing more than a black-and-white, jumbled mess. The world around me functioned as nothing more than a noisy distraction to keep my mind occupied while I desperately waited for the bigger picture to come into focus.

The only problem was, after Mia died, I wasn’t even sure what the picture of my life looked like anymore.

My only clarity came inside the boxing ring or in the solitude of my apartment—with Liv.

It took a long time, but the wound Mia had left behind eventually scabbed over. But nothing filled the hollowness inside me. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what was missing. I just knew that it was gone.

Every single day, I smiled.

Every single day, I lived.

Every single day, I laughed.

And, every single night, I stared at my ceiling, trying to figure out why none of those things left me feeling even an ounce of contentment.

Those feelings usually led me to pace our small apartment until I gave in, donned my hearing aids, and sat in the hall, listening to the music blaring from under the crack of Liv’s door. For a while, I thought she was on to something with the whole sleeping-with-music thing. But, after several failed attempts at sleeping while sitting up in order to keep my hearing aids in, I gave up and found myself leaning against her door again.

Nightly.

For years.

Occasionally, I’d doze off.

More often, I’d go back to my room and wait for sleep to overpower the lingering chaos consuming my mind.

But, sometimes, if I got really lucky, I’d think of an excuse to wake her up.

Those hours spent in her dimly lit room, discussing whatever random topic I could find to keep her talking, were enough to temporarily extinguish the static. And, if I hadn’t felt so f*cking guilty each morning as she left for work with dark circles under her eyes, it would have become my nightly routine.

Liv never said a word about my late-night appearances in her room—not even to give me shit about them. That wasn’t who she was. She knew I needed it and she gave it freely.

That was Liv James.

It was who we were together.

On the flip side, I gave it to her too.

I never once said a word about the nights I’d wake up to find her in my bed. I wasn’t sure why she was there because she never woke me up to talk or cuddled into my back for comfort. She was just there. Headphones on. iPod on the nightstand. Long hair fanned out behind her. Black lashes fluttering in REM. There.

The next morning, she was always gone when I woke up.

But she’d been there. I knew because those were the nights I basked in the silence.

Every single time, I’d smile as I tugged the blanket over her.

Every single time, I felt alive while watching her lost in peaceful slumber.

Every single time, I’d laugh as her chest shuddered with what I assumed was a soft snore.

And, every single time, I’d stare at the ceiling as contentment washed over me, lulling me into the most amazing sleep of my life.

Those nights weren’t just the clarity—they were the blinding colors that made me wake up the next morning, put one foot in front of the other, and take on another day.

It didn’t happen frequently, but at least once a month, I’d find her at my side.

But guilt overwhelmed me.

Because, nightly, I’d selfishly wish that whatever demon had her sneaking into my room would find her and allow me a few hours with her at my side to escape my own.

I can honestly say without a single doubt that Liv James was the only reason I didn’t self-destruct over the years. I could have easily gone off the deep end, losing myself in anger at the f*cking universe that seemed so hell-bent on ruining me.

Liv wouldn’t let go though. She fought for me even when I desperately wanted to throw in the towel.

We were friends—best friends. But that wasn’t where our relationship ended.

She was the little sister I never had but would’ve killed to protect. No matter the price.

She was the roommate who threatened to move out on a daily basis because I left my shoes all over the place. Half the time, I did it on purpose because I loved watching her rant in Spanish as she furiously swirled around the room, picking them up, only seconds before throwing them at me. Plus, she was fair to a fault. Despite the fact that I made more in a single fight than she would in ten years, she still insisted on paying half the bills and alternating the utilities each month.

Liv was also my chef, not because I’d asked her to be, but rather because she knew I needed a healthy diet despite being worthless in the kitchen. I was a professional heavyweight boxer; my metabolism was insane. I consumed thousands of calories when I was training up for a fight. Every morning, I’d wake up with a tote bag full of food to take to the gym with me. Good food. Healthy food. Shit no one but professional athletes would ever want to eat. And she made it for me.