Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(45)

“That’s not correct,” I say.

“?’S my opinion.”

Josie just stares at him for a second. “A. Not how opinions work,” she says finally. “B. If you take nothing else from our brief encounter, let it be this: you can hold in farts. You can do it for a very long time, and it’s fine. I’m no expert in human anatomy, but I know that the body’s fart tubes are not connected to the liver. So, for the benefit of everyone who loves being around you, if any, please—hold them in.”

And with that, we leave.

As much as I was genuinely enjoying myself (in spite of our neighbors), I was only really having fun while Josie was having fun.

???

In the corridor where we wait, we can hear the whoops and cheers of the final bout. I look at Josie and notice for the first time how great she looks tonight. She’s absolutely nailed the not trying to look good but accidentally looking really good except it’s no accident thing.

“This is where he’s coming out?” I ask.

“That’s what he said in the text,” Josie says. “He’ll be a sec, though. He said he’s supposed to stay until the final fight is over.”

“You sure he wants to see us?”

“No. But I want to see him.”

She seems nervous and unsteady. I don’t see her like that often.

So we wait. People mill around us. A roar from the arena inside as the final bout ends. A few minutes later, Lawson emerges, wearing his new clothes, carrying a duffel bag. His hair is wet. He walks slowly and with a slight limp. He holds his head high in the way of someone who’s being trained in it, like he’s been told to imagine a book balanced on top of his head. Butterfly bandages close the cut over his eye. A mustard-colored bruise blooms fresh on one of his cheekbones. He sees us and twists his mouth upward into a sort of thin, pained half smile. He looks like he wishes we weren’t there.

Josie cocks her head and returns his half smile. “You were awesome,” she says as he finally gets within earshot. It was a very long walk.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, eyes to the floor. “Not awesome enough, I guess.”

“Whatever, dude. Those judges are dumb.” She steps forward and gives him a long, slow hug, obviously taking care not to hit any tender spots. He unenthusiastically accepts the hug with one arm, not setting down his bag.

“Super dumb,” I say. “I thought you won.”

He nods. Not in agreement, but in acknowledgment of what I said.

I don’t know him well, but I’ve been around him enough to feel the warm, buoyant, good-natured energy he exudes. That’s all gone. There’s a bare patch on the floor where it used to be, like after you move a refrigerator.

“Thanks for coming,” he murmurs. “But I really wanted you to see me win.”

“Aw. You’re…still a winner in my book,” Josie says, playing it totally straight.

Josie and I look away from each other because we both know that if we make eye contact after she laid down some Velveeta cheese like that, we’re going to start busting up, as we do at the most inappropriate moments. Like the time at a school assembly when one of the PE teachers was giving us a pep talk and we realized he was basically plagiarizing the lyrics to “All Star” by Smash Mouth. We got detention for that one.

Lawson is about to respond, when three big guys who look vaguely Lawson-esque—thick black hair and similar facial structure—and who dress like Lawson, pre-Josie-impressing fashion awakening, rush up and start hugging him and mussing his hair and generally grab-assing. He half-heartedly fends them off. “Stop. Quit, guys. Damn. For real. Knock it off.”

The largest and oldest-looking one has a large tattoo of crossed American and Mexican flags on his forearm, above “USMC.” “Careful of his eye,” he says. “Bust it back open, he’ll bleed like a damn faucet all over your truck on the way home.”

“You got robbed, little bro,” another says.

“?’Bout took Purdue’s head off with that kick,” the third says.

“You fought with heart, bro. That’s what matters. You ain’t defeated. Just gotta get back in the octagon,” the second says.

“Come on. Let’s get. Mom and Dad are waiting. Gotta prove to Mom you’re still alive,” the first says, assuming a fighting stance and playfully swatting at the back of Lawson’s head.

Lawson bats him away and looks at us apologetically. “My brothers.”

Josie nods. “I figured from the ‘Mom and Dad’ part.”

“Great fight, Vargas!” a passerby yells. Lawson waves.

“You gonna introduce us to your young lady friends?” one of the brothers asks.

“Josie, Delia, these are my brothers, Connor, Wyatt, and Trey.”

Hey, how you doin’, what’s up? they say. We nod.

Lawson sighs. “Okay. I better go. Like they said, gotta show my mom I pulled through.” He still doesn’t make eye contact with Josie.

She reaches out and grabs his forearm gently. “Hey,” she says softly.

Lawson looks at her. His eyes are a well of hurt. He tries to smile but comes up short, averting his eyes. He limps away, his brothers romping around him. We give them enough of a head start that we know we won’t run into them in the parking lot and have to face the dreaded double goodbye.