Seeing Red [Story Preview]

Chapter 3: Emory

I'd be lying if I said my head wasn't pounding so hard it felt like there was one of those little monkeys with the gold symbols in between my ears. I guess Rosette's had to send me off in proper form. I nurse my second iced coffee and wait anxiously for my flight to begin boarding.

My goodbye with Melanie was all a bit of a blur in my memory. We ended up staying at Rosette's far longer than I planned, and split an Uber back to her apartment. Thank goodness I'd set my phone alarm or I might still be sleeping on her couch right now. I also have to give myself a mental pat on the back for packing in advance. That was the real life-saver.

The flight attendant starts calling out boarding groups and I tighten my grip around my leather satchel bag. I'd already checked my other two bags and the airline worker seemed genuinely surprised that both bags were underweight. Not all twenty-something women hoard an obscene amount of shoes and clothes. My wardrobe had always been pretty lean, consisting primarily of black classic pieces and denim. Maybe I'd develop a bit of an edgier style in the city. The thought of New York has be pushing down a mild wave of nausea, likely a combination of nerves and vodka, and heading towards the boarding line. Once I'm securely seated and my bag is stowed beneath my feet, I slip on my headphones and lean my head against the interior wall of the plane. Several memories of Haystacks fly across the inside of my eyelids, like I'm watching my own life on 10x speed. I see my dad giving me my first bike, back when times were better and the boxing gym hadn't yet become the love of his life. I see my first boyfriend, Jarod, telling me he loved me when neither of us had any idea what the word really meant. Not even sure I do know. And I see Melanie's smiling face, her caramel skin covered in a sheen of sweat from the dance floor.

But as the plane tilts its pelvis back and leans into the air, I see another memory. This one in slower motion. It's ten years ago and I'm angsty at sixteen; I'm too old to want to listen to my parents or my teachers but I'm too young and too shy to do anything. I remember how I used to love to draw and I briefly wonder why I don't draw much anymore...

The cold metal of the bench bites into the backs of my thighs. I know my dress is too short but it's what all the senior girls are wearing at school. The laces of my converse are coming undone as I swing my feet back and forth. My mom tells me I'm a beanpole, but that any day now I'll grow into some curves. I freaking wish that day would be today. My mom has great curves and a beautiful face. Meanwhile, my limbs are long and gangly. Especially compared to the guys at the boxing gym. Their limbs are scary huge. My dad looks like a shrimp compared to them. Just a shriveled up version of what he pretends he used to be.

"Hey Em! Go grab me s'more towels. We've got a bleeder." My dad yells over to me from the other side of the gym. I gently place my ink pen drawing down on the bench beside me, making sure none of the pens roll off to the floor. The floor here is seriously gross. Covered in sweat and blood and who knows what else. My mom says the boxing gym is no place for a lady and my dad told her she was no lady. I don't know if I'm a lady either, or if I'll ever be one, but I know I don't like being dragged to the boxing gym.

I make my way towards my dad with an armful or worn faded blue towels. Apparently, they are old surgical towels and they sop up blood the best. I stand before my dad, watching him patch up a young-looking fighter with a purple bleeding eye. It reminds me of an overly ripe plum, full of fluid, and about to burst.

"Hey kid, I've got it. Thanks." A deep voice comes from beside me and gently takes the worn towels from my outstretched arms. They call this guy, Red. I don't know if that's his real name or not. Red is a color, not a normal first name. Apparently, he is some big hotshot or something. He is all my dad talks about these days at the dinner.

"Did you do that?" I whisper and nod my head towards the juicy plum eye guy as my dad applies pressure around the wound with a towel.

"I did." Red sounds amused, a slight smirk on his lips, "What are you doing around here anyway?" He doesn't seem annoyed, just curious.

"That's my dad. I don't have my driver's license yet and even if I did, I don't have any money for a car, so he drags me along I guess." I shrug my shoulders and then mentally chastise myself for giving away so much information. Mom hates when we bring up that we are poor, even though it's super obvious and everyone within Haystacks is just as poor as we are.

"Ah, I see. What do you do when you're here?" He sets the towels down on the floor of the ring and crosses his arms across his bare chest. They are so big and strong, corded with veins. The boys in my high school do not look anything like that! I feel my heart beat faster in my chest and a strange, warm flush creep out over my neck and cheeks.

"I, um, I like art. Drawing mainly." I sheepishly hold out my drawing, not really expecting him to look at it in detail.

"Let me see." Red smiles at me and takes the paper from my hands. My stomach does one of those little flip-flops, and it feels kinda weird but nice at the same time. I keep my eyes on the disgusting concrete floor while he examines my work.

"It's awesome. You're really good. What's your name?"

"Emory, but everyone calls me Emmy."

"Well Emmy, maybe you'll be an artist someday." He smiles warmly down at me and I feel my cheeks go full pink. His arms and chest are dotted with random tattoos and I find myself wanting to count how many he has.

"I gotta head back to the ring for another spar. You keep drawing okay?" He ruffles a hand through my hair on the top of my head. I try to hide my frown. I don't like being treated like a little kid, especially by this older guy who does funny things to my stomach and my cheeks. Why can't those damn curves hurry up and arrive so men stop thinking I'm a literal child. I plop back down on the metal bench, watching Red's back as he makes his way to the ring. This time, when I pick up my pens, I draw Red. His muscles, his eyes, his tattoos. At the end of the gym session, I make sure to fold up my paper and tuck it neatly in my flat training bra so I don't embarrass myself even more by leaving a drawing of Red in the gym. My dad waves me over to the exit, and I already know another frozen meal and a sparring play by play are in order for tonight's dinner. Except this time, I'm not dreading it as much. Maybe I'll learn a little more about Red.