Eminem blares out of the speakers, urging me on as I pound the heavy bag, sending it swinging on its chains. I draw a ragged breath and deliver a right cross, slamming the bag into the wall of the garage. The metal shelf shakes, and I reach out to save a box of Christmas decorations from smashing onto the concrete floor. I put them on the ground, then turn back to land a roundhouse. My workouts have certainly improved the past two weeks. I ran out here as soon as church ended, desperate for an outlet. We sat with Aly’s family again, but she wouldn’t even look at me. When the service ended, I heard our moms whispering about some date and looking at me in concern. Fuck that. My cell phone vibrates on the toolbox, shaking the nuts and bolts together with a metallic clink. I lean over to read the display, hope burning out the exhaustion in my chest. But it’s Lauren. I press ignore, sending her to voicemail. Then I turn back and plow into the bag again. I go until my chest burns with the need for oxygen, and then I go a little more.
What do You think about The Fine Art Of Pretending?
