Stella and the Boxer

Chapter 39

On Saturday night, my dad suggests that we all go for a drive together and look at Christmas lights. I’m exhausted from two days of errand running with my mom, Christmas shopping, seeing family, all while Charlie spends hours at the gym so that he can have a few days off before we fly into the city, so a mindless car ride sounds perfect. Charlie says that the trainers whom he’ll meet with before his fight are much more intense than Mark, and he can’t be off his routine for too many consecutive days.

Since his workout on Friday, I’ve notice Charlie wince and grab his side seven times, and I’ve repeated twice that we can call in more pain medicine, or take him to a doctor.

“I’m fine, Stella,” is all he says, “I get out of shape fast. You disturb my workout routine.” And then he smirks and goes about doing whatever, ignoring his own pain and my worry that it is only getting worse.

“Charlie, they aren’t making too much of a spectacle of you at that gym now, are they?” My dad asks from the driver’s seat, glancing at Charlie in the rearview mirror. We sit next to each other in the back seat while my parents sit in the front.

“No, everyone’s really nice,” Charlie says ever-pleasantly.

“Good. Denny told me that people were pretty interested in what you were doing. I’m glad that no one’s bothering you, then,” my dad responds with a nod.

In fact, Denny, who owns said gym and has been a long time friend of my parents, told my father that there had been an influx in gym customers overnight. The facility, which was usually only occupied by middle-aged, wannabe lifters or elderly water aerobic enthusiasts had suddenly become filled with 20-something females. Denny’s openly gay nephew, who is only a couple of years older than me, had also very recently decided to start utilizing his family connection to the gym. From being close friends with him when we were in school together, I happen to know that he hates to sweat.

“Yeah, word travels awfully fast around here. But you said that you'll just be going on runs for the rest of your visit, right? So your workouts won’t have to be a spectator sport anymore,” my mom giggles, playing with the buttons on her gray pea coat.

Charlie smiles at her, though she can’t see him, but I can tell that he doesn’t really understand what she means. I don’t elaborate; he would probably be embarrassed if he understood the reason for my parents' concern.

After touring some of the town’s more spirited neighborhood and admiring the displays of lighted houses and trees, the large wreathes hung on doors and windows, etc., my parents decide that we should drive to one of the neighboring towns and visit a walk-through lights display on one of the church’s grounds, something that we used to do when I was a little girl.

After Charlie and I agree to the idea, my parents begin to discuss the exact location and I whisper to Charlie, “Are you sure you don’t mind? If you’re bored, we can just go back.”

“I’m not bored at all,” he assures me, and I believe him. He goes back to staring out of the car window. His body looks uncomfortably scrunched in the back seat. My mother repeatedly offered him the front passenger’s seat, but he refused her every offer. Still, his face spares no sign of discomfort as he blinks slowly, relaxed and tiredly, towards the window that he gazes out.

“Oh, we should stop by the drive-in on our way out. They have the best hot chocolate. Charlie needs to have some,” my mother says enthusiastically.

The town’s drive-in restaurant can be described almost completely with three simple expressions: preserved in small-town, American charm; the hot chocolate capital of South Carolina; and greasy – just greasy.