The Grind

Chapter 19

The newby fighters thankfully handled media horrendously, answering questions in choppy six or seven word responses. Sure, it limited the material and made the story vulnerable to the writers embellishing devices, but the speedy conclusion of the often clock-stopping, boring event was never one complained about amongst the journalistic world.

When I stepped outside in pursuit of the strangely near empty bar, I pulled the sleeves of my blazer off and draped it over my forearm, sliding my clutch between my bicep and ribcage. The crisp, white silk of the tank top swayed with the calm, cool breeze of the nighttime air, mixing with my nervously sweating skin, creating an array of chill bumps over my flesh. An exiting patron held the door open as I swept inside the dimly lit sports bar. There weren't many tables, only 3 tv's, and no blasting music. Hence the lack of customers, I'm sure. Colton was easy to spot, hunching at a high-top near the glass front of the building. He hadn't ordered a drink yet, once again, trying desperately to execute that military like, gentlemanly manner his father Michael, had instilled in him, presumably. I dropped the weight of my tired body in the un-cushioned wooden seat, and huffed aloud in the relief. "That didn't take too long," he stated first.

"Those two were complete media virgins. They didn't have much to say." I confirmed as I massaged in the sanitizer I applied to my palms, and scanned over the sparse clients.

"Want me to grab you a drink or somethin'? I didn't know if you were still a martini girl, so I held off." Had his accent become thicker with his hair?

"Actually, I'll just take a seltzer. Lime on the side too, please." Tia would probably be able to sniff out the scent of alcohol in my sweat like a hungry hound dog, and have my tail for drinking while training.

She had graciously granted me a pass on my birthday, so I didn't see it wise to push my luck any further. Come to think of it though, when in the actual hell had I become the girl to drink seltzer water and lime?

My ex now turned waiter for the moment returned with a small square tumbler filled with fizzy, clear liquid, and a long neck in his other hand. His black shirt painted over the ripples of his back, the muscles there moved like thickened water down the spread of him. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when he shops for himself. I can only imagine his decision-making unraveling something like, "yeah, black t-shirt. I can always use another black t-shirt."

"Thank you," I said between lengthy sips. "And thanks too for, um... the flowers. They were stunning. You really didn't have to, but it was a sweet gesture, Colton."

"So I did okay, huh? They're your favorite?" He hoped with questioning eyes, taking a quick pull of his sweating beer.

"Yes, Colt. They're my favorite. You did well. Exceptionally well."

"I owe you 50 dozen more, Liv...."

Here is comes. The conversation needing to be had, but so heavily dreaded.

"It's not flowers I need, Colton. I think you know a million dollars' worth of pretty bouquets won't fix, this." I drew an invisible line through the space from me, to him, "It's not gonna fix us. Or, whatever 'us' there was, I guess."

He sat his half empty beverage on the scuffed table tap, and I noticed the glass chatter against the surface. He was shaking. This wasn't the angry, poked bear who hadn't gotten his way. This shake was one of a cowering, confused, emotionally challenged bear.

"Yeah, Liv. I get that, okay? I just didn't know where to fuckin' start, ya' know? I didn't wanna get too pushy..." he began, while drawing nervous figure-eights with his callused finger tips along the cracks in the table top. "But, I gotta know. I ain't tryna put you on the spot or nothin', but is there any fixing it, babe? I have no right to asking you this shit, I realize that. But, just give me somethin' here, Liv. I need hope, or I need closure. Should I just write us off?"