A pained expression appears on my mom's face. "How can it be a sport when you're just beating each other up? Not only in your fights, but every single day at the gym. How is that a sport? How is getting hurt fun for you?"
I shake my head, furious that we're having this conversationagain. I've lost track of the amount of times I've tried explaining this to my parents over the years."Mom, it's the oldest sport there is. Combat is the ultimate form of competition. I know it just seems like guys beating each other up, but it's not centered around pain like you think it is. It's about skill, and strategy, and grit. Can't you just accept the fact that I love this sport for reasons you don’t understand?"
"Enough," my dad snaps, just as tired of this argument as I am. He's heard all of this before. "I've heard enough of your ludicrous justifications. It's barbaric, and you need to stop this right now. I won't have you disgrace this family any longer. Do you have any idea how it feels to hear our friends at the country club talk about how their sons are doing as lawyers, doctors, investment bankers? I spend so much time steering the conversation toward Scott that I'm pretty sure a lot of them think we only have one son."
I didn’t think it was possible to hurt any more than I already am, but I’m immediately and brutally proven wrong when my already-butchered heart feels yet another slash of pain at my dad’s words. I swallow roughly to try to keep the tears at bay.
"Honey," my mom says to her husband with a wince. She touches his arm in an effort to pull back his words.
But they're already out there, finally spoken. I finally get to hear my father's true thoughts.
I knew my parents weren't proud of me, but I never thought they were actually ashamed. I thought they just didn't understand. I meant what I said to Remy that night on the couch: I really thought my mom's concerns came from a place of love, in her own fucked up way. I didn't know they hated fighting—hated me—this much.
"Well, I'm sorry I'm such a big disappointment, Dad," I choke out. "I didn't realize your wish for my life was to do the normal,boringthings that everybody else does, even if it makes me miserable. I guess I was stupid to think I could pickonething that brings me happiness and maybe, just maybe, you'd be happy that I was happy."
I look between my parents, blinking back sudden tears. "You were amazing parents when we were kids," I say hoarsely. "You loved us and raised us with morals and work ethic, and Scott and I loved you. We still do. God, I love you both so much, even right now when you're breaking my heart." I choke back the sob that threatens to rip out of me.
I clear my throat and straighten to my full height, spearing them both with a hard look. "But somehow when we became adults, your warped vision of success began to fuck us up. I need you to know that in that aspect, you guys are terrible parents. I don't know if it's because you bought into your stupid country club mentality that only certain high-paying careers count as success, or if something else drove you to think this way, but either way you completely fucked over Scott and I when it came to our outlook on careers.”
My mom looks away from me as tears start to well in her eyes. It's killing me to hurt her like this, but they've been hurting me for so long and they don't even realize it. I can’t keep dancing around the truth, hoping they’ll figure it out on their own one day.
Dad looks absolutely furious at my declaration. Rage boils in his eyes, and I think he wants to cut me off, but I don’t give him the chance. "Scott bought into your bullshit and went into the finance world, probably because you sold him on the importance of making a lot of money. He's now just as much of an asshole as any other Wall Street moron. He's so obsessed with money that he looks down on anyone that makes less than six figures. So much for the morals you raised us with, huh?" A sob tears out of my mom as she claps her hand to her mouth, but I can't stop my rant. "But me… I was smart enough to figure out that this particular view of yours is bullshit. I picked a job I love, that I wake up every morning excited to do. See, despite your bullshit parenting, I figured out that there's only two things that really matter when it comes to a person's career: it should make you happy, and it should make enough money to support your family. That’s it. Well, I make good money with this sport. Not with fighting, not yet, but with teaching, and helping others. This sporthelpspeople. It helps them to feel strong, and confident, and brave. It's so much more than just black eyes and fist fights. Though I don't expect you to ever give a shit about that."
I look between my parents again. My dad is fuming, clenching his fists and visibly trying to keep from lashing out at me for demeaning his parenting skills. My mom is crying quietly into her hands.
It's the sight of my mom's tears that finally cools my anger and dulls my pain. Suddenly all I feel is sadness. I’m sad for them, for their warped view of the world that is keeping them from having a real relationship with their son. I might never know what made them this way, but I'm deciding not to accept their treatment of me anymore.
I let the hurt and sadness shine through my gaze, so they know that even though I'm being harsh, I'm not doing this to hurt them. I just need them to understand. "I don't need you to like fighting, or even accept it. I just need you to acceptme. I need you to understand that this job makes me happy, that it makes a difference. And I'm good at it. God, I'mreallyfucking good at it. I'm going to be the best in the world one day, and I hope by then you'll be in my corner. But I can't take this any longer. I don't want to talk to you if all I'm going to get is condescension and disgust. I deserve better than that. As my parents you owe me more than that.”
I shake my head sadly as I walk out of the house, but pause when my hand grips the doorknob, desperate to make them understand. “So… don’t call me anymore. Don’t call me until you can stomach the idea of having a conversation with me that doesn’t involve shitting on my life or trying to convince me to take a job as a corporate snob. Just… try to be my loving parents for once."
I walk out of the house and away from my own family, at least for the foreseeable future. I ache with the hope that it's not for longer than that. Because I meant what I said: I won't come back until they accept me as I am. I refuse to be shit on any longer.
I slump into my car, willing the sadness radiating through my body to somehow diminish into a more bearable pain. I've been sliced with so much heartbreak lately that I'm not sure how much more my mind and body can take.
I exhale a shaky breath as I back out of the driveway and leave my family behind.
* * *
The next week is even emptier than the last one. Not only has Remy still not come to the gym, but I also haven't heard from my mom. I definitely won't be the first one to reopen lines of communication because I meant every word I said to them, but it still hurts that she hasn't even tried to call me. I can only hope it's because they know I was serious and are rethinking how they've been talking to me.
I throw myself into work and my training sessions even harder than before, if that's even possible. My miles increase and my workouts on the heavy bags become longer and harder. I barely make it to my bed every night before I'm passing out from exhaustion.
Jax has to practically force food down my throat. It's not that I'm not eating, but I'm definitely not eating enough. He stops by the gym during his lunch break most days and drags me out to eat some kind of calorie-dense protein meal. Being a pro athlete himself, he can tell my strength is down by looking at how I move during my workouts. Just the fact that I'm losing rounds at the gym to people that I have no business losing to is proof of the fact that my body is rundown and my head's not in the game.
But he doesn't push me to talk about anything. He just shoves food down my throat and subtly lets me know that he's there if I need him. Every day that he doesn't question me, I'm reminded again how much Jax gets me and how grateful I am to have him as a friend.
I'm attempting to refuel after a particularly grueling Saturday morning session when I first try to talk to him. It slips out of me while we're both drifting around the kitchen making food.
"I confronted my parents," I blurt out suddenly. He straightens from the fridge and turns startled eyes toward where I'm standing by the stove with a skillet.
"About fighting?" he asks, his tone gently coaxing me to continue.
I nod. "I had a black eye when I showed up to their house and Mom went off about how I could think being injured is fun, and that I should just quit. Dad took the opportunity and jumped in about what a disgrace I am and how they can't tell any of their country club buddies about me or what I do." I laugh bitterly. "He said they talk so little about me that their friends probably think they only have one son."
Jax's eyes go wide. "He actually said that?" he breathes. I nod again. "Jesus Christ, that man is so messed up. What an asshole. You're his son, for fuck's sake."
I shrug tightly, trying to brush off the hurt feelings that try to envelop me at the memory. I've kept the pain to a dull ache all week, and I'm not about to drown in them now. I just want Jax to know why my head's been so fucked up.