Page 5 of The Vow

“Yeah. Moolah.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. I wasn’t lying.

Cable overturned a metal bucket and sat down, careful to maintain his balance. “You laying off the booze?”

“Mostly.”

“What do you mean ‘mostly?’ Your insides have to match your...”

“...outside. Yeah, I know.”

“Are you serious about winning?” I could tell that Cable was getting impatient with me. His eyebrow was twitching.

“No. I do this for the fun of it.”

“Fucking smartass. If you’re serious, remember what I told you, and Anvil won’t stand a chance.”

“You’ve told me a lot of things.”

“Crazy,” Cable said, leaning forward, “is more powerful than iron.”

Three

“Give me a Peroni. Just don’t tell Cable.”

Sparring with Jackson, I quietly prayed he’d avoid bruising my face so that my business meeting could potentially morph into a date. Even wearing protective headgear, I once witnessed a guy break another boxer’s nose while sparring, and although I’m not vain, I like my nose the way it is. I normally take it on the chin, both figuratively and literally, but Alex has already gotten under my skin, in a good way, and I want to impress her.

“Fancy,” Nick said, placing the authentic Italian beer in front of me. “What’s the occasion? Oh, right. Your date with the fire-breathing dragon. You really think she’s going to show?”

I glanced at the clock which was part of an antique radio that belonged to Nick’s grandfather. Encased in wood, it was like a miniature version of the one ma salvaged from the junk heap when I turned thirteen. She had said back then, “You’re a teenager now, and teenagers rock on.” My mother tried hard to be cool and to take on the role of both parents. Every Saturday afternoon she made us set aside an hour to blast music and sing until our voices were hoarse. I remember she had burst into tears at Dean Martin’s “Sway”, and it was then that I realized just how much she missed swaying with pop.

“She’ll show,” I said, willing myself to believe it.

It was ten minutes to one, and I could feel the sweat drip down the back of my navy blue button-down.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re right.”

I looked up to see Nick jutting his chin towards the front door. Nervous as hell, I rubbed my sweaty palms down my jeans, opting to leave my suit hanging in the closet until the next funeral.

“Hi, Jerry.” Her voice preceded her, like a ghost vixen whose job it was to haunt me.

“Phillip.”

“I know. I was making fun of you.”

That smart mouth. I already want to stick my tongue inside of it.

“What would you like to drink today, Alex?”

“You’re buying?”

“I am.”

“Then whatever you’re having.”

“Another Peroni, Nick. So,” I said, trying not to stare at her bare legs. The blue tank top and jean skirt she was wearing left little to the imagination and despite myself, I smiled at the fact that our outfits matched. “I’ll start by thanking you for coming.”

“It’s your dime. Speaking of which, I guess you want to see a sample of my work.”