Page 47 of Fight from the Heart

“I don’t know, but I suddenly don’t think I have the stomach for this today.”

“No worries.” I carry hers while drinking mine and then drink hers as well.

“Would you like to see the City Zoo?”

“Can we?” Her face lights up, and I want to see her brightness every day. Not just in my dreams. Not only in my memories. But every damn day, I want the light of her. Maybe I can climb out of the darkness a bit, or she can just lighten the dungeon as she calls it. I shake my head, already giving too much thought to my past today. I want the rest of this day to be about her.

We walk through the zoo entrance, and I can’t remember the last time I visited here. Passing exhibit after exhibit, we eventually pause at the birdhouse.

Bali Mynah. I read the name of a white bird with black-tipped wings and eyes outlined in blue feathers. It’s a striking thing, although I’m not much of an ornithologist. I watch it fly around the exhibit before landing on a high perch.

“‘I know why the caged bird sings,’” Pam recites. My sight remains on the bird, following its motion through the cage. Circling, circling, circling before landing once more. I can strangely relate to this caged creature.

“Maya Angelou’s poem is so sad,” Pam explains. “But I’ve always understood it. The caged bird sings to mask the brutality. It needs something beautiful in life to help it through the pain. Trapped and alone, the bird needs something for herself, something that belongs only to her. Her song is that gift. The cage does not seem so lonely with a song.”

My heart hammers. Breathing becomes difficult. She’s just described me. Writing is my release. It became my pleasure from the anger, the bitterness, the injustice. In my worlds, in my words, I was no longer so lonely. I couldn’t go a day without expressing myself with the written word because I didn’t have an outlet to verbally express my emotions. The fighting eventually became the physical release I needed for negative energy. Words were for my mind what fights were for my fists.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know where all that came from,” Pam says, but I still can’t pull my gaze from the cage.

“I’m more of a Raven man, myself, written by the master Edgar Allen Poe. Nevermore, the bird repeats. Nevermore.” The creative word echoes around me like a motto I should keep. The word is powerful and fierce, in my opinion.

Nevermore will he love. Nevermore will he give up his emotions.

“Nevermore,” Pam whispers. “It’s one of your tattoos, near your wrist.” Her eyes look down to my arm and lift my sleeve's edge, revealing the word scrolled as a reminder. Nevermore will someone touch me with his fists, but it’s happened again. My thoughts leap to Mandi. It was never the same thing, but still, she’d hit me, and I misguidedly took that touch as affection. It built on our back and forth relationship. I finally look up at Pam. She’d never touch me like that. She’d never use her touch as a weapon but worship of me. She did it the night we were together.

I’m such a fool. I need to know how to keep her, not break her. I don’t want to destroy what we could be.

I tug my sleeve back over my wrist, feeling vulnerable at her observing gaze. Next, I reach for her hand, pulling it upward to kiss her knuckles. When I lower our fingers, I don’t release hers.

Hand holding.

I like this stage of the process. Whether the day ends in sex or not, I’ll be happy to just hold her hand, fitting my parts to hers, as she explained of dating. I want our parts to fit.

+ + +

When we return to the condo, Ella and Ethan are out but left a note that they’d meet us later for drinks. They want to go dancing, but when I ask Pam her thoughts, she scrunches her nose

“I’m not much for publicly shaking my groove thing,” she teases. Pam has a way of slipping in these little self-deprecating comments, and I don’t like it. She’s perfect just as she is.

“I’d like to see your groove thing shake.” I want to run my hands over her curves—over and over again—but I’m keeping my distance, trying to let the shitstorm of yesterday dissolve. This morning was a start, but I still needed to apologize for my behavior last night. For now, I have my agent meeting.

“We need to head out in about an hour.”

“I need to shower, dress, do my hair—” Pam is a frenzy of anxiety.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Simmer girl. It’s not a black-tie affair. It’s just a meeting.”

“I still want to look nice. I want to make a good impression for you.”

“Lilac, you’re so fucking beautiful, you could wear a potato sack. You don’t need to make an impression on my behalf because Theresa will love you.”

How could she not? I love Pam. She’s this burning desire just below the surface of my skin. It’s a strange energy I’ve never felt before. I’m making a big assumption, but this seems like love, and I don’t know what to do with the emotion.

“Potato sack?” She laughs. “Who says that?”

“I guess I do.” I chuckle. What’s happening to me? Every time she laughs, it’s like a live wire to my heart, another jolt of electricity livening me up from the inside out. “By the way, tour duty payments. Are we running a tab, or are you ready to make a deposit?”

She tips her head. “Payment in kisses?”