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Ali didn’t just take Cornell home. She walked him into the house, took off his shoes, guided him into their bedroom, and sat him on the bed. “Cornell?” she asked, cupping his face. How can you even look at me?
He said nothing, only shook his head.
Ali frowned, taking off his baseball hat and placing it on the nightstand. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll let Mowgli out.”
Cornell nodded and lay down, turning on his side. He could hear Ali changing her clothes before her lips met his cheek, and he tried not to cringe—not because of disgust of her or the action, but from the deep-seated undeserving thoughts that ran through him.
You’re making this about you. It’s about her.
He could hear her sweet voice waking Mowgli, who was sleeping by the door when they got home and couldn’t be bothered to do more than open one eye when Cornell nearly tripped over him. Cornell tugged the duvet over his head, pushing his head deeper against the pillow. He didn’t want to hear Ali puttering about in the kitchen. He didn’t want to listen to her fill Mowgli’s water dish and step out into the backyard. Because Cornell couldn’t understand how she could be that strong. He couldn’t understand how Graham had looked both of them in the eye and smiled, and here Cornell was hiding in bed while Ali was carrying on taking care of him.
You fucking pussy.
It grew unbearably warm beneath the blanket despite the chill in the house from the cold November night. Cornell was hot even though he was shaking, and after trying to rein in the pounding of his heartbeat he threw off the duvet, still in his coaching gear, and headed to the door that led to the garage, flipping on the light switch.
Ignoring Ali’s Rollerblades and the helmet he had bought her, he reached for the boxing gloves, strapping one on and then using his teeth to pull the Velcro of the other. Neither were tight enough, but he couldn’t care less, the pounding, swirling, pull of emotions inside of him summoning Cornell to the bag where he began to pound, and pound, and pound.
Right. What you should’ve done to Graham tonight.
Left. How Ali would’ve felt if you did something to Graham tonight.
Double right. I don’t even know what I would’ve fucking done.
And Cornell continued jab after jab, trying to make each hit harder than the last, desperate to push everything out of his head and into the bag—the rage, the sadness, the embarrassment that his girlfriend the victim had tried to console him, to make it better.
That should be your job, he scolded himself as he paused, ripping back the Velcro of the gloves with his teeth and tossing them to the floor so he could remove his shirt and sweatshirt, now drenched with sweat.
Cornell didn’t even realize his hands returned to the firm bag ungloved until several hits in. But he didn’t just welcome the pain—he began to chase it, continuing to punch with unyielding power over and over again.
Until he heard her voice.
“Cornell… ”
But Cornell’s pause didn’t last long. He didn’t want to stop for one second, didn’t want to listen to the concern, the care, the worry his name leaving Ali’s lips brought. She continued to call out, and Cornell could barely hear her footsteps as they padded across the garage from the door behind him.
A small hand touched his bare back softly. “Cornell, stop.”
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
“Stop it,” Ali said more forcefully, both hands gripping his shoulders, trying to turn him.
Cornell forcefully shrugged her away and could hear her feet as she scattered back. “Leave me,” he snarled, the warning not just to Ali but a message of eviction served to everything going on in his body from head to toe and his heart, lost somewhere between.
Neither listened, and Ali returned to his side.
“Your hands,” she gasped before forcing Cornell’s arm down, grasping his inflamed, bloody knuckled hand between her two small ones. He tried to pull back, but Ali didn’t let him, clamping his hand firmly.
Cornell leaned against the punching bag, his sweaty forehead sliding against the polyester. “Ali, go,” he had to force out, desperate to hide the way his voice broke. He tried pulling his hand from her again, back to his chest so he could square off for another punch, but Ali managed to squeeze in between him and the bag.
“Baby.”
