"Sorry," she said. If what I'd guessed about her boyfriend was right, she was probably freaking out about having some giant scary dude manhandle her. I uncurled my fingers and stepped away, and some of the tension bled from her muscles. God, I was a dick.
"Better. Now, there's several different types of punches." I moved back around in front of her, raised my fists and unleashed several quick blows against the bag. "When you punch with your front fist, that's called a jab. It doesn't look like much, but it's your most versatile weapon. It's fast, it disorients people and it sets up your big hits."
I switched to a combo using both fists. "Now this is your most basic combo. Left, right. A single good right can end most fights, but you need the jab to make it effective. The technique is also different. Contrary to what most people believe, a lot of punches aren't just about the arms. They're whole body actions. See how my legs spring up and my hips twist as I attack? That's where all the power comes from. You don't need to swing wildly. Just punch straight and fast and your body will do the work."
She tried to mimic me. It was better technically than before, but she clearly wasn't putting in maximum effort. "This is stupid," she said. "I've never been in a fight in my life. I've never had any reason, and I don't see that changing."
That was interesting. Maybe I was wrong about her boyfriend after all. But it didn't change anything. "This isn't about whether you'll use it or not. Quite frankly, it'll make me very happy if you never have to. This is me trying to help the only way I know how. Maybe it won't work for you, but you promised you'd try."
She considered this for several seconds, then her jaw tightened and she gave a brief nod. "Okay."
"Just practice that one-two combo. Left right. If you want to mix it up a little, throw in some extra jabs." I demonstrated, left, left, right. "The other thing to focus on is your footwork. Circle the bag, stay moving, stay light on your feet. In a real fight, it makes you harder to deal with, and in here it makes the workout that little bit better."
She turned to the bag once more, a hint of determination in her eyes now. Again, she started timidly, but as she slipped into a rhythm, she gradually began to throw more and more energy into each punch. Soon, she was hitting with everything she had.
"Good," I said. I could almost feel the anger fueling her movements now, and if she was anything like me, it felt really good. I've never found any activity that is nearly as cathartic as hitting something. I wondered what she was picturing as she did it. Everyone pictures something. Maybe a shrink would say that wasn't the healthiest way to deal with the situation, but I never had much time for men in white coats. I was just glad she was doing something.
Chapter Ten
Grace
If you've never experienced true addiction before, it's impossible for you to really understand the pain of trying to quit. I used to think such poor self-control was just a sign of weakness, that you were making a choice to drink or smoke or eat, in spite of the consequences, but there's so much more to it than that. An addiction is a living thing. It's insidious, it's powerful, and it will do anything to ensure it is fed. It hijacks your body and whispers in your ear, and it knows exactly what to say to snake its way past your guard.
I nearly broke a hundred times, in those first few days. Drinking had become like scratching an itch, an almost subconscious gesture. My mind would wander somewhere dark, and before I knew it, my hands would be searching for a bottle. It would have been so easy to give in, to just sink back below the surface and let nature take its course. That's what it felt like to me, inevitable. Several times I made it as far as reaching for a bottle, but whenever I raised it to my lips, I found myself thinking of Logan. For some inexplicable reason he had faith in me, and strangely, that gave me faith in myself. Maybe I felt like I owed it to him, I don't know. He'd put himself out there for me, and I didn't want to let him down.
I'd been skeptical, but to his credit the exercise was definitely helping. Working myself to the bone at the gym took some of the edge off at night. I still felt that yearning on the back of my tongue when I walked in to my empty place — I hated how big it seemed now, how hollow — but once I showered and forced myself to go straight to bed, I usually found I could drift off.
Of course it had its downsides, too. When I dragged myself from my sheets each morning, my body complained loudly. My workouts were calling a lot of my long-dormant muscles into action, and they weren't shy about voicing their displeasure. The first morning I could barely walk, although it got progressively better each day and, soon enough, I actually found myself taking a kind of perverse pleasure in those aches and twinges. It was a healthy pain, almost like a badge of honor. It was a symbol of the fact that I was taking charge. I'd spent months marinating in self-loathing and helplessness, unable to muster the energy to fight back, but finally I felt a flicker of hope. I was doing something, being proactive. It wasn't much, but it was a start.