Right Hook (Gaslight series) COMPLETE

15| Dinner with the elite

Alyssa ♔
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Justin and his family are coming over for dinner, which means there will be no gym tonight. It affects me more than I thought it would, and I spend the evening watching the clock, wishing they'd get here sooner.

When my bath is ready, I slowly sink into it, allowing the warm water to soothe my achy joints. I let myself slide down the tub until both my body and head are fully submerged. 

Then I hold my breath. I imagine it is what having a real family must feel like: warm, all-consuming, like everything is better under here. Safer. I stay under until I run out of breath, then break the surface gasping for air.

When I'm ready, I cross the room to my bedside table and open the drawer. Inside is my acceptance letter, and I gently pull it out before unfolding the page. My whole life, I have wanted to go to this college, but if my father loses this business deal, if we lose all our money, that dream is as good as over; I'll need to remember that tonight. 

Downstairs in the living room, Mom and Dad are dressed to impress. Mom straightens out her peach-colored dress before glancing over. "Game face on, Alyssa."

I force a smile and she nods in approval. Dad glances at us both and tells us how beautiful his two favorite women are. When the doorbell rings, he gives us one last look and steps into the hallway to answer it.  

Mr. Mathers and Dad stand in the hallway for a second or two, talking. Justin's mom, Sierra, walks into the living room and pulls me into a tender hug. I hug her back, and when she pulls away slightly, she briefly scans my face. 

"So lovely to see you again, Alyssa. I'm so glad you and Justin have put aside your differences." 

I freeze. Put aside our differences, like being cheated on is any reflection of me. I smile tightly. "So am I, Mrs. Mathers." 

We spend the first part of the evening making ridiculous small talk. The clock hits eight, and I find myself zoning out, imagining myself in the gym training next to Max.

At some point, Justin takes me up to my room while we wait for dinner. He sits on my bed and pulls me onto his lap before kissing my neck. His hand brushes the bracelet on my wrist. "You like it?"

"I love it," I say. "Thank you." 

8:20. Max would have moved to the punching bag by now–he operates like clockwork–and I imagine the way his shoulders move with each hit of the bag. Then I tense. Why am I imagining him?

"C'mon," Justin says. "You can't still be mad about the club." 

I pull away slightly to look at him. "That, and you know, you cheating on me." 

We haven't spoken about it yet, on account of the fact I didn't want to hear what he has to say. If I'm going to make this pretend relationship work, the less we talk about that topic, the better. But a part of me can't help it. A part of me keeps wondering, why? Why wasn't I enough for him?

"It wasn't my fault," he insists. "You know what I'm like when I have too much to drink, and she was throwing herself at me." 

I semi-believe him. I've seen Justin get so wasted before that he can't remember what he did, and I've seen the way Suzie looks at him. It's the same way Marnie looks at him. 

None of it matters, of course. The moment I'd read that text from Marnie telling me Justin had cheated, it's like this switch flipped inside of me. I know my worth, and if a guy cheats once, he'll never get the opportunity to cheat on me again. 

Usually. My parents forcing me into this little arrangement has put a spanner in the works, which is what's making everything so confusing. I'm used to sticking up for myself, to demanding respect from those around me, but suddenly, I'm being walked all over.

Justin continues to kiss at my neck. Suddenly, it's harder to breathe, like my lungs can't get enough oxygen. I want to push him away, I want to tell him I never want to taste his mouth again, but I'm frozen, powerless, torn between saving our livelihoods and protecting my self-worth. 

"Stop," I say, gently pushing him away. He pulls away slightly and furrows his eyebrows. I bravely meet his gaze. "I'm happy we're back together," I say, "and I want to give you a second chance, but it's going to take some time to forgive what you did, okay?" 

Justin sighs and looks like he wants to argue, but then thinks better of it. "You're right," he says. "It was stupid of me to think everything could just go on as normal. If you need a little more time, I get it. Okay?"

He kisses my nose, and I feel my body sink with relief, then tense again. There are only so many excuses I can come up with to avoid getting intimate; my father needs to hurry with his deal. 

Dinner is a whirl of pleasantries and fakery. I smile like the dutiful daughter–and girlfriend–and everybody laps it up. They laugh when I tell jokes, look at me proudly when I mention college, and when Justin reaches over and squeezes my hand, their faces soften with adoration. 

When Justin and I first got together, when he made it clear he'd picked me, it felt like a dream. It was during a time when I was still establishing my place in the hierarchy. What with the cattiness and cheerleading tryouts and everything else, it was a relief when he'd come up to me and walked with me to class. It was the push that I'd needed to go from being pretty little Alyssa Who to perfect Alyssa Class. In some ways, I owe Justin a lot for putting me on the radar; he knows it, too.

At some point, the topic of conversation moves onto Justin's amateur boxing endeavors. I remain silent, but Mr. Mathers, who has made it clear from the beginning what he thinks of Justin's new hobby, won't shut up.

"It's about time you put this nonsensical boxing business behind you," Mr. Mathers says. "Boxing is a poor man's sport, Justin. People of our class and status don't box. We're not savages." 

My parents laugh along with the Mathers, and my stomach sinks. I think about Max, and what he would think of me if he could see us now, belittling boxing over caviar and scotch. 

"I don't think boxing is on par with savagery," I say lightly, and my father looks up at me. His eyes flash like warning signs. 

"You don't think running a hand into someone's face is savage?" Mr. Mathers asks. 

I swallow hard. I try to avoid talking to Mr. Mathers when I can, mostly because he terrifies me, but tonight–whether it's the scotch or the fact I'm bitter about missing training–I can't seem to bite my tongue. 

"I can see how it might not be for everyone," I say carefully, "but there is more to boxing than hitting. There is all the time and dedication before it. The commitment, and the discipline, and the courage. It's a sport that should be as respected as any other." 

Mr. Mathers puts down his fork and leans across the table. Mom and Dad share an anxious look, and I can tell there is going to be an almighty row after our guests have left. 

"Do you know why sports such as rowing and golf are so elite?" Mr. Mather says. "It is because they're expensive hobbies to keep. It weeds out the lowlives and the scumbags who can't afford it. Boxing, on the other hand, is inexpensive. It's why all these hoodlums are so drawn to it. All a boxer is good for is using his fists, not his wits. That is the definition of savagery." 

He leans back again and picks up his fork before popping a piece of steak in his mouth. Justin looks at me, mouth half-open like he's surprised I've answered back.

I am, too.

A/N

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