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CHAPTER

30

I flick on the kitchen lights.

—Uber. Jesus. What are you doing here?

—I knocked but no one answered, he says. —Should I come back later?

—No it’s okay. I just . . . wasn’t expecting you.

—These are for you, he says, handing me an armful of sunflowers.

I set them on the counter and go over to the cabinet where the vases are kept. I fill a large blue vase at the sink, staring at the swirl of water, trying to avoid his look. He’s gone to an eye patch now, the stitch marks visible across his check in four even rows. Upstairs with the AC going it’s easy to forget the heat and humidity, but here with so many windows and doors onto the yard, it just pools. Uber wears a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, looking like a guy ready to grill or knock a birdie around a badminton net. I watch a bead of sweat leave one of his temples and travel down his cheek until he wipes it clear.

I set the flower arrangement on the table and flick on the oscillating fan.

—I have some really good news. But I wanted to tell you in person, he says.

The fluffy hair on the top of his head rises and falls with one complete oscillation.

—You want something to drink? I’ve made one ton of lemonade for Thad.

—Lemonade would be great.

He starts to pull out one of the chairs at the table and manages to knock himself in the knees. It never seems right to say You okay? to a gladiator when he knocks his knees or stubs his toes. So I just set the cold lemonade pitcher and two glasses on the table, but then I realize it would be a mistake to let him pour. We would soon be drowning in spilled lemonade. I laugh to myself.

—What? he asks.

—It’s just strange, our sitting here like this, the paparazzi outside, the guards, the quiet house . . .

Before he can say anything, I go over to the pantry and set some macaroons out on a plate. I watch his hair rise and fall again.

He picks up a cookie and considers it.

—Will this make me smaller or larger? he asks.

—How about . . . human scale.

If there’s any space between my waterlogged thoughts and his sputtering intentions, I realize I’ve sort of missed his company, if that makes any sense at all, which I know it doesn’t but there it is.

—That’s fine with me. How’s Thad? he asks.

—He keeps thinking that Allison and Tommy are off on a trip somewhere.

—I’m sorry, he says.

—You have some news?

—I’ve talked Caesar’s into reducing the number of matches I have left to one. I’ll have to do more promotion, but in one match I’ll be a free agent. And then, well . . . I’ll be a free agent. I fight in about a month and then . . .

—You’ll be a free agent, I say, trying to veer around the unstated.

—Exactly. I really couldn’t believe how easygoing they were about the whole thing. I was actually suspicious but then they told me I’m more valuable to them alive than dead now.

—Uber, there’s something I need to tell you as well.

I grab his glass just before his elbow knocks it over.

—Before you tell me, could I . . . kiss you?

I jump up, and now he’s the one who has to grab my chair before it falls. I start to pace.

—You and I . . . how can I put this? You and I, you see . . .

—Yes? he says, smiling broadly now.

—I’m your last match.

—Wow, that’s exactly how I feel.

It’s like we’ve just wandered into one of those NYT’s Weddings and Celebrations videos by mistake. He starts to get up but I motion for him to stay seated. Then I line the potholders up on the counter, straighten the salt and pepper shakers, consider the rubber band collection in the drawer, all the time with my right hand in the air as if to say: wait.

—I don’t mean . . . I’ll start over. You know your last fight, I say.

—Oh God, don’t worry about that. They have me fighting a rookie. They kept saying they don’t want to lose any more of their heroes. Not that I feel like anyone’s hero, but . . .

—You wouldn’t kill your rookie, would you?

—Nothing that couldn’t be stitched back together. I mean I do have to make it look like I’m trying.

—Good to know.