FIFTY-NINE: Minding Business

The last time that Charity McLeod had been this drunk, had been almost two and a half years before, on that night when she and Bruce had reconnected in Las Vegas. Siobahn, Charity's twenty-four-year-old daughter, had picked up Victor so the couple could have a little bit of alone time. Today was one of those silly little anniversaries, twenty-six years ago to the date, they'd had their first kiss, had officially started dating although her heart had been his from the moment she'd first laid eyes on him in that seedy dive of a diner a few months before. She thought she might order in some of their favorites and make it a nice night for the two of them – she'd had more than enough solitude recently and was sick of it. Bruce was lost in his own little world, repeating the same cycle endlessly every day and she hated feeling like an outsider in her own home. When her daughter had offered to keep her year-and-a-half-old baby brother for the night, she'd immediately agreed, knowing that she and Bruce could definitely use a night to themselves without any of the other bullshit he'd been preoccupied with as of late.

She'd gone into his gear bag, checking for anything dirty to make sure it was ready for his match on Friday but what she'd found instead of soiled gear had changed her mood in an instant – there was a pile of crumpled paper that turned out to be paperwork from a doctor she hadn't even known he'd seen. As she scanned over the words on the page, her heart sank, and she realized the rabbit hole was far deeper than she'd ever imagined. There was mention of more testing and possible permanent nerve damage if he reinjured it and her first instinct was to go and demand answers from Bruce. She'd made it as far as the kitchen, seeing him doing his exercises in the pool and didn't have the heart to go out there and tear into him. Silently seething, part of that self-directed at how oblivious she'd been, she found herself pulling open the fridge and grabbing an unopened bottle of white wine. "Fuck it," she said to herself as she disappeared with the bottle of wine and an empty glass into the living room with the intent of draining the bottle.

She had no idea how long she sat there but the sun had just gone down when she heard the patio door sliding open. The living room, although dark, had a direct line of sight to the hallway through the arched doorway and she saw the looming shadow of her husband on the wall well before he appeared. Dressed in a pair of swim trunks that left little to the imagination, he still had a towel around his neck, using one end to scrub the saltwater from his hair. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her sitting on the couch, the television on the wall dark and reflecting the hallway lights. "Cherry?" He thought maybe she'd drifted off while watching something and the TV had shut itself down like it did when the AppleTV idled out. Squinting as he shuffled a little further into the room, he could see she was sitting up with that bottle of wine in her lap.

"S'me."

He clicked on the lamp on the table, sinking into his chair with a sigh before reaching for the numbing cream on the table. He started applying it to his injured ankle before it had registered just how strange his wife had sounded and when he looked up, he could now see the that the bottle was closer to empty than full.

"What's—"

He didn't make it further than that before she cut him off, lifting the bottle as a sort of mocking toast. "Jus' you and lil ol' me tonight," her words were slurred, "Sam has the baby and imma just keep nursin' this bottle." Taking a long swig that almost drained it dry, the bottle went back between her knees and she forced a stiff smile. "It's a golden day for all." The words came out attached to a melody. "You keep doin' you."

It had been a very long time since he'd seen her this inebriated, and it had usually spelled disaster. It immediately brought to mind the time after her father's funeral – they'd been estranged then, torn apart by their own baggage and stubborn pride and now that the house was utterly silent, he was aware of the distance that had been growing between them lately. It had started small, just him withdrawing after he'd lost control and nearly killed Jackson in a fit of rage. The guilt afterwards had been unbearable. Living with the fact that he had that propensity for such wanton violence had shaken him to the core and it had been far easier to retreat into his work, into that obsessive preparation for the next fight.

Sighing, he capped the ointment and started wrapping the tensor bandage around it, knowing this would only buy him a few hours before that pain would come back in waves, annoying building to agonizing before he'd start the cycle all over again. Once it was wrapped, he leaned forward, picking up the metal cigarette case off the table. A moment later there was a joint between his lips and he was sparking the tip, drawing that sickly-sweet diesel-flavored smoke into his lungs. "So, Possum's got Little Vicky for the night, and this is what you've chosen to do with the free time, hmm?" He meant it as a sort of tease, trying to break the ice between them but the words came out a little too judgmental.

"Hmmm." She seemed to genuinely think about his question before moving her shoulders up in a shrug. "Yeah, I s'pose it is – nice to have a choice though. That's new."

"Excuse me?" He squinted at her through the smoke, feeling like he'd missed a vital part of this conversation somehow.

Finally, she turned her head to look at him. "Could always talk but feel like it's kinda pointless. You always do what you want and I always come off like a naggy bitch, so... cheers?" She lifted the bottle as if saluting him before finishing off the alcohol. "Make sure you ice your ankle before the match. Not that it matters, I guess. If you don' give a fuck about your health, no use in me bitchin'." She could feel the onset of tears, but she didn't bother to hide them; she didn't have the energy to fight it and pretend everything was peachy keen anymore.

"I don't give a fuck about..." he blinked, shaking his head in amazement, "well that's rich, given that I'm doing everything in my power right now to maintain—"

"Oh, cut the shit."

The urge to lash out was there and he bit it back before those caustic words could leave his lips. Instead, he took another drag off the joint, holding the smoke in until the urge to cough was overwhelming and then he exhaled slowly towards the ceiling. "What would you have me do instead? Hypothetically, of course, since you've clearly got all the fuckin' answers. I've got the championship. They're not gonna let me warm the bench week in and week out, shirking my responsibilities. Can't do this much longer as 'tis and this business—"

She cut him off by blowing a childish raspberry. "Pfft, right… the business – your top priority."

"Put this roof over our heads, didn't it?" He hated talking about money, especially since they'd gotten back together. He'd made some wise investments over the years they were apart, squirreling money away as though he was terrified of one day being reduced to that penniless immigrant who had been dropped on his cousin's doorstep more than thirty-five years ago.

The silence that grew was ominous but he took another long drag, pulling the smoke in deep as if willing his mind to grow as numb as his ankle was. Finally, he broke the silence, snapping his words, "I'm fuckin' fifty," it was a low and ugly growl as he glared at her from under his furrowed brow. "Should've retired the first time CGW closed its doors – would have if not for the Triad, and ye know it."

The buzz was creeping in, his thoughts drifting now, and he could pinpoint the moment the hunger – the desperation for that last hurrah to mean something – had truly coalesced into this terrible entity that was now bent on consuming their lives. It was the Splat Network's Triad Tournament in 2020 that had done it, this random pairing of people from all companies, a gauntlet that pitted partners from the first round against each other in the second, and so on until only four remained. He'd outlasted them all, including some that were considered legends like Van Der Roost and Rottentreats before coming out on top.

"Would have, but you didn't," Charity replied, "two years later and you're still up to your eyeballs in this... now why is that?" She lifted the bottle to her lips again, pouting when she realized it was empty. "Annnd, I need a refill." She offered him a large but obviously fake smile as she worked on pushing herself to her feet. "You focus on explaining to me why you keep taking matches when you're obviously injured while I go and deplete the rest of our wine collection."

"That's mighty unfair," he snapped the words, but she was already halfway out of the room. Heaving a sigh, he pushed up and followed her, moving a little better now that he was buzzed and his ankle was wrapped and numb. "You know how much this means to me." He stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb as he watched her going through the bottles in their small wine cellar next to the pantry.

The look on her face would have curdled milk, the sheer audacity of him to continue putting the damned wrestling business and this dick measuring contest with Brit Anders above his health, her sanity, and their family. "You're truly something else, you know that?" The words that had been bottled up for so long were spilling out now, loosened by the liquor. "Your commitment to the business is so impressive," the sarcasm oozed in every syllable, "nobody ever questions it, Bruce. You're a company man through and through and they love you for it and you love them for loving you – it's pathetic."

Pulling another bottle of wine out, she went to work finding the corkscrew as she squinted at the label, trying to read what it was before giving up. The cork popped and she smiled, "mmmm deliciousness." The word accompanied a little giggle before she turned her head to look at him, still standing there in silence although his eyes were dead black now with that fury, he was all but choking on. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice," she laughed, shaking her head, "I told you to do what you want. Don't worry about what I think," she grabbed another wine glass and started filling it. "I'm also taking my advice."

"And what's that, then? Be fuckin' dramatic over nothing?" He finished off the spliff, pinching off the burning paper before it hit the little filter roll at the end. He rolled it around between his fingers for a moment, absently, watching her as she filled the glass, surprised she didn't dump it all over the place. When she didn't answer, he felt the need to fill the silence, as though bludgeoning her with his reasoning was going to help anything. "One more match, Cherry," there was a hint of desperation in there as he started bargaining with a lie, knowing he wouldn't be able to walk away clean after this one, "the little bint was promised the shot she demanded. Just a few more days, and then…" he shrugged, knowing better than to promise he'd take time off. There would be something else, some other problem rearing its ugly head. There always was.

"Bruce…" She finally looked at him, tears still falling as she shook her head. "Do whatever the fuck you want, because I'm done nagging and bitching. This is me, washing my hands of all of it – washing my hands of you." She'd finished pouring and could feel the anger she'd been forcing back start to come through, "you don't tell me shit. You treat me like a stranger and when was the last time you spent more than ten seconds with your son? Every waking hour you're watching tape or in the pool or the gym or…" her hands came up, swiping angrily at the tears on her cheeks. "You don't try to talk to me anymore, let me in on anything." The glass was back in her hand, wine sloshing towards the rim as she pointed it at him. "It's déjà vu, all over again."

"What do you want me to say?" He flicked the scrap of cardboard into the trash before folding his arms across his chest. "Nightly lamentations on how these grizzled ol' bones're too damned weak tae keep up with these hooligans? A running catalogue of all the slights, all the injuries I've racked up in the last few months?" He couldn't dial back the anger, most of it self-directed over those perceived weaknesses. "What use is there dragging you down into the mire with me, hmm?"

"Déjà vu, only it's reversed. This time you've shut me out and I dunno what else to do." She sipped from the glass before setting it on the counter. "This's karma, isn't it? Fuckin' hell, we both know history'll repeat itself."

"History will what?" Her words made no sense, the connection not quite happening in his stoned brain. "What's this nonsense you're banging on about now?" Unable to keep himself still, he walked over to where she stood, picking up the bottle of wine she'd left sitting there. He lifted it to his lips, taking a swig before making a face. "Ach, that's fuckin' dreadful – like grapes soaked in kerosene. Dunno what you and Sam see in that swill."

"Rude," she said as she took the bottle back, setting it aside out of his reach. "After we lost our son, I shut you out and wouldn't let you in. That's what I mean… history, but in reverse. I'll come home one day, your bags'll be gone an' I'll be alone again."

He recoiled as though she'd slapped him across the face, the words hitting him hard. As much as they'd moved past that, she clearly still had that doubt festering in the back of her mind. He'd been back in her life for almost three years now and she still believed he cared so little that he'd just pack up and go? "If that's what you truly believe..." he couldn't even bring himself to finish the thought.

Charity didn't respond immediately as she held her glass with both hands to try and keep them from trembling. Now that she'd opened the floodgates, she couldn't keep everything she was feeling from flooding to the surface: all the anger and fear and anxieties rearing their ugly heads, but she knew there wasn't going to be a solution at the end of that road. They'd just circle back into old toxic habits that they'd spent the last few years trying very hard to break.

Shaking her head, she let out a sigh. "I'm gonna jus' go to bed." It was way too early, but she didn't care. She felt defeated and it was mirrored on her face. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry. Go nuts."

Her willingness to back down just made him more irritated, especially in the face of the accusation that he still wasn't trustworthy. "Aye, goan then." He snapped, shaking his head. "Take a shot like all the rest of 'em, kick me when I'm down. What's another bruise in the grand scheme?"

Charity set her glass down on the counter before narrowing her eyes at her husband. "You don't talk to me anymore. Everything is about the goddamn business, I'm not even in your peripheral anymore."

"That's a load of malarkey!" He almost shouted it, the urge to grab her and shake her for being so ridiculous so strong that he turned and grabbed the wineglass instead, hurling and smashing it in the sink. The destruction gave him a little bit of satisfaction as he whirled back to her, taking a few steps to close the distance between them until he was nearly standing on her toes. "You're sharing my bed – first damned thing I see when I open and close my eyes. So, how's that even make sense?"

She could feel her own anger flaring up as she kept her feet planted. "Alright, I'm wrong and you're right. Let's just leave it at that." Her tone suggested she wanted to do anything but that. "You've heard me complain about this shit for the last time." She really could have used a pillow at that moment to scream into.

"I wasn't saying that, for fuck's sake. I was just–" he cut off with his own frustrated growl, still glaring at her. "I need to see this through, Cherry. It's..." he stopped before he said something colossally stupid, about to tell her it was everything. The realization struck him hard, and he took a step back, shaking his head at his own foolishness.

She had a hard time ignoring the pain in her chest she felt at him taking a step back, that perceived rejection cutting deep. "Like I said, do whatever you want." Turning her back to him, she went to work cleaning up the shards from the wine glass in the sink. "I'm cleaning this up and going to bed."

"Fine." He couldn't help the disappointment he felt that she'd turned away, busying herself with cleaning up his mess, as though that was meant to be her lot in life. "If that's what you want, far be it from me to stop you." Turning away, he headed out of the kitchen and made his way back to the living room, grabbing up the cigarette case and fishing out another of the joints. Numbing his body and mind was far preferable to this argument that was destined to go nowhere.

Before he could realize it, Charity had followed him. She didn't want to fight or cry; she just wanted her husband – she desperately needed to bridge that divide between them before it was irreparable. "I'm sorry." The two words came out softly as her arms wrapped his waist from behind. "I'm terrified, Bruce. Scared of losing you." Her chin rested on his shoulder, and it was as if she were holding onto him for dear life. "I'm just so sorry."

"Hush," he muttered, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of her body against his back. "I should be the one with the apologies. You were right. About all of it." The sudden clarity was startling to say the least, "I've put everything here at risk, hurt you in the worst way. For... something so damned trivial. I don't love that place, that scrap of tin and leather – not the way I do you." He turned slowly, dropping the unlit joint on the table before cupping her cheek as he stared into her eyes – it had been weeks since he'd touched her like this, even longer since they'd had any sort of intimacy and he hated himself for letting that seed of doubt flower with his own careless neglect.

"Promise you," his voice came out hoarse, the prickle of tears not far off for him either, "no matter what happens on the 25th, no matter if I win or lose… nothing on this Earth will ever tear us apart again. Leaving you, Cherry – 'twas the biggest mistake of my life… one I'd not soon repeat." His thumb wiped away the traces of tears on her cheek before he leaned in, kissing her gently. Her arms came up around his neck, fingers digging into the thick hair at the back of his head as she kissed him back, tenderness giving way to hunger as the rest of their self-righteous anger shifted into something that could be far more easily spent. A moment later he was back in that chair with her straddling his lap, the fight all but forgotten as they lost themselves in an old familiar rhythm that was far more enjoyable than tearing open old wounds, eager hands and hungry mouths expressing far more than words ever could.