Mason doesn’t say anything. Behind me, I hear the clang of metal as Shawn wraps up his set. He’s been lifting a lot lighter lately to tone some of his bulk down, and doesn’t think he needs a spotter. Stubborn, prideful assholes the lot of us, but especially him.

“True, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy for you?”

“No fucking shit,” I snap.

He sighs. “Way.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, tucking in the corner of tape and grabbing both hands to inspect that he’s covered. I give him a pat and step back. “All set.”

Pushing back my left leg, I brace my weight, holding the bag firmly.

Mason gets into position, fists raised, legs spread. He bounces a little then gives a quick, hard jab to the bag. I grit down on my teeth.

He goes for two more quick jabs, before swinging his left arm in a sharp, powerful uppercut that has me stumbling back a step.

He grins wildly, and it’s like suddenly the shadows have parted and I can see the boy I grew up with peeking out. Some of my tension fades as he practices a couple more fierce, precise hits. It’s fucked up that the only time I recognize my best friend most days is when he’s beating the shit out of a bag.

But I suppose it’s better than my face.

I inwardly cringe. Really?

Okay, so he’d never hit me. Never has and never would. At least, I don’t think he would.

But he has picked a couple one too many fights these last few years, so I’d take him knocking around a bag over that any day. I have enough neuroses. I don’t need to worry about losing another friend on top of everything else.

If this is what it takes to keep him safe—to keep him here—then far be it from me to judge. It’s not like I have the best coping mechanisms. We all do what we can to keep going every day; that’s life for you. Let us have our vices and kindly shut the fuck up.

Talk ceases for the next however many minutes as Mason battles it out with a bag of sand. Shawn nears us at some point, dark eyes taking in Mason’s form with growing concern. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Enough,” he says quietly.

Mason’s nose flares, jaw sharpening. His hits come faster. Less controlled. I can’t keep up, and just when I’m about to tap out, he lands his hardest punch yet, and I go stumbling back.

Shawn grabs Mason’s shoulder. “Enough.”

I roll my wrist in my hand and watch Mason warily. He blinks a few times, chest heaving as he glares at some invisible enemy. I can guess what it is. It starts with a V and rhymes with...