Tough Enough

“Oh. My bad.” His face relaxes into the lopsided grin that I love so much and he pulls me in closer, hugging me tighter with his strong arm. “I just don’t want you to think that they bother me or that they’re all I see when I look at you or touch you. I’ve felt that way before and it sucks balls.”

I settle back in against him, cradling my head on my folded hands as Rogan’s fingers rub soothing circles on my stomach.

“Felt what way?” I ask.

“Like my scars are worse than what they are.”

“Your scars aren’t that bad, though.”

“To me they are. I just learned a long time ago that I couldn’t let them, or that part of my life, ruin everything for me. I had to fight to survive, yes. But I also had to fight to live. To have some kind of happiness in life.”

His tattoo. Fight to survive. Fight to live. Not just a tattoo. A credo. His credo.

I pause, debating the wisdom of asking the questions that are burning to be voiced. I mean, I did just share a huge piece of myself with him. And not only the physical; I shared the hardest part. But that doesn’t mean that he’s at a place where he will feel comfortable sharing with me. In a way, my hand was forced. His is not.

Before I can talk myself into or out of asking, Rogan starts to talk again. So I let him.

“I wasn’t always comfortable with violence. I wasn’t always a fighter. The first few years, when Kurt was just a baby, things were pretty good, pretty normal. It was after Mom died that it all went to shit.”

“What happened to her?”

“Cancer. We didn’t have much money and she always put her needs last. Eventually it cost her her life.” I’m quiet while Rogan is quiet. I don’t know if he needs time to collect himself, but I’m giving it to him anyway. I feel the storm of his story brewing, like an uncomfortable static in the air. “He didn’t start drinking or anything. That’s what the social workers always thought—that he was a mean drunk. But he wasn’t. He was just a mean son of a bitch, period. He didn’t need anything to bring it out. Life did. Just life. When Mom died, she took the only good in him with her.

“I was ten the first time he hit me. He was mad because I’d left my basketball outside. He found it when he came home from work. I was watching cartoons with Kurt and he walked in the door and threw the ball at me. Hit me right in middle of the face. Smashed the shit out of my nose. I started crying and he walked over, jerked me up by the arm and punched me in the stomach. Told me to stop acting like a little pussy bitch. Told me I wasn’t tough enough, but that he’d make me tough. Tough like a man.”

My hand is pressed to my mouth and my eyes are squeezed shut. Too easily I can picture a young Rogan, abused and grieving, struggling to make it from one day to the next.

“It only got worse after that. The older and bigger I got, the more creative he was. He’d burn me with lit cigarettes if I didn’t wake up on time, he’d whip me with my football cleats if I missed a catch, he’d slice at me with a box cutter if I ran from him when he was mad. And there was nothing I could do. He told me if I told anyone about what happened, he’d kill Kurt. I believed him. And I think he would’ve done it. But I knew as long as I was around, he’d never lay a hand on him.”

My stomach sloshes with nausea at the pain, at the heartache. At the betrayal and the loneliness he must’ve felt. I have to wait a few seconds, swallow a few times so that my voice doesn’t reflect my i

“You mentioned social workers . . .”

“Yeah, I had a couple of concerned teachers over the years. I always made excuses, though. I knew if Dad ever found out, he’d hurt us. Hurt Kurt. And I couldn’t risk that. And if they were able to help get us away from him, Kurt and I might’ve been separated in foster care. I guess to a kid like me, there were too many unknowns, too many risks. Besides, Dad was careful. He never broke bones and he was a star employee at work. But still, I heard them whisper. All my teachers thought he was a mean drunk that no one could catch.” His laugh is bitter. “Anyway, he started working nightshift for the extra money when I was sixteen. I thought that might put an end to it, but it didn’t. That’s when I knew I had to find another way to protect us, so when I got my license, I started taking his car while he slept. I’d drive down to this dojo on the other end of town and I’d watch the boys in there as they trained. I practiced in my room after school, just waiting for the day when I could fight back.

“The old man who owned the studio caught me watching one day. I thought for sure he’d tell me I could never come back, but he surprised me by being cool about it. Not too many people were nice to me for a lot of years, but he was one who was. He offered to teach me how to defend myself.

“He didn’t show me just one style, and none of the pretty stuff that they like to do at exhibitions. He taught me a little of everything—Muay Thai, Taekwondo, Krav Maga. He showed me how to take a man twice my size down to the ground. He didn’t instruct me like he did his students—that violence was a last resort. No, he taught me how to fight so that I could survive. He knew that, for me, to survive was to fight. And so I did. I fought to survive.”

As his story goes on, I feel the surge of satisfaction to come. Like watching a movie, knowing the climax is coming, I find myself anxious for Rogan to get to the part where he stands up to his dad, to get to the part where he finally gains his freedom.

But that’s not how his story goes.

“My time eventually came. I’d been looking forward to it for so long. I was practically swimming in satisfaction the first time I ever hit Dad back. He just looked at me and then turned around and walked off. I felt pretty damn good about it until the next day when he beat the shit out of Kurt with a phone book. My poor brother was bruised from head to toe. Bloody lip, busted nose, black eye, blue splotches all over his chest and stomach and back. Even his legs. Dad came into his room when Kurt was curled up on his bed and I was looking him over. He just stood in the doorway, staring at me. That’s when I knew. I knew I’d caused it. I’d caused him to hurt my little brother. That’s when I realized that I was stuck. That I’d have to suck it up and take it until I could find a way out. Or until Kurt could. And then we’d both be free.”

Behind my hand, I bite my lip. I don’t want to make a sound as the tears slip between my lashes and roll down my cheek to soak the pillowcase. I hurt for Rogan, for the little boy who lost so much, who had to endure so much. Within a few months, his entire life fell apart, yet here he is today—healthy and whole. And charming as the day is long. It’s obvious that his strength is much more than just physical. This man is a survivor. Down to his soul, he’s a survivor. And a wi

“I’m so sorry, Rogan,” I offer in as steady a voice as I’m capable of, but even to my own ears it sounds watery and weak. I feel him stiffen behind me, so I roll my shoulders back and turn to meet his eyes. They’re dark in the low light and the set of his jaw is like steel. “What is it?”

“I told you I don’t want your pity.” I can hear that his teeth are gritted.

“I know you did. And you’re not getting pity. My heart hurts for the little boy who lost so much, but I feel nothing but admiration for the man, Rogan. The man you’ve become is . . . he’s amazing. I only wish I was as tough as you were. As you are.”

His expression softens and he leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. When he relaxes behind me again, I melt into him, something I’m finding is surprisingly easy to do.

It’s nearly a full minute later when Rogan rises over me, his lips descending to cover mine. And when they do, I know the sad memories are over. He’s put them back where they need to be, where they can’t hurt him anymore.