Boomer's Story

There was the life I lived before Penelope Vales.

And the one after.

Thwack.

My glove slams into the bag, the sound sharp and dull at the same time. The chain creaks, the bag swings back, and I hit it again.

The kid I was back then — the one who signed up for the army thinking it’d be some adventure, some paycheck, some way to escape a town that already hated him — he didn’t know what he was signing away. He thought there’d be no real war. That “peacekeeping” meant peace. That he’d come home with a little money, maybe a story or two, not with scars he can’t show and ghosts that whisper in his ear at night.

Thwack. Thwack.

My arms ache, sweat stings my eyes, but I keep going.

That kid was stupid.

But mostly, he was broken. Lost. Needing an escape, a purpose, anything that felt bigger than him.

The atrocities of the world almost matched its beauty. Sometimes they were in the same frame — smoke curling over mountains sharp as teeth, the shimmer of ocean stretching forever while mortars cracked in the distance, wildflowers growing in fields no one should’ve survived to see. Those gaps between missions, when we could breathe and look around — those were the only times I felt human.

Thwack. The bag jerks back hard. My knuckles burn inside the gloves.

But none of it — not the stars above a desert, not the sunrise bleeding over a ruined city, not one miracle that should’ve broken me open — compared to her.

Penelope Vales.

The first time I saw her, it was like my chest caved in. Earth-shattering beauty, but not in the way magazines fake it. She was real. Too real. Kindness in her voice, honey dripping from every word. Vanilla and sugar in the air when she passed, like she carried her own atmosphere with her.

I catch the bag, steady it, and then drive my fist into it again. Harder.

She laughed like she’d never cried. Danced like no one was watching, though we all were. And when she cried, I was the one who wiped her tears.

Thwack-thwack. My breathing’s jagged now. The sweat on my skin chills before it slides.

Penelope Vales changed me more than the entire world did.

And now I’m in the after.

Two years since the first time I saw her. Two years since I knew I’d never be the same. Two years of trying to bury the ache and never managing it.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

My fists blur. My shoulders scream. Doesn’t matter.

The bag swings back, nearly knocking me off balance. I reset my stance and keep going.

Because the truth is, the pain never left. It hasn’t dulled. It’s right there, in my ribs, in the cracks of me that never healed.

“Boomer.”

The voice cuts through, faint under the sound of my gloves. I ignore it.

Thwack.

“Boomer.”

I hit harder. Faster. The rhythm is the only thing keeping me from drowning.

“Man, you’re gonna pass out if you keep—”

“Do you ever just…” My words scrape out between breaths, low, rough, raw. “Wish you could beat the past out of yourself?”

Silence. The kind of silence that says there’s no good answer.

I lean forward, rest my forehead against the bag, my chest heaving. My gloves hang useless, heavy at my sides.

But in my head, I’m still punching.

Still trying to fight away the smell of vanilla and sugar.

Still trying to erase the sound of her laugh, the feel of her tears on my hand.

And losing. Every time.

Because here’s the truth: I still see her.

Sometimes she shows up like nothing happened. Sits across from me, smiling that smile that makes everything else fade out. She laughs, pushes her hair out of her face, and for a second I can breathe again.

I hit the bag once more. Not as hard this time. My arms are jelly.

She still texts me. All the time. Dumb jokes. Pictures. The little details of her day. And I answer. Every single one. Because we’re friends. That’s what she calls it. That’s what I let it be.

I lean against the bag, catch my breath. Sweat drips off my jaw, patters on the mat.

Because I can’t say no to her.

Because she has this hold on me she doesn’t even know she has.

I pull at the Velcro on my gloves. The sound rips through the quiet gym. My hands are raw, red. I shake them out and grab my water.

I should cut everything off. Walk away. Start clean. Build a life without her fingerprints all over it. But I don’t. I can’t.

I sit on the bench, gloves dropped at my feet. My chest heaves. My head tips back against the wall.

Because I don’t know what’s worse. Seeing her happy with someone else. Or not seeing her at all.

And now I'm in the after, left trying to survive without her being mine.

Side note: This book is better if you've already read my Navy SEALs one!