Page 17

“You too, Kayla.”

I turn left outside the building and follow the herd of rangers headed to the bar; except I keep going straight after they all turn toward the entrance. Just when I think I’m in the clear, a text message chimes on my phone.

It’s Ryan. We exchanged numbers after the hiking trip. Because we’re ‘friends’ now. Or something.

I open the message, which reads: Dropping the truck off at the station. Be there in 5.

Damn. So close.

I could tell him I’m sick. I got food poisoning at lunch. I got a migraine from dealing with the interns all day. I got so jealous of him and Kayla yesterday that I coughed my guts up onto the break room floor, where they’re still writhing around. I need to go home and rest.

Not feeling very well. Going home to lie down for a bit.

My stomach flutters as I hit send on the message.

Admittedly, part of me wants to go to happy hour. Maybe if Ryan and I spent more time together, we would find a happy medium between overly-considerate weirdos and mortal enemies. But it’s just as likely that it would make everything worse.

When I get back to my apartment, I’m surprised to find that Ryan hasn’t responded to my text. I fully expected an argument from him. I’m even a little disappointed that he doesn’t seem to mind that I bailed at the last minute, but I shake it off.

My after-work routine is pretty much carved in stone.

After changing out of my Forest Service uniform, I queue up one of my favorite yoga videos on YouTube and asana the hell out of all the stresses of the day.

After that, I make something quick and easy for dinner, take a shower, and read or watch some TV.

I’m just pulling my sports bra over my head when I hear a knock on my door. Once a week or so, Olga brings me some extra bread from the bakery. I’m crossing my fingers for a baguette or some scones when I open the door and see…Ryan.

He scans me from head to toe. His eyes catch on the bare inches of skin between my sports bra and my leggings. Then he glances behind me at the yoga mat that’s unfurled in front of the television.

For once, he doesn’t ask how I am. He already knows I’m fine. And that I’m a huge liar.

“I brought you some soup,” he says, holding up a Styrofoam container from downstairs. “Can I come in?”

Do I dare try to keep up the lie?

Yes, yes I do.

I clutch my stomach. “I don’t know, I’m really not -”

“…a very good liar?” he asks with a smirk.

I slump back a step and motion for him to come inside.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Just checking on you, making sure you’re alright.”

“I appreciate it,” I say in a tone that obviously conveys the opposite meaning, “but I’m fine. And I know you’re dying to get to happy hour, so…”

“Are you going?” he asks. One of his eyebrows is cocked above his challenging glare.

“Ryan, are you seriously going to make me say it? No, I’m not going.”

“Then I’m not going either.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest and sigh. “I thought you really wanted to go.”

“No, I really wanted to spend some time with you.”

His words catch me off guard. I study his face for a second. Despite the harsh tone of his voice, his expression is soft and playful. He’s not mad, but he’s not backing down either.

“We can hang out here instead,” he says.

“You want to hang out at my apartment?”

He nods.

“And do what exactly?” I ask.

“Well, if you want to keep pretending to be sick, we could play doctor. Or you could do yoga while I watch.”

I roll my eyes and scoff, but I also have to fight off a smile that’s tugging at my lips. These are the conversations I’ve missed having with Ryan…the ones where he isn’t treating me like Little Orphan Annie.

“How about you do yoga and I watch?” I counter.

“You couldn’t handle it.”

“Why? Would I spontaneously combust over the sight of your ass in downward-facing dog?”

“It’s possible,” he smirks.

That fucking smirk. I’m definitely starting to see the appeal of it.

“But if you’re going to keep me here, you’ll have to feed me,” he adds. “I usually grab dinner at the bar on Fridays.”

“I’m not keeping you here. You could go eat dinner at the bar.”

Ryan smiles and takes a step closer. It compresses the sizzling tension between us, trapping it all in the mere inches between our bodies. I feel it dancing along my skin, unrelenting in its quest for our attention.

“How about this: I’ll make dinner for both of us while you do your yoga. I won’t even look. I’ll be too preoccupied trying to create a decent meal out of your assorted vegetables,” he says.

“There’s no way I’m doing yoga in front of you.”

“Ok, then playing doctor it is. I’ll get the rectal thermometer. Go ahead and drop your pants.” He pretends to start walking away when I catch his arm and tug.

“Counter offer: you do yoga with me and afterward I’ll help you cook dinner.”

“Deal,” Ryan says with surprising ease.

He strips off his sage green work shirt and drapes it over the back of a chair. The black t-shirt underneath shows off his muscular arms and chest and I try not to stare. He empties the pockets of his dark green rec jeans, depositing his wallet, phone, and keys onto the chair as well.

Ryan isn’t as bad at yoga as I imagined he would be, but he’s not exactly good at it either. I’m also pretty new to it, so we both laugh as we struggle through some of the more challenging poses. He can hold downward dog longer than I can, but he also falls on his face while attempting crow pose.

We make veggie burgers for dinner and eat them standing over the counter. We try to eat the vegetable soup he brought from downstairs, but it’s a salty, mushy mess. Afterward, Ryan grabs two ciders from my fridge and plops down on my sofa.

Sofa is the wrong word, really. Love seat or oversized chair would be more accurate.

There are only two narrow cushions, so when Ryan sits there with his legs splayed and his arm draped across the back, it doesn’t leave a lot of room for me to join him.

I sit facing him with my legs curled under me.

I’m tucked into the furthest corner of the sofa, much to Ryan’s amusement.

“Please don’t make me use that stupid line about how I won’t bite unless you want me to,” he laughs.

I relax a little, allowing myself more room even if it means that I’m nearly touching Ryan.

He’s already flipping over to my Netflix account and scrolling through my recently watched items. It’s an embarrassing mixture of chick flicks and total garbage that I only watched for a few minutes before giving up.

“I hear this is pretty good,” Ryan says as he hovers over the icon for the show Shameless . “Have you seen it?”

“No, let’s give it a shot.”

The show starts and we enjoy exactly three minutes of distraction before…boobs, butts, and the most graphic sex scene imaginable. By the time two of the actors are desperately screwing on the kitchen floor, Ryan and I are both barely breathing for fear of brushing up against each other.

Later, during a distinctly nonsexual scene, Ryan asks, “Is this what Chicago is really like?”

“Parts of it.”

“What about the part you’re from?”

“I was born on the south side, but I moved around a lot. Most of the group homes I went to were on the south side, but the foster families were usually in better neighborhoods.”

Ryan takes a long draw of his hard cider and then looks at me. He has more questions, but he’s afraid to ask. I’m afraid to answer. The last time we did this, it made everything even weirder than before.

My fingernails pick at the label on my bottle of cider.

“Would you mind if I asked why you were in foster care, or is that too personal?”

I ponder this for a minute and shake my head.

“No, it’s fine. My mom is an addict. When I was younger, she was in and out of jail and rehab facilities all the time.

Sometimes she would OD and have to stay at the hospital for long stretches until she dried out.

As soon as she got home, she’d have another needle in her arm. ”

I can count the number of times I’ve told anyone this on one hand. It’s not something I like talking about.

“Where is she now?” Ryan asks carefully.

“She’s been clean for a little over six years. She got a job at one of the rehab facilities that treated her up in Chicago. We talk over the phone once a week. It’s probably the closest we’ve ever been.”

“That’s good,” Ryan says quietly.

I shrug. “Yeah, but I’ll never really trust her.

I used to get my hopes up whenever she got clean.

I’d get to go home for a while and stay with her, but it was always the same thing…

always another relapse. Once a person is an addict, they’re always an addict.

Sobriety isn’t a single achievement, it’s a lifelong challenge for people like my mom. ”

Ryan seems to ponder this for a minute before he speaks again.

“And your dad?”

“No dad,” I say quickly. My mom never even knew who he was.

It feels good to tell someone all of this, but then I see Ryan lean back ever-so-slightly. Like he’s afraid that if he breathes too hard in my general direction, I might shatter.

“Look, you asked,” I say. It comes out so defensively that it even surprises me. Ryan is obviously taken aback by my remark as well. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and his mouth gapes open a little.

“Whoa, where did that come from?” he asks.

“Sorry, I just don’t want you treating me differently because of this. I’m still the same person; growing up in foster care doesn’t define me or mean that I’m some damaged, fragile mess.”

“I know,” he says gently.

“But you’ve been walking on eggshells around me all week, ever since you found out about the foster care thing.”

Ryan scrunches his brows together and searches my face as if he’ll find the answer there.

“That’s not why –” he starts, but cuts himself off. A heavy sigh passes through his lips. “I’m sorry, Marlow. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

Ryan shifts beside me, pulling me toward him and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. His chin rests on top of my head. It’s a hug that feels a little bit like pity, but it’s so nice to be held that I don’t object.

We watch another episode of Shameless quietly. We sit closer this time, less worried about accidentally touching, but not intentionally touching either.

When the episode is over, Ryan stretches and says that he’s getting tired. For a split second, I almost blurt out an invitation for him to stay the night.

Not like that though.

Or maybe like that.

But I don’t ask him to stay. I’m not sure what tonight was, but it didn’t change the fundamental truth that we are not on the same page when it comes to relationships. A friendship might be in the cards for us after all, but that’s all we’re ever going to get from each other.