Page 6

William

Sunny days made owning a high-rise apartment worth the hefty price tag. The yang to that yin was that dreary days felt all the more depressing from this high up.

We were on our fifth consecutive day of rain, and any respite we’d had since Ryan arrived didn’t come with a break in the clouds. Still, I moved about the kitchen whistling a cheerful tune while Ryan showered after having slept in that morning.

I hadn’t woken up to another note from him, even though I’d taken my odd dreams filled with ancient quills and rolls of parchment as a sign that there would be. I’d opened my eyes with a start, sitting straight up in bed, my gaze going to the floor. It was a wonder I’d gotten any sleep at all. I’d been highly conscious of our exchange even within my dreamscape.

I placed an order for more writing materials and groceries before climbing out of bed to get my day started with an at-home workout. Two hours later, I met the delivery guy at the door, and with nothing left to do but wait for Ryan to emerge from his room, I got started on breakfast.

He liked to observe, but I’d gotten some chicken tenders and fries I wanted to surprise him with. If we could eat bagels for dinner, then why not chicken for breakfast? Not burning the place down in the process would be the trick. I didn’t have a good track record with stoves.

Slipping the package of precooked tenders and fries into the preheated oven, I set about putting the rest of the groceries away and tidying up.

Twenty minutes later, the timer dinged. I grabbed the mittens, hoping I’d followed the directions correctly.

The tenders were a bit too crispy along the edges, but were otherwise golden as pictured. The fries were soft in some places and hard in others. I took another look at the cooking instructions for both, cursing under my breath. The fries needed to cook longer than the chicken. I should’ve had them baking first, or maybe went with the option to fry. I bit down on a soft end and nodded. They weren’t perfect, but they were edible.

I got everything plated, and had just placed Ryan’s food on his side of the island when he appeared at the kitchen’s archway. He’d tied his damp hair away from his face, making his surprise more evident.

“Hey,” I said, my mood brightening further, despite my nerves. Ryan looked from the food to me, his gaze turbulent. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing. “I know you like to watch…” I trailed off when his sudden blush and swift turn of his head confused me. Then I recalled the incident in my bathroom last night. He’d seen me.

My words took on a whole new meaning then. Dread and disgust filled me as I contemplated the old wounds on my body again, wondering if he’d seen them from his vantage point outside the door. It was highly unlikely, but that was how shame and paranoia worked. It made the impossible seem plausible. There was also the issue of him witnessing the act in itself. Had he stuck around for it all? Did it trigger him in some way? I still didn’t know what he’d been through. Did it scare him? And if he had seen it through to completion, if it hadn’t triggered or scared him… Then what had it done to him? I didn’t allow myself to contemplate that answer.

“I wanted to surprise you.” I went back to the meal I’d prepared. “I made something different. Hopefully it’s edible. The fries are…okay.”

Ryan continued to stare at the food.

“I can taste it first. Prove there’s nothing more than flour and way too much salt in there.”

Ryan’s gaze returned to me, his cheeks crimson free, his jaw now set like stone. He seemed angry. At himself? At me? My smile ebbed as he took a step back, and continued to fade with each backward step until he was gone, taking whatever joy I’d found with him.

I stared at the empty space he’d left behind, asking myself what I’d done wrong. I wanted to believe it was something to do with the food. Or maybe his embarrassment over my unintentional double entendre. Something told me the truth was much worse than that, though. I couldn’t help feeling like Ryan saw my momentary lapse into happiness and decided to punish me for it.

We didn’t communicate over the next four days. I spent most of my time upstairs working in the studio while Ryan made the library his home. For three of those days he made his own bagel and waffles. The loss of that role affected me more than I’d have liked to admit. Preparing his meals made me feel needed in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long while, and he’d taken that from me.

Him having the power to do that made me realize I’d lost sight of the main objective. To get him to Safe Haven. He needed to see a doctor, needed to talk to someone licensed and equipped to deal with his trauma. He needed to start rebuilding his life. I needed him to start rebuilding his life.

Today he hadn’t eaten at all. Earlier, I’d waited as long as I could before tapping on the library doorway to ask if he was hungry.

“It’s almost dinner time and you haven’t eaten anything today.”

He’d been sprawled out on the floor, books and reams of paper surrounding him as he traced letters with resolute concentration. He scowled at me, making no move to get up. I broke first, walking away.

My emotions were tethered to those of the people around me. How someone else felt usually dictated how I felt. I’d always been that way. It was something I constantly worked on. I had another side too. A side that lashed out when hurt, or when my overthinking grew to a breaking point where I said “fuck it,” not giving a damn about anyone or how they felt. Those moments were closely followed by remorse, and an even deeper dive into self-dissecting. Was I wrong? Were they right? I could feel one of those moods coming on as midnight approached and Ryan still hadn’t eaten or given me the time of day.

After picking at a couple pieces of the bland tenders still in the fridge, I decided to go to Ryan and speak honestly instead of stewing over how things were. I had to be the one to keep making the effort, and I wouldn’t get any sleep knowing he still hadn’t eaten, and that it was likely because of me.

He sat at the window seat now, huddled over a notebook. I watched him from the dark hallway, the dim light above the closest bookshelf to him extending over his top half. He guided his pencil in slow, careful strokes over the sheet of paper, his brows drawn together in concentration.

Suddenly I didn’t want to interrupt him, but the floorboard creaked when I took a step back. His head turned in my direction, trapping me with his hostile gaze. His expression blanked, as though he didn’t want to give me anything, not even his rage. As though he knew I craved anything other than indifference.

I entered, drawing in closer than usual. His features didn’t shift, he didn’t recoil in the slightest, but the hand holding the pencil to paper trembled. I inched back once the lead tip snapped, not proud of myself for needing a sign that he cared. Even if he only cared about keeping me away.

“Something went wrong between us,” I said, “and I don’t know what it was.”

Ryan didn’t seem moved by my words. I sighed, slipping my hands in my pockets. I cleared my throat, continuing with the truth this time.

“Actually, I think I have a good idea. The thing is, I have a habit of over analyzing things and creating scenarios in my head that don’t exist.” I waved a hand at my head before pocketing it again. “I don’t know if I can trust what my brain says is wrong.” Looking at him made me feel seen in both good and bad ways. Like he understood me but also hated me because of it. It was a feeling I couldn’t explain, or maybe I could if I wasn’t afraid to.

His large, black eyes burned with something old and familiar, something that took me back to a time I hated to remember, but couldn’t stop myself from reliving every day. It would’ve been easier for us both if I hadn’t let him in. If I’d left him in Davidson’s hands that day at the hospital.

My heart rejected that thought the moment it filtered down to it. He was here for the same reason the others had been. Ryan served a purpose. A purpose I’d been running toward for as long as I could remember.

“I got excited when you wrote back to me the other night,” I whispered, careful not to let a sad smile break free. Sad or not, I now felt protective of any small amount of joy I possessed, of showing any emotion that could be confused with happiness in any way. The fiery hate in his gaze faded a bit. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part.

“I can’t recall the last time I’d felt… happy,” I said, for lack of a better word that would’ve put me somewhere neutral. “You saw that didn’t you?”

Ryan dropped his gaze to the scribble on his notepad, as though he had seen it and felt terrible about it. I took that as confirmation, feeling bolder now that I knew my inner voices hadn’t been playing tricks on me.

“I think it offended you, or upset you. Maybe even scared you. I can only imagine why.”

His fingers curled around the notebook’s spiral binding. I pondered if his reaction was out of anger at me having it all wrong, or fear because I’d gotten it right. Because if I had gotten it right, then that meant I saw him too, that our understanding of each other went both ways. I could see how that would be scary when I sensed we both would rather hide.

“My brain settled on a conclusion,” I went on, walking to a shelf to grab a book I wasn’t the least bit interested in. I just needed to move, needed to remove myself from his line of sight, needed to hold something in my hands to stave off the strange desire to touch him. Maybe if my fingers were busy with something else, they wouldn’t want to reach out to him.

Cursing my cowardice, I shoved the book back in its slot, returning to my spot a few feet away from him. Some things were worth facing directly, worth squirming through.

“You were happy too,” I said. “But maybe you can’t trust that happiness. Or you don’t want to. Maybe you hadn’t realized our guards were lowering until then, and now yours are back up again.”

Ryan twisted away from me, staring out the window now. I made do with his pained reflection.

“I get it. But I’m only trying to help you. You can stay as long as you like, Ryan, but it’s been nearly two weeks. If you don’t want my help, then what do you want?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t grab another pencil from the pile next to him to write down what he couldn’t verbally say. Through the glass, I could see he’d reverted to his stoney mask.

I took a deep breath then I let it go. I’d done my best for the night. I’d try again tomorrow. “Just eat something before bed, will you? The tenders and fries aren’t amazing, but at least it’ll be something in your stomach. Zap them in the microwave for a minute or two, or make waffles and bagels. Just please, eat something.”

His stomach growled, like it had before. It took every ounce of strength to turn away from the sound. A scary thought hit me then. Was he using his hunger as a weapon against me?

“Oh,” I said, pausing at the doorway. “My mother’s going to stop by for dinner in a few days. She agreed to make enough food to last a whole week.” Still nothing. I hesitated before adding, “My business partner, Xavier, may join us. He’s a good guy. Trustworthy. If his being here will be a problem for you, I can tell him not to come.” Still nothing. I lowered my head and left.

I was halfway through the living room when the sound of paper ripping hit my ears. I waited for it to stop, but it continued on for some time, followed by labored breathing. Don’t, I warned myself. Don’t turn back . But what if he needed me? I remembered the state of the apartment when I’d returned from my run the other day and doubled back to the library.

Avoiding the creaky floor plank, I held my breath and approached the room. Ryan sat on the floor atop the mountain of torn paper he’d created. He’d wrapped his arms around his legs, his forehead lowered to his knees, his shoulders shaking. My heart reached for him, the ache in my chest intensifying. He seemed so broken. A bird without its wings.

I hurried to my bedroom before I got any stupid ideas about consoling him. Letting him see me right then would’ve been the worst thing I could’ve done to him.

After staring at my ceiling for what felt like hours, a shuffling noise at my door caught my attention. I sprung up, seeing a crumpled sheet of paper waiting for me.

I stood there reading the three semi-neat words, trying to sort through what it could mean.

Chicken tenders and fries.

Smoothing the paper out on the wall near the light switch, I tilted my head, squinting to make out everything that came before it. It was one of the sheets we’d written back and forth on many nights ago. Everything in me sank when I read the last thing I’d asked him. He hadn’t responded to it then.

What’s your absolute favorite meal?

The paper dropped from my numb hands as I realized my mistake.

Opening my door, I shuffled to the kitchen on shaky legs, pulling the saran wrapped pan of leftover chicken tenders and fries from the refrigerator before dumping it in the trash. Gripping the edge of the counter, I dropped my head forward, breathing through the panic and paranoia, failing at bringing an end to it.

Back in my room, with no memory of how I’d gotten there, I popped one of my pills. The ones that made the voices tired. I fell onto my bed, not bothering with turning off the lights, and waited impatiently for oblivion to take me away.