Page 9

William

Ryan climbed to his feet. He’d chosen to wear the compression tights I’d ordered him. The same ones I preferred to run in. I’d gotten him every option I could think of. Tights, shorts, pants, tanks, t-shirts. He likely picked the tights because the weather was changing. With the first day of fall a week away, the mornings were cooler. Or maybe he chose them for the same reason I did. To keep my legs hidden—one area on them specifically.

He wore the running shoes I bought for him too. I’d purchased them after checking the size of the battered shoes he’d worn here.

It took me a moment to realize he was looking me over. I’d been too consumed with taking him in to notice. I looked down at my chest, releasing a sigh of relief at finding it cum free. The bedsheet had absorbed all of it. My long-legged boxer briefs covered my inner-thighs, so that was one less thing to feel humiliated about.

I cupped my hands in front of my crotch. “Sorry. Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

Ryan met my eyes again, but there was nothing but mild boredom in his dark gaze. At least the sight of me hadn’t traumatized him.

Mindful of being shirtless—and the other parts of my body I wanted to hide—I backed into my room, closing the door before turning for the bathroom.

I washed up quickly at the sink then brushed my teeth, hurrying before Ryan had a chance to change his mind. He’d overheard my conversation with Xavier in the hall, which meant he had to be eavesdropping. Xavier’s words lit a spark in him. They’d mattered for some reason. What about everything else Xavier said? Did that matter to Ryan too?

“I’m sure William has told you all about Safe Haven. Do you plan on visiting any time soon?”

He should’ve visited Safe Haven, and I should’ve wanted him to. I did want him to. So why couldn’t I meet my own gaze in the mirror?

Not wanting to delay us any longer, I got dressed and strode out of my bedroom. Ryan wasn’t in the spot I’d left him in.

Creeping down the hall, I listened for movement behind his closed door before finding him in the living room. He peered out over the darkened city, hands clasped behind his back. We were still an hour away from sunrise.

“Ready?” My question hadn’t pierced through his thoughts. I understood being overwhelmed by thoughts. So consumed by them nothing outside of myself penetrated until they were done with me. I repeated the question louder this time. Still nothing. Did he not want to go anymore? Did the world outside scare him?

Since I couldn’t count on him to verbally tell me what was wrong, I analyzed his body language. The hand clasping his wrist squeezed and released repeatedly, his lithe back and long legs tense. In the reflection of the glass I caught him watching me draw my own conclusions.

His lips pressed together in a thin line, as though he had a problem with me looking at him. Like he had a problem with me in general. We were playing this weird game of cat and mouse, it seemed. For every step forward we took, no matter how insignificant, we retreated two back. Or he did, at least. I was just the masochist puppet, my strings being yanked in multiple directions.

“We can take our time. I don’t expect you to be marathon ready. We jog, we walk, we walk slower, or we stop altogether. So long as we get out, get some fresh air into our lungs, and start to move forward, it doesn’t matter to me.” Because we were stuck in place. “Can you do that?”

He turned to me, but gave me nothing else. I wanted to beg for a nod, a shake of his head, a mouthed “yes.” Something. I wanted whatever he’d given my mother in the kitchen that for some odd reason felt like he was purposely withholding from me.

He swallowed, mouth parting to let out an unsteady breath. That small show of something would have to be enough.

I waited by the front door to give him space to make up his mind. I wanted to smile when he appeared at the other end of the hallway, then proceeded to meet me where I stood. Not wanting to find out what my show of excitement might cost me, I kept my expression clear.

The cool morning air ruffled his hair as we jogged along the West Side. Not my usual route, but foot traffic tended to be lighter, with mostly other runners occupying the pathway at this time of morning.

Cars whizzed by along the highway, but it seemed to be the people that concerned Ryan most. He couldn’t relax until he’d confirmed, with enough glances over his shoulder, that whoever had jogged past us was no longer in view.

I kept our pace light, and within ten minutes he was panting loud enough to wake the dead. We walked briskly the rest of the way to the pier, making it there in time to see the sun make its way above the horizon. I hung back as Ryan eased toward the railing.

The moment matched his sketch, and my heart constricted when he reached his trembling hand toward the sunshine like he wanted to grab hold of it. He held his position as rush hour struck, blind to the students and working people zipping past to get to their destinations.

It was as if the darkness had cleared from his vision, and now he only had eyes for the light.

We went our separate ways to shower and change when we got home, then I made us protein shakes—under his watchful eye. I tossed the package of waffles onto the counter when he looked at the freezer meaningfully.

“I guess your love for Eggo’s trumps your love for my mother’s chicken, huh? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Opening the refrigerator next, I noticed three of the containers my mother stuffed with food were gone. “I take that back,” I murmured. He must have binged them in the middle of the night. His appetite had returned in full force.

I heated up her leftovers for myself. I couldn’t stomach another waffle or bagel. We ate in silence, as always. Everything with Ryan was done in silence, causing me to fixate on him, to obsess over his non-verbal signals.

“I was thinking,” I began, going for light and casual even though my nerves were on edge. “Maybe I could help you with your reading and writing. If you want.” I ripped a paper towel from the holder, wiping my mouth and fingers. Ryan glowered at me.

“I mean, you don’t have to—”

He shoved his stool back, nearly knocking it over in his urgency to get away from me. I bit out a curse, pushing my plate aside and dropping my head into my palms.

I’d lost count of the seconds passed after reaching fifty, a semblance of stillness calming the overactivity in my head. Something hitting the island startled me. My eyes popped open on Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story .

Ryan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, averting his gaze.

“This was my favorite book as a kid,” I said, gliding my hand over the tattered cover. “It started my love affair with reading.” Caught up in my nostalgia, I’d forgotten the number one rule.

Never say the wrong thing.

Breathing past the panic, I scanned his face for a sign that what I’d said meant something to him. I picked up on his indecision as his fingers twitched toward the book. I held on to it tighter.

“I’ve been wanting to read it again,” I said, hoping he’d still want me to read it to him. I opened it to the first page, deciding to jump right in before he had a chance to disappear. He retreated from the kitchen before I could.

Instead of storming to his room, he went over to the couch and stood there waiting.

I scrambled to my feet and followed, sitting in the middle while he stared down at me. Ignoring his stunning, terror filled eyes, I started reading, my tone welcoming, my excitement hidden.

By chapter two he’d settled onto the edge of the couch, more than two arm lengths away. By chapter five he’d reclined onto the pillows, and by chapter eight he was close enough to lean over and point to words he didn’t know the meaning of.

I took my time, enunciating everything because I wanted him to understand, but also because I didn’t want the moment to end.

Before I knew it, the sun was setting and my mouth had gone dry from the length of time I’d spent reading aloud. Ryan slept curled up on his side, less than two feet away from me. I slipped the book onto the coffee table, then did the same with the notepad he’d gotten to fill with words and their definitions. I’d helped him write some down to save time.

Covering him with the throw, I watched him sleep for an unhealthy amount of time before closing myself into the music studio. I picked up the instrument I’d been avoiding for weeks. The instrument that had saved my life. The one I played in homage to someone special. Because of my hours just spent with Ryan, Bastien, Falkor and Atreyu… I was suddenly in the mood to play again. In the mood to remember why I’d begun playing to begin with.

Ryan woke up the next morning too sore to get out of bed. He felt good enough to go for a jog the following morning, and was less sore than the first time after that. After a week we were able to sprinkle in a few thirty-second sprints. By the second week we had a well-oiled routine. We ran, he ate waffles while I ordered in, I read to him, and he wrote for a couple of hours before disappearing for his sacred alone time.

Having finished breakfast after our recent run, I cleaned up while he ventured to the library for a new book. We finished The Lord of the Flies yesterday. Ryan shared my love for the classics, he’d also reignited my love of reading. I’d returned to the tradition of keeping a book on my nightstand, and staying up way too late before drifting off with the open book still in my hand. I hadn’t done that in a few years. Life had gotten too busy.

He returned this time with Where the Red Fern Grows . An idea hit me then.

“How about we switch things up and watch the movie version? It’s pretty old, but I’m sure it’s streaming somewhere.” I closed the dishwasher as he thought about it. Didn’t take him long to nudge the book he’d placed on the counter. His way of saying he’d rather not make any changes to the new system he’d come to depend on now.

“Let’s give it a try,” I encouraged. “I’ll put the subtitles on, that way you can see the words as they speak them. It could help in a way listening to me read them can’t.” I wasn’t sure about that, but it sounded good, and I needed to get him closer to the end goal.

“It’s time to set boundaries and encourage healthy compromises. He needs to talk to someone equipped to handle what he may have gone through.”

My mother’s words trickled into my thoughts. She’d called to check on us a few times now, and every time she asked if we’d gone to Safe Haven yet, my answer had been no.

Thankfully, securing the contract with Foxhound Studios for Xavier had bought me an extension on his patience with our unfinished project. But with our deadline looming, his patience would wear thin again. I’d told him he could come by for a work session next week. I still hadn’t mentioned it to Ryan.

He tapped the book cover, making his preference clear.

“Okay, but I’m going to have the movie going on mute, just in case you change your mind.” I snatched up the book and went into the living room, opening the coffee table drawer for the remote. I found the movie, got the subtitles going, and muted it as promised.

We were maybe a few chapters in when from my peripheral I noticed his attention shift from me to the movie, then back again. This continued while I read. The stints of time he spent listening to me shortened until it became clear I was reading to myself. I quieted, unmuting the TV when Ryan got to his feet and moved closer to it. He stayed there until the last credit rolled and the screen went black.

The next day I offered him caramel popcorn while we watched Glory . He turned it down with a cute scrunch of his nose. It took three more nights and a Denzel Washington marathon to get him to give it a try. I’d had to order more by the boatload after that.

Ryan hated change. Every new idea clashed with his resistance, but I came to realize he could be reasonable. If my explanation for the change made sense, he’d come around. Not instantly, but still. Also, some alone time did wonders for his stubbornness. I waited a couple more days before proposing something else. Something big. Something I knew he’d hate.

We were rained-in again, so we didn’t take our morning run. I spent time checking in with Freedom Fighters, and finally returning Davidson’s calls. He was eager to speak with Ryan, and I was eager to protect him. I didn’t think he was ready to deal with it. Davidson said that wasn’t my call to make, and so I agreed to talk to Ryan about it.

He’d been in his room for most of the afternoon, a full shelf worth of books in there with him. I’d been pacing the length of the living room when the sound of his door unlatching traveled down the hall.

He walked into the living room as though something had drawn him there against his will. Like he’d felt my need to talk to him, felt my crippling anxiety about the topic all the way from his room. Ryan exhaled and folded his arms.

“I was about to knock on your door. Feeling okay?” I asked, stalling. “I can make you waffles if you’re hungry.”

Ryan didn’t bite.

“Sit, please.” I gestured to the end of the couch he stood closest to while I took a seat on the other end. He chose to stand.

“I spoke with Davidson earlier. He’s the agent from the hospital, remember? The one who helped you and the others.”

Ryan dropped his arms, fully alert now.

“He’d like to know if you remember anything about how you got here. Can you give any names? Descriptions? Did you see or hear anything that may be useful to their investigation? Did the men or women speak English? Have any tattoos? Is there anything you remember?” I didn’t mention Davidson’s interest in how and when he’d been taken to begin with. I told myself it would only overwhelm him more. “It could be important.”

Ryan’s lips set in a stubborn line. If he did know something, he wouldn’t be telling me. He turned to walk away.

“It’s time to set boundaries and encourage healthy compromises. He needs to talk to someone equipped to handle what he may have gone through.”

“Wait!” I called out, my insides recoiling at what I planned to address next. “I think it’s time we visit Safe Haven, Ryan.” I didn’t want him to think I was punishing him for not cooperating with Davidson, which was what his shocked gaze suggested, but he needed to talk to someone. As much as I wanted that someone to be me, I needed to accept it couldn’t be.

“I’m not punishing you, or putting you out. You can stay here as long as you want.” I noted the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “But you can’t stay here as a prisoner from the world, or your problems.” I wanted to take it all back. I wanted to barricade us inside the apartment and keep him safe from all harm, but that would’ve only satisfied my selfish needs.

“We have therapists there who can help you deal with the things that make you scream at night,” I whispered. It was more of a caged sound than a scream. Like yelling underwater, or trying to speak past lips glued together. It didn’t happen as often as when he first got here, but it still happened. He balled his fists, face heating from embarrassment or anger. Maybe both.

“You won’t have to talk, if that’s what you’re worried about. They’ll meet you where you are. Just give it a chance,” I implored. My assurance got me nothing. Not even a shake or a nod of his head. “Ryan—”

He stormed off, a look of fury and determination etched across his ethereal face.

“Ryan,” I tried again when he returned, but he threw himself onto the couch and began scribbling furiously on the notepad he’d gone to get. He grunted with impatience when his rage got the best of him. Sheet after sheet rained down around him as he wrote and tore the paper away to start again. His fingers white knuckled the pencil, and he gripped the edge of the pad with brutal force. He couldn’t calm himself enough to get his thoughts written down.

“Ryan…” His whispered name got lost in the sudden strike of thunder. “Ryan,” I tried a little louder, “it’s okay.” Without thinking I reached out to comfort him, to tell him I take everything back, that we could stay locked away from whatever was making him feel like this. I wanted to tell him that I understood why the idea of speaking to a therapist scared him, because the idea of it scared me too.

His pencil and paper slid across the coffee table as he leapt up, stumbling away and falling. He scurried backward, away from the threat of my outstretched hand. He panted heavily through clenched teeth, spit flying as he practically foamed at the mouth.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stammered. “I wasn’t thinking.”

His chest pumped up and down at a speed too quick to keep track of.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, voice breaking. He looked like an animal that had been beaten and was now cornered, waiting.

“God,” I breathed, unsure if it was the beginning of a prayer, or the start of a curse. I sat there drowning in self-hatred. I did this to him. It was all my fault. My heart hurt, and I dug the heel of my palm into my chest, trying to get myself under control.

“You don’t…” I’d been about to tell him he didn’t have to go, to promise I’d never suggest it again. I got sidetracked when his gaze fell to my feet. To the sheet of paper that had landed there when he’d made his explosive escape from me. I made a slow show of picking it up, giving him ample time to let me know if he didn’t want me to.

When he didn’t, I looked at the page, the corners crumpling in my fists as I read the horror smeared across it.

Burned!

Stab!

Cut!

Drugged!

Slave!

Cold!

Hungry!

Chained!

Floor!

Beat!

And the last one, written three times...

Broken!

Broken!

Broken!

“No,” I breathed, close to tears, looking him over as though I could see through his clothes to the scars his words screamed were beneath them. He’d told me what happened to him. He was telling me he wouldn’t talk about it with anyone, but in doing so, he’d shared it with me.

He must have realized that, because his eyes watered as he shook his head and scrambled to his feet. He’d never given me a head gesture before, and it felt almost like he’d finally said something to me. I wished it wasn’t this. I wished he’d gotten to live a normal life, gotten to fall in love, wished he’d gotten away. I wished he’d never been taken in the first place.

“Wait!” I called when he turned for the hall. “You don’t have to go to Safe Haven. You don’t have to…” I clutched the paper I still held, my blood boiling, demanding the immediate hunting down and torture of the people responsible for all this. I shut down the voices attempting to take those thoughts a step further, my guilt didn’t need any more ammunition. “You don’t have to tell anyone about this, if you’re not ready to. But I need you to see a doctor.”

He spun toward me, nearly falling over again.

“I know you don’t want to be touched, but what if…” I looked at the paper again, noticing the absence of the four-letter word I dreaded seeing, hoping it wasn’t because he hadn’t gotten a chance to write it down. “What if something is medically wrong because of what they did to you? Something we can’t see?”

Ryan wasn’t examined at the hospital. Davidson said he wouldn’t let anyone touch him. He’d had to be restrained and sedated after having a meltdown when they tried. I strengthened my resolve before meeting his tearful eyes again, because I couldn’t afford to back down now. I couldn’t let my need to make everything right for him cloud my judgment. Not about this.

“My doctor makes house calls. I’ll get examined too, if it helps.” It was almost time for my annual check-up anyway. “It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, but you need to do it. This is my compromise.”

His face blanched at the seriousness in my tone, and he clutched his t-shirt as though already fighting to hold on to his autonomy, to hold on to his right to choose. I wouldn’t force him, regardless of what I’d said. I just hoped he would agree.

“Don’t let them keep you chained,” I whispered, still seated for fear my legs wouldn’t hold me up. “Don’t let them win.”

Ryan stayed in his room for two whole days after that. I went back to leaving trays of food by his door, and notes that went unanswered. I went back to taking my little oval pill again.