Chapter 27
“You’re playing tic-tac-toe by yourself?”
I glance toward the unfamiliar voice. There’s a boy standing in the open doorway, staring at me.
My arm twitches with the strong urge to cover the folder I’m doodling on, hiding the evidence. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me feel self-conscious.
I don’t know him, but I recognize him. Ryder James. He’s one of the kids from the trailer park. I’ve never agreed with the division in town, but I’ve always gone along with it. Never spoken to anyone who lived in the section of town with a different zip code. The Twos.
“I’m winning,” I tell him.
Ryder laughs. He has a nice laugh, deep and husky. “Of course you are, Elle.”
Warmth pools in my stomach, and a flush spreads across my skin. I’m reacting to the way he said my name. To the fact that he knew my name. To the way he’s focused on me, giving me his complete attention.
“Are you here because you’re running for student council president too?”
Ryder laughs again, but this one is different. Short and dry. “Nah. Detention.”
“Oh.”
I have no idea what to say to that. I’ve never had detention before.
Ryder ambles deeper into the room, taking the desk beside mine. “What does student council do this early?”
“I have to collect signatures. Mrs. Scott is my faculty adviser. She told me to meet her here so she can give me the papers I need.”
“Student council sounds like a lot of work.”
“It’s not supposed to be easy,” I reply. “And I might not even win.”
“You’ll win.” Ryder sounds very certain of that outcome. He leans over to look at my tic-tac-toe board. “It’s a cat’s game.”
“What does that mean?”
“No winner. Or two losers.” He settles back into his seat. “You got another piece of paper?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I tear a clean sheet out from my notebook, then hand it to him. Our fingers brush, and I stiffen like I was just electrocuted.
My heart begins racing, and a strange fluttering sensation appears in my chest. I don’t knowRyder. All I know is that he lives in the trailer park my friends make fun of and that my chest always feels too tight when I look at him. Whenever he’s nearby, I notice. My palms get sweaty.
I have a crush on him, I think.
And I didn’t think he even knew who I was. I’m still reeling from the revelation that he does.
I wet my dry lips with my tongue. “What are you doing?”
“Staying out of trouble.” He’s flipping and folding the paper I gave him, twin lines wrinkled between his eyes as he concentrates. “I’m Ryder, by the way.”
“I know,” I blurt.
When I gather up the courage to glance over, he’s looking at me. One corner of his mouth is curved up, and it sets off a series of fizzy fireworks in my chest. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and then looks back down.
“Ryder? What are you doing in here?” Mrs. Scott has appeared, her expression confused as she glances between me and Ryder.
“Lady in the office sent me this way,” he replies.
Mrs. Scott sighs. “Morning detention is in the cafeteria. Head down there, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ryder stands and walks toward the door. He doesn’t look at me as he passes by, but there’s a flutter of white that flashes in the air and then lands on my desk.
He folded me a flower.
“Was he bothering you?” Mrs. Scott asks as soon as Ryder disappears.
“No,” I say, then slip the flower off my desk very carefully.
My eyes fly wide open, the darkened surroundings of my bedroom registering gradually. I’m not fourteen, inside Fernwood High School. I’m twenty-five—almost twenty-six—and in my bed.
I sit up, the sheets pooling around my waist as I scrub both hands across my face.
I miss Ryder.
I miss him even though I shouldn’t. Even though I don’t want to miss him.
Part of me has missed him ever since that morning he wandered into the classroom where I was waiting—our first conversation. Like some alchemy took place during that brief conversation and changed me forever. Like there was a me before Ryder and a me after Ryder. And no matter how much time passes or what else changes in my life, I’m stuck with whatever shift took place that moment he spoke to me, crossing the imaginary line between us up until that point.
Groggy and sad and still stuck in the head of my younger self falling in love for the first time, I open the drawer beside my bed.
The eleven-year-old origami flower has held up remarkably well. This flimsy piece of notebook paper fared a lot better than our relationship did.
I twirl the stem between two fingers, attempting to muster the urge to destroy it in some way.
Protecting this piece of the past is unhealthy. Makes me a masochist.
Eleven years. That’s how long it’s been since I met Ryder James. It feels like a lifetime.
And the longer I stare at the flower, the more certain I become that I’ll never get rid of it.
I hate the ending. But I love our story.
I grab my phone off the bedside table with my free hand, giving my alarm clock a cursory glance.
3:07 a.m.
I tap his name and then hold the phone up to my ear to listen to it ring, not caring it’s the middle of the night.
Ryder answers on the third ring. “Hi.”
That’s all he says. He doesn’t ask why I’m calling or mention how late it is. He doesn’t bring up any part of our last—loud—conversation.
I say nothing at all. This was about actions, not words. Wanting to call him. Wondering if he’d answer.
Eventually, I lie back down and tug the sheets up my chest, listening to the silence on his end. Staring at the paper flower.
There’s so much between us. An ocean of love and hate and giddiness and resentment.
It feels too vast to even approach. I don’t know where to wade in.
I’m mad at him about so much. Yet no matter how much anger builds or burns, he’s still the one person I want to talk to in the middle of the night.
“Sixteen,” Ryder says.
“What?”
“You took sixteen breaths in the last minute.”
“Oh. Is that … normal?”
Probably not because I’m not. He made me different.
“No idea. Considering there’s sixty seconds in a minute, that’s about a breath every four seconds—that sounds about right.”
“How many breaths do you take in a minute?” I ask.
“No idea.” He sounds … amused. “I was staring at a clock, and all I could hear was you breathing, so I just … counted.”
We revert to silence.
Once upon a time, I imagined this would be every night. That talking to him at three a.m. would simply require rolling over and facing the pillow next to mine. I don’t know how to say that—I shouldn’t say that—so I just soak in this moment. Right now, talking to Ryder is just a matter of opening my mouth. This is my alternative reality—a brief chance to experience part of how I hoped my life might turn out.
Maybe he gets that.
Maybe he doesn’t know what to say to me.
“You answered.”
Ryder doesn’t reply right away. Finally, he says, “You called.”
“I wanted to know if you’d answer.” Better than admitting I wanted to listen to silence with him.
“You called,” he repeats.
This time, he emphasizes you. Makes it sound like that makes a difference. Like my call matters, and I resent the implication—that he has any investment in communicating with me after years of ensuring all means of contact were sealed off.
“I couldn’t call for seven years. You made it so I couldn’t even talk to you, Ryder.”
I’m mad at him about a lot. I’m maddest about that. How easily he tossed me aside.
I heard what Tucker told me. But it doesn’t feel like enough of an explanation. Ryder loved me so much that he wouldn’t let me see him? He loved me so much that he broke my heart … again? How could he not consider—not appreciate—that I would have done anything to see him? That him shutting me out was a spectacular sort of torture?
Another long pause.
Then, “I know.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“That, and I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apology.”
“What do you want then?” The question is sincere, not exasperated.
You. Pride and common sense keep that syllable from slipping out of my mouth.
We’re over. We’ve been over. We’ll stay over.
I wanted this to feel wrong. To be awkward. For hearing his voice to not help. But the silence where my answer should be isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just noticeable. Heavy.
“I have everything I want,” I lie. “My life is great.”
I could go anywhere I want. Be anyone I want.
And I’d still choose to be lying here, listening to Ryder breathe.
It’s my favorite sound in the world, I think. It means he’s near. Alive.
“You don’t have to pretend around me, Elle.”
He’s wrong. He’s who I have to pretend around the most.
“I’m really sorry about your mom,” I whisper.
He sighs heavily. “Me too.”
“Good night, Ryder.”
I hang up and roll over. Fling the paper flower on the floor.
Goodbye has always felt like too small of a word when it comes to Ryder. Too minimal and inconsequential and common.
If seven years of silence wasn’t enough closure, I don’t think any one word will manage it.
I stare at the white spot on the hardwood for several minutes.
Scout loves to chew up paper. He’s in his crate downstairs right now, but he’ll start whining to go outside around six thirty.
I sigh before slipping out of bed and picking up the flower. I set it in the drawer carefully, slide it shut, then climb back into bed.
It takes me a long time to fall back asleep. By the time I do, my pillow is damp, and my cheeks are stiff with salt.