Chapter Three
Present - Ryder
FUCK ME.
If I’m honest with myself, I don’t know why I came here today. I didn’t do it for Brooke, and I didn’t do it for Connor. I sure as hell didn’t do it for myself.
After getting home in the early hours of the morning, following an endless shift of witnessing bad decisions and worse consequences—not to mention what happened with that pig—I found myself pouring a knuckle of whiskey for breakfast.
Sleep is something I gave up on a long time ago.
Even when my eyes close, I never rest. Neither does my soul.
A reminder went off about the grand opening event for Brooke’s community center— Ziggy’s Kids—and it came with the knowledge that the whole crew would be here: Connor, Theo, Ara, and Lou.
No way would I have stepped in as lead singer for Immoral Support for a night , had I known it would lead to Connor taking it upon himself to give me a permanent seat in his rainbow-shitting little crew—and my begrudging acceptance of it. But what was I supposed to do when Connor’s lead singer went on a bender, completely screwing the band out of their biggest show to date? They didn’t deserve that.
Connor is a good guy. In fact, he’s as good as it gets. Back when he was more worried about finding someone to jump into bed with, he never looked my way too long. We had an understanding, but ever since Brooke properly domesticated him last year, we’ve been walking a dangerous line.
I’d been planning to blow them off—again—when I got a feeling in my gut that I had to be here today. One thing I’ve learned living the life I do, you follow your gut. If you feel like you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, get the fuck out.
So, here I am. But I’m starting to think that I’ve lost my touch. Not even the bite-size spring rolls I spied on my way in are a good enough reason to be here.
My phone vibrates.
Lou: Your sour mood is seeping into my cotton candy from all the way over there.
Rolling my eyes, I put my phone back into my pocket, not bothering to answer.
Lou’s been the hardest one to shake.
Initially, Connor expected me and Brooke to get along, maybe even grow close, because of our similar pasts: dead family, living on the street, and God knows what else. But Brooke and I have responded to our experiences in very different ways, and apparently, my outlook isn’t favorable.
There is no fixing the dog shit hand we’ve been dealt, and the sooner you learn how to live with it, the less depressing it all is. People like me don’t have the luxury of dreams. There was only one thing I’d ever let myself desire, and I’ll never make that mistake again. Standing around, waiting for fate to throw me a bone that never comes? Nothing worse.
Instead, I do whatever it takes to survive, whether I particularly enjoy it or not. Whether it helps people or not. Whether it carves little pieces of my soul away or not.
Brooke’s words about what this day means to her float over, from where she stands on the small platform that’s serving as a stage, and I do my best to fix my face. I am happy for her. I’m not a total asshole. She’s not a bad person. Brooke deserves this win.
But I don’t need to feel worse about what I do at The Swan.
Clapping erupts all around me as the giant red ribbon flutters toward the ground.
Finally.
Glancing around through the crowd, I locate the table with the mini spring rolls, realizing that the number of people here has only grown since I arrived. Surprisingly, Ara isn’t already over by the food, but then again, she’d probably rather be up close today, cheering Brooke on. And where Ara goes, Theo and Lou follow.
As I push my way through, despite wanting to be anywhere else, I can’t help but notice the attention to detail and shit ton of effort that went into this event.
In the way a storm would travel through and wipe everything out, it’s as if perfection rolled through instead, leaving everything just right, and not a single feature out of place. It’s classy too, not overdone to an obnoxious level.
There are all kinds of media companies here: newspaper reporters, live anchors, and I’m pretty sure there’s an influencer corner with photo ops. I make a note to steer clear of that entire area and its surroundings. Brooke must have some serious connections to pull this off.
The process of shoving my way through the still cheering crowd is slow going. Eventually I make it to the food table, filling my plate with the spring rolls. More cheering happens behind me, but I don’t bother turning around. Instead, I focus on grabbing a few more spring rolls for the road so I can bail, just as a tiny hand taps me on my arm.
I look down, finding a little girl looking up at me, the sunlight hitting her hair just so. “What’s all that on your arms?”
Kids aren’t good for me. They blow straight past my shit and hit the sliver of granite that used to be my heart. I attempt a gentle smile, being a bit out of practice with that kind of expression. “It’s a peek of what it’s like inside.” I’m not proud of much, but I’m proud of my ink. My short-sleeve, black t-shirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination either.
Setting my plate down, I extend both of my arms so she can see the full picture. The skeleton tattoos cover both my hands, almost giving an X-ray view into the dark barrenness that lies beneath my chest. The black-and-white shaded bones lead up past my wrists where they disappear under the short sleeves of my shirt.
Only one of my tattoos has any color to it.
“I think it looks cool.” The girl grabs my arms, twisting them to expose the underside of my tattoos. Though her hands are barely big enough to wrap around my wrist, there’s a maturity in her eyes I recognize. “Mom used to hate it when I drawled on myself with Sharpies.”
I laugh. “Will she ever let you get the real kind then?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” The girl shrugs. “My mom’s been gone for a while. I live with a lady named Gina now.”
And just like that, in one solid gut punch, I’m reminded of what it’s like to have a soul. To feel empathy and regret. It fucking blows. Clearing all traces of emotion from my throat, I somehow muster, “Is Gina here with you now?”
The girl nods, pointing to someone in the crowd. “Gina said this place is for kids like me, those who go through hard things. I can come here when I feel upset. There are toys inside.”
For the first time today, I take a good look at the crowd, marking the smiling faces of children and adults alike. Some are wiping tears from their eyes, filled with hope, and I don’t hate them for it. “What’s your name?”
“Annie.”
“Nice to meet you, Annie. I’m Ryder.” I introduce myself as if Annie didn’t just send a wrecking ball straight through my stomach without even knowing it.
Brooke’s icy eyes find me, just as I grow the balls to find the stage with my own. I understand it now, respect it. Kids like Annie have a place to go when it all gets too much. I give Brooke a nod, hoping it’s enough. Hoping that somehow she understands what I would have done for a place like this growing up. Her lips tilt up on the corners, just slightly, as people begin filing in for their tours.
“Do you want to go inside?”
“Not right now.” Annie shakes her head. “I don’t like people.”
“Yeah, me neither, kid.” Picking up my plate again, I stick it out in offering. “Want a spring roll?”
Annie wrinkles her nose. “I only like chicken nuggets.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t like spring rolls unless you try one,” I challenge, doing my best to ignore the overwhelming nostalgia threatening at the back of my mind.
“Fine.” Her little hand takes one from my plate, plopping it into her mouth. Annie’s eyes light up, followed by a big smile, and I try not to bathe in my victory as she asks, “Can I have another one?”
“ Nobody hates spring rolls,” I say, stacking a few more onto our shared plate, as people begin making their way to the food.
“Can we go see the pretty girls over there?” Annie says, pointing toward the influencer booth.
“Sorry, kid. You’re on your own with that one.” Influencers in the flesh? I’ll pass. I’ve made it a rule of mine to steer clear of social media and the doctored photos floating across my screen, reminding me of everything I don’t have.
“You’re no fun.” Annie gives me her best pout and I roll my eyes, ready to toss her back to her guardian when she gasps, “Do you think that girl is one of the famous ones?”
Cringing, I half expect to find one of the Instagram models straying from their corner , but everything comes to a bone-shattering stop when I realize it isn’t a nameless stranger Annie’s talking about. At least, she isn’t nameless to me.
Part of me wonders if I’m dreaming as I take in the dirty blonde hair, her bossy stance, the way her arms are crossed over her chest, making her look like a tiny, immovable pillar. She straightens, just slightly, as if my gaze was a physical caress.
The breath is punched from my chest, as my past and future collide in the present. A hand goes to my ribs, a fruitless attempt to hold myself together. Time thunders close by, vicious and bloodthirsty.
Her brow furrows slightly, tuning out whatever the person in front of her is saying, before tilting her head toward me. I wonder if she can hear my heartbeat from all the way over there. Finally, hazel eyes find mine across the crowd.
Everything goes white.
Everything but her.
She is so agonizingly beautiful, even more so than the last time I saw her. Her sweetly shaped lips part in surprise, delicate hands moving to her mouth to catch a gasp.
Then, we’re moving.
Ten feet.
The world goes still as we race against fate.
Nine feet.
If I don’t hurry, she’ll disappear before I can reach her, nothing but smoke on the wind, the way it’s happened in every nightmare I’ve had since the last time I saw her.
Eight feet.
Seven feet.
She’s running too.
Six feet.
Five feet.
Please don’t disappear.
Four feet.
Three feet.
Hurry.
Two feet.
And finally— finally , she’s in my arms.
Soft sobs tremble against my chest, sending a violent shudder through my body in answer. Inhaling her vanilla scent, I let it sink into the deepest parts of my mind, stirring every memory I’ve sought to bury as she inhales mine. So painfully, I pull back only so I can look at her, take in the ethereal beauty, run my tattooed fingers over the face that belongs to a woman .
Tears begin trailing down her cheeks. “Ryder–”
My knees buckle at the sound of her voice, my name on her lips, the feel of her tears as I wipe them away with my thumbs, the way I’ve always done. “Shhhhhhh, it’s okay.”
We lean forward in time, resting our foreheads against the other’s.
“I know.” I tell her. “I know. ”
“You know her?” Annie asks, reminding me that the world is still spinning on its axis somewhere, that other people still breathe. “Are you famous, too?”
She pulls away from me too quickly, as if she was caught shoplifting, and I try not to let it sting. Her hazel eyes bug out at the sight of Annie, before darting to my left hand which now rests at my side, back to Annie and then to me.
“Is Annie your…?” She chokes, unable to finish the sentence.
Oh. A wave of red begins to climb up her neck and I can’t fight the smirk that pulls my lips to the side. As much as I’d love to watch her scramble, it’s probably been too long for our usual antics.
“This is Annie. A friend. We met about ten minutes ago.” Her relief doesn’t go undetected. “Annie, I want you to meet Evie.”
The name I haven’t dared to utter in more than a decade echoes through me, reverberating all the way to the scrap of my leftover soul. Fate is a sick and twisted thing, finally weaving our threads together again, after turning me into a monster.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Evie collects herself enough to lean down, shaking Annie’s hand with a smile. “And no, the fame is reserved for those girls over there. I’m just here to make sure the event is perfect.”
Someone desperately calls for Evie across the many bodies, but instead of rushing away, she takes her time running her gaze over my straight black hair, before it drifts to my pale white skin, always opting for shadows over sunshine.
Her gaze drops to my brow, over my angular cheekbones, and down to my slash of a mouth and slice of a jaw, taking in the effect ten years can have on a man. As Evie reaches the start of my tattoos, she forces her eyes back up to mine, unspoken emotions remaining trapped within, as questions rage through mine.
Did her life turn out to be everything she’d hoped as a child?
“I have to go.” Evie glances over her shoulder, toward the insistent call that has come to take her away too soon, biting her lip. “Will you come find me?”
“Always,” I agree, despite my better judgment.
And just like that, history repeats itself as I watch her walk away, my personal version of purgatory.