Chapter 18
Scarlett
I’m used to waking up in a fog, usually from working late the night before. Sometimes from waking up too early to do it again. Words blend into each other, jostling and fighting for space in my brain. They rarely leave room for anything else except, occasionally, a nagging feeling that I’ll never do enough, be enough, write enough.
But there’s only one word in my mind when I wake up the next morning.
Ryan .
The sun is streaming through my east-facing window when I crack my eyes open. Dust dances in the beams of light, and it feels like an accurate metaphor for what I’m feeling right now. Cobwebs and dirt are illuminated by the golden hour, all the more beautiful for how they move and shine. My brain isn’t clear, but I can see the grime. Maybe that’s the thing that needs to happen before I can clean it out.
And Ryan was the one who shone a light on it all. I had been deep in my own world, convinced this is just how it is for me: I can write and live a life of isolation and exhaustion with Trina as my only connection to the outside world, or I can never write again and cobble together some semblance of a normal life. But with only one evening having him near me, I can already see that a happy medium might be possible, because the way I feel now, I could conquer not only this manuscript but maybe even another.
Smiling to myself, I reach out to where I had felt the mattress sag next to me last night as I was finally, blissfully drifting off to sleep. Only now, it’s empty.
Of course it is. He said he was going to stay until I fell asleep and then leave. A quick glance at my phone reveals no messages from him, and the fact that it’s already eight in the morning. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. And as late as it is, Ryan is probably long gone by now.
The sting of disappointment is enough to keep me in bed all day, but Dianne’s voice nags me at the back of my mind. Get out of bed, even if that’s the only thing you do. Then when you feel able, do the next thing.
Groaning audibly as if there’s anyone here to hear it, I violently roll myself over and land with a thud on the ground. Actually, it’s a good thing no one was here to see that bullshit. Whatever. She said I had to get out of bed, not how I had to get out of bed. I’m putting that one in the win column.
That done, I untangle myself from the comforter that came with me and toss it in a heap onto the floor. I’m pretty sure the next thing should be to make the bed, but I don’t care enough about the aesthetics of my home to bother. Instead, I rub the dried tears from the night before out of my eyes and pull on a pair of joggers that looks clean enough. I make my way to the kitchen, pleading with the universe that I still have enough coffee grounds left to brew myself a cup.
“Good morning,” a deep voice greets me.
My hand flies to my chest as I stumble back a step. “Fucking hell,” I breathe, pressing myself against the wall and trying to catch my breath.
“Did I scare you?” Ryan smirks. He’s leaning against my counter, and he takes a smug sip of what I really hope is coffee from a mug out of my eclectic collection. This one has a classic, intricate, blue-and-white design on it, but when you look closer, there are little dinosaurs chasing people among the detailed blue houses.
“Yes, you fucking scared me. I thought you had left.” My heart is still racing, though I can’t tell if it’s from lingering adrenaline or from the fact that he’s still here, looking fresh as a daisy even in yesterday’s clothes.
Still smirking, he hands me a mug. This one says I stayed up all night to see where the sun went. Then it dawned on me. He had bought this for me years ago as a joke about how late I tend to work, but I can’t help but wonder if he was in my head this morning.
“Sleep well?” he asks as if it’s totally normal for him to be standing in my kitchen at eight in the morning wearing clothes he must have slept in and handing me a warm mug as the early-morning light casts the whole scene in a glow.
I eye him over my mug as I take a slow sip. It is, indeed, coffee. A little, appreciative moan escapes me, and I could swear Ryan’s eyes flash. It’s gone too fast to be sure.
“I did, actually. Why are you still here?” As if I hadn’t been bemoaning the fact that he was gone not two minutes ago.
“You were out of coffee, so I went to get some.” That’s not really an answer to my question, and it occurs to me to wonder how he’s been getting up to my apartment without being buzzed in. Because he did leave, apparently, and came back with this nectar of the gods that is currently warming my cold hands.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I try to put on an irritated expression, but if I didn’t notice this until now, I don’t know how concerned I really am about it. “How are you getting in and out of here?”
Ryan has the good sense to look sheepish. He sets his coffee mug down on the counter and clears his throat. “Well, I—”
“Are you stalking the door and waiting for people to open it? I swear to god, Ryan. That could get me in trouble with the super.”
“It’s not my fault Midwesterners are nice and hold the door open for people. They should know better in this day and age. That’s a definite security risk.” He levels me with a pointed look. “There are a lot of people in and out of this building, Scarlett.”
“Don’t deflect blame on me for choosing the most nondescript building I could. I wasn’t in my right mind when I moved here. Last time I checked, you still have your sanity. You shouldn’t be sneaking up here. Use the buzzer like a gentleman.”
He tilts his head and is silent for a moment. His throat works against a hard swallow. “Would you have buzzed me up?”
My gaze falls to his hand resting on the side of his mug where it sits on the counter. The light clinking of his ring tapping against the side of the mug fills the silence between us like a metronome. No, like a clock, ticking the seconds away. Or like the timer on a bomb, counting down to my response.
But like a bomb, there’s no avoiding the inevitable answer.
“I’d always buzz you up, Ryan,” I say to his hand, barely audible.
That finger stops clinking against the mug. The resulting silence is deafening.
“Scarlett,” he says, his voice strained.
“I was never mad at you,” I choke out, still not looking at him. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see you specifically. I couldn’t see anyone. It wasn’t anger or shame or anything like that. It was a physical inability to have a conversation. A mental block. And by the time I sorted it out…” I shrug. “I guess I figured you all were better off without me after I ruined everything.”
The vague awareness of his body leaning closer to mine pokes through the watery haze that’s developing at the corners of my eyes. I don’t know if I realized how bad off I was five years ago until I said it aloud just now. But I know it’s true in the way I know it when my words are hitting right on the page; it’s a gut feeling, and I’m not deleting any of it.
“I wasn’t,” Ryan whispers. He clears his throat, then speaks louder. “I wasn’t better off without you.”
The blue fabric of his sweater blocks my view of the counter as he steps in front of me. His hand comes up to cup the side of my face, the warmth of his palm incongruous with the cold metal of his ring lightly scraping against my skin.
“Look at me, Scarlett.”
I take in a deep breath before I do, the aroma of vanilla and almond and coffee working its way into my senses. Slowly, I drag my eyes up his chest, letting my gaze linger on the brown stubble that speckles his usually clean-shaven skin before I meet those dark eyes, framed by even darker glasses.
He’s everywhere. He takes up so much space that it’s hard to breathe.
“You are more important than the sum of all your words.” There’s an intense seriousness in his voice that’s matched in his eyes. The press of his palm won’t let me look away.
“I’m not suicidal, Ryan. I’ve been depressed. There’s a difference.” I don’t know why, but it’s important to me that he knows that.
Those brown eyes assess me for a moment before he nods once. “Right. But you’re not really living like this, either, are you?”
My gaze falls again, even as he holds my face in his hand. I had thought I was doing okay. And maybe I was, though I can see how he, as an outsider, doesn’t think so. But is okay really something to strive for? Is that the kind of existence I want?
No. I want words and pages and the high of holding my book in my hands, of trailing my fingers over the beautiful cover, letting them linger over my name on the spine. The way it used to be, before everything went to shit.
“We did it,” I said, my grin stretching so wide it hurt as I drank in the cover art, the way the letters of the title curled into the drawings below and gave way to my name at the bottom.
“ You did it,” Ryan corrected, but his smile rivaled mine.
I shrugged. “You helped. I mean, you’re in the acknowledgments.”
He flipped straight to the end, his eyes tracking quickly across the page, then slowing when he found it. His smile softened as he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth. “ Thank you, most of all, to Ryan Whitlock. Weak words have no place here. Only the strong will survive ,” he reads. In one motion, he clapped the book shut, it landed on the love seat, and he pulled me into a kiss.
I want him.
It should be a harsh realization that crashes into me. That’s how it happens in all the books anyway. But it’s not. It’s warm and soft as it slides into my mind and over my heart. It feels like coming home.
His hand falls away from my cheek and he takes a step back. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
I huff a laugh. Out of line. Sure. If he only knew that I can’t stop thinking about kissing him, holding him, having him in my life again.
“It wasn’t.” My voice is raspy and raw. “You’re right. I need…I don’t know. Something else. Something I can do besides write and get in my own head.”
Ryan runs a hand through his hair. It stands out at odd angles, and a lock of it falls over his forehead. “You mean besides watching holiday baking shows?”
“Make fun all you want, but you have to admit that there’s something really soothing about watching cake batter pour into a pan.”
His chuckle is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever heard, and the sound of it draws my own rusty laugh out of me. We linger in the light humor, mirroring each other’s smiles, our eyes locked as if neither of us wants to look away. The earlier tension between us isn’t broken, but it’s subdued—a candle flame rather than a roaring bonfire.
We both open our mouths to speak at the same time, then laugh again at the awkwardness of it. But before we can do the You first, No you thing, a loud ringing sounds from Ryan’s pocket. His shoulders tense, and he looks around as if he doesn’t realize it’s his phone making the sound. When he figures it out, he pulls the phone from his back pocket. A glance at the screen has him tensing even further.
“I have to take this,” he says apologetically. “Can I…” He motions to the bedroom.
“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” I nod emphatically like a fool who doesn’t know how to work her own body. Get a grip , I tell myself as Ryan slips into the bedroom and shuts the door behind him.
When he’s out of my line of sight, I deflate. I slump against the counter, and my hand knocks against my coffee mug, almost tipping it over. I right it quickly, but my Ryan-induced lack of control over basic movements is starting to get annoying.
I sip my coffee and try to calm my racing thoughts while I listen to Ryan’s muffled voice through the door. I can’t make out any of the words, but the deep tones resonate through the wood. It soothes me.
He stayed. He brought me coffee. He’s here.
Even though I majorly fucked him up five years ago. Even though I can barely keep it together now.
I’m falling for him again. As much as I would like to shove that inconvenient fact into a box and pretend it doesn’t exist, I can’t. The little touches, the warmth of his presence, the thoughtfulness. His ability to see me at my worst and still only think the best.
I don’t want him to leave.
And if we’re going to try to keep this professional, I am royally screwed.