Chapter 5 #2
“I can’t just write your essay,” I murmur.. “That’s... that’s cheating. I could get in trouble.”
His laugh is harsh, cutting through the quiet library. “Oh, now you care about getting in trouble? You should’ve thought about that before you crashed into my practice room.”
I flinch as if he’s slapped me.
“Look,” Ryder says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I get that you’re dealing with... stuff. But so am I. So forgive me if I’m not interested in your moral crisis about homework.”
The tears start before I can stop them. Hot and humiliating, sliding down my cheeks.
“I’m not asking you to write the whole thing,” he continues, his voice hard. “Just give me an outline. Some quotes. Themes. Whatever. Something I can work with.”
I swipe at my face with trembling hands. “But that’s still…”
“Good lord, it’s not that hard.” His frustration is palpable. “You’re supposed to be some genius student, right? Straight A’s, advanced placement, and all that. That’s the only reason Miranda even wanted you here.”
“That’s not...” My voice cracks. “She’s my family.”
“Sure.” Ryder’s voice is flat, almost bored. “Keep telling yourself that. But we both know why you’re really here. Miranda needed a tutor, and you needed a place to live. It’s a transaction.”
“Stop it.” Fresh tears blur my vision. “Please, just stop.”
“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m being realistic. I’ve blown off tutors in the past. I guess she thinks if we’re under the same roof that maybe I’ll get the work done.” He taps the novel. “Now, can you please just help me outline this essay so we can both get through tomorrow?”
I pull the novel toward me, and the words swim on the cover. I can’t think. Can’t focus. Every breath feels like it’s cutting my throat.
I pick up my pen. Press it to paper.
My hand tremors and skitters the pen across the page, leaving a jagged line instead of words.
A sob escapes before I can muffle it.
“Are you seriously crying right now?” Ryder’s exasperation is clear in every syllable.
I press my hand over my mouth, trying to stop the sounds from escaping.
But my shoulders quake, and the tears won’t stop.
Everything from the past three days crashes over me at once.
The funeral, the drive through the storm, Miranda’s fake warmth, the equipment destruction, Chase and Brooks’ cruelty, Ryder’s hatred.
“Hey.” His voice softens slightly. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I keep my eyes fixed on the tear-stained paper in front of me.
“Alice. Look at me.”
Slowly, I lift my head. His dark eyes fix on mine, and there’s something in them that might be sympathy. Or pity. I can’t tell, and I’m not sure which would be worse.
“I know you lost your parents,” he says, and his voice is gentler now, like he’s talking to a child. “I know that sucks. I’m not... I’m not trying to be a jerk.”
Hope flickers in my chest. Maybe he understands. Maybe—
“But you can’t fall apart every time something’s hard,” he continues. “The world doesn’t stop because you’re sad. Life keeps moving, and you have to move with it.”
The hope dies instantly, replaced by humiliation that burns hotter than my grief.
He’s patronizing me. Treating my parents’ death like I’m just being dramatic about a bad grade.
“My parents are counting on me,” Ryder says, leaning back in his chair. “My band is counting on me. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart, and neither do you. Miranda’s expecting results, and if I don’t deliver, I’m screwed.”
“I’m trying—“ The words come out choked and desperate.
“No.” He stands up, gathering his phone and guitar. “You’re crying. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him through my tears, and something cold settles in my chest beneath the grief.
“Look, I get it. Your life sucks right now. Mine does too.” He slings his guitar strap over his shoulder. “Maybe today is a no-go on studying. But tomorrow, you need to actually help me, or this whole thing is pointless. Can you do that?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer.
He moves toward the door, and I think he’s going to leave. Part of me wants him to. Leave me alone with my rage and shame. But he pauses with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at me.
“And for what it’s worth...” His voice is quieter now. “I am sorry about your parents. It’s really unfair. No one should have to go through that.”
For a moment, the sympathy in his voice makes my chest ache. He does understand.
“But they’re gone, and we’re still here.” His tone shifts, becoming matter-of-fact again. “So tomorrow, show up ready to work. Okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the library.
I sit here, frozen, as his words echo in my head.
“They’re gone, and we’re still here.”
Like the loss of my parents is just... an inconvenience. Like my grief is something I need to get over so I can be useful to him. Like I’m supposed to just move on because he needs help with his English homework.
The tears stop. The shaking stops. Everything stops except the cold fury building in my chest.
How dare he?
How dare he talk about my parents like that? How dare he act like he’s being reasonable when he’s asking me to cheat for him? How dare he treat me like I’m weak and useless just because I can’t stop crying?
I look down at the table. Scattered are the novel, worksheets, and the careful preparation I did this morning while he was rehearsing with his band.
None of it matters. Because I’m not here to tutor him. I’m here to do his work for him. To be useful. To earn my place in this house.
Miranda doesn’t want a niece. She wants a resource.
And Ryder doesn’t want a tutor. He wants someone to blame for his problems, and someone to fix them.
The walk back to my room feels longer than it should. For a moment, all I hear are my footsteps on the hardwood floor, until somewhere in another wing flows faint guitar music. Ryder practicing the setlist that matters so much more than anything else.
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, staring at the sparse room that’s supposed to be mine. The wooden bed I didn’t choose. The antique furniture that belongs to dead strangers. The paintings of twisted trees that make my chest tight every time I look at them.
My eyes land on the framed photo on my desk. Mom and Dad beaming at the camera, their catering van visible in the background.
I drop everything to the floorboards and pick up the photo frame with both hands. Mom’s bright smile. Dad’s laugh lines around his eyes. The way they’re standing close together, comfortable and happy.
“They’re gone, and we’re still here.”
“He’s wrong,” I whisper to the photo. “He doesn’t get to say that about you. He doesn’t get to act like losing you is just... something I need to get over.”
But even as I say it, a small, traitorous part of me knows he’s right about some things. The world didn’t stop when they died. Miranda doesn’t care about my grief. School starts tomorrow, whether I’m ready or not. And if I don’t help Ryder pass English, I have no idea how Miranda will react.
I set the photo down carefully.
Ryder Hamilton thinks I’m weak. A charity case who can’t handle real life. He talks to me as if I’m a child who needs to be taught how the world works. As if my parents dying is equivalent to his equipment getting damaged. As if we’re both just dealing with “stuff.”
He’s wrong.
He’s so wrong it makes me want to punch the stone wall.
I hate him.
I hate him for saying my aunt only wants me here for my grades.
I hate him for making me feel small and useless.
I hate him for talking about my parents as if they’re just an obstacle to his music career.
But most of all, I hate him because somewhere underneath all that cruelty I saw something that looked like understanding. A flicker of genuine sympathy before he shut it down and told me to get over it.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because it means he knows better. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s choosing to be this way.
Somehow, I have to turn up at a fancy private school tomorrow and act like a functioning human. But how can I do that when Ryder Hamilton will be at the same school? The tears start again at the reminder of falling apart in Miranda’s library.
Functioning tomorrow will be the most difficult task I’ll ever undertake.