Chapter 14
Fourteen
Alto Burger sits on the other side of Main Street, right behind the strip mall. Picnic tables scatter across the large deck area, and strung overhead are twinkle lights, still dim against the setting afternoon sun. And the best part is an even better view of the mountains than at the park.
“Grab a table,” Ryder says, setting his guitar case down. “I’ll order.”
“I can…”
He’s already walking toward the counter. “I got it.”
I take his guitar case and find a table at the far edge of the deck, away from other diners. The worn wood is smooth from age, and there are initials carved into the surface. I trace one with my finger while I wait.
Ryder returns a few minutes later with a number placard and two bottles of water. He dumps his backpack on the ground and slides a bottle across to me.
“It’ll be about ten minutes.”
“What did you order?”
“Two cheese burgers and fries. I figured you wouldn’t eat a burger with the lot, and I don’t want side-eye from Mrs. Gallagher if I’m too full for dinner.”
I lean in. “What’s the deal with her? When you and Miranda were out late at meetings, Mrs. Gallagher wasn’t at the house.”
“She only comes to the house to make dinner,” Ryder says with a casual shrug. “And I think your aunt is saving her pennies by not having Mrs. Gallagher work on nights Miranda isn’t around. Doesn’t bother me. I’m home less than Miranda.”
I lift my palms up. “But I’m home.”
“Didn’t the driver offer to take you somewhere for food before you got home?”
“Yeah, but I figured Miranda would’ve organized something for me.”
“She probably just forgot to plan ahead for you. You’re a new addition, after all.”
I purse my lips, thinking over the implications. “Hmm.”
“Have you checked out the fridge?” Ryder asks, keeping his tone light. “Miranda keeps it pretty well stocked.”
I nod, remembering the array of fresh produce. “Yeah, I’ve seen.”
Ryder gestures at the water bottle in front of me. “Take a sip.”
I look at the bottle and then back up at him, confused.
“Alice,” he presses. “You almost fainted back there. Drink some water.”
It feels like admitting I’m stupid. Of course, I know I should drink water.
I stare at the water bottle and realize how dry my mouth has become.
Okay, it won’t be the worst thing in the world to take a sip, even though he told me to do it.
I grab the bottle but have a hard time twisting the cap off. It irritates the dry skin of my palm and makes me grimace.
“Gimme,” Ryder says, easily taking the bottle from me.
I’m mesmerized by the veiny back of his hands and the flex of his biceps. He easily twists off the bottle cap.
“Here.”
He’s still holding it.
He didn’t put it down.
It feels weird taking it directly from his grip. I squeak something mildly resembling, “Thank you,” and put the bottle to my lips.
As I gulp more times than anyone could ever consider cute, Ryder takes his tablet out of his backpack.
He sets it on the tabletop and gives it a gentle pat. “You can take a look after you eat.”
I pluck the bottle from my lips and place it on the table. “I can multitask.”
He smirks. “I’ve seen you at the dinner table. You take any excuse not to take a real bite. Girl, you’re eating first.”
“I didn’t realize so much of your time is taken up by staring at me.”
I gasp after the words leave my mouth. That was such a flirtatious tone. He didn’t hear that, did he?
He sits back with his smirk growing bigger. “It’s a nice distraction from listening to one of Miranda’s boring lectures.”
My hand covers my mouth until I realize my fingers are trembling, and then I let my hand fall to my lap.
“Don’t feel bad about a little tremor.” Ryder lifts his hand, showing me the back and front. “My hands shake too, remember.”
“But you’re so… cool and confident.”
He swallows a laugh. “The promotions people will be glad my image is paying off.”
“I just didn’t expect someone like you to deal with stage fright.” I find myself hunching to make my frame smaller. “I guess that stumble at the Late Show makes more sense now.”
Ryder groans, bracing against the table and sitting back as if he’s on a rollercoaster. “I hate how obvious my mistake was.”
“It was real,” I offer.
“I messed up, and no one’s letting me hear the end of it.”
I wince. “That’s why you’re so on edge, huh?”
He blows out a breath and relaxes his grip on the table. “Among other things. But yes, this stage fright is kicking my butt. I just can’t function if the other guys aren’t playing.”
“Like, too many eyes on just you?”
He nods uneasily.
I purse my lips to hold back a laugh. I want to tell him it’s likely everyone’s still looking at him, even if the other guys are playing. But I shouldn’t freak him out.
His head tilts. “What’s that look?”
“Nothing.” I wave it off. “Why did you admit you have nerves, anyway? You seem like you’ve been trying to cover it up?”
He shrugs, lowering his gaze. “You’ve revealed some heavy stuff to me. Seemed safe to do the same.”
I swallow hard, getting flashes of my anxious jabbering during our tutoring sessions. “Safe?”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “Is it not?”
I’m too stunned to utter a response.
“I’ve been trying to figure you out,” Ryder says, relaxing slightly. “All the preppy kids at school are like open books. Either living off Daddy’s money or wanting to become influencers. But you’re not as easy to read.”
I frown at the water bottle, clasping my hands tightly under the table. “Doesn’t orphan sum it up enough?”
Ryder’s frame collapses and there’s a woundedness in his expression. “Oh, Alice. That word doesn’t sum you up.”
“It’s a fact about me.”
“But it’s not you.”
“There’s nothing else left of me.”
“Back at the park, something inside you lit up when you were taking those photos.”
“It dimmed pretty quickly. Didn’t you see me try to hit the dirt?”
“Of course, that’s why I caught you so fast.”
I purse my lips halfway between a smile and a wince. “You shouldn’t have been watching. I told you to look away from the camera.”
“I had to look. I had to work out why I was strumming again and not messing up.” Ryder sits further forward. “Why, in front of you, it felt safe to play.”
A server approaches with our burgers and fries, and I feel sweet mercy.
Ryder looks like he wants to continue the conversation, but holds his tongue as our food is placed on the table. He sits back, probably deciding that delving deeper into the vulnerable topic isn’t the best idea.
Agreed.
When the server leaves, I catch Ryder staring. Ugh. Is he about to order me to eat? I quickly pick out a fry and take a bite.
Mmm. Salty goodness.
It seems to placate Ryder enough, because he lifts his own burger, taking a large bite.
I eat another two fries while working myself up to the burger. It’s probably the most substantial thing I’ll have eaten all week. But it’s taking some time to convince my brain it’s safe to eat it. Would Ryder make a huge fuss if I only stuck to the fries?
Come on, I can do this. Just one bite.
“One bite of the cheeseburger, Sprout.”
I flinch, getting a wave of chills.
“Dad?” I whisper under my breath.
Ryder lifts his head. “Huh?”
I wave him off and lift the burger. I picture Dad sitting beside me, having ordered the craziest thing on the menu. The corners of my mouth curve upward ever so slightly, and then I take a bite.
And it’s good.
Really good.
With Dad beside me, humming to himself, I finally taste real ingredients and flavor.
Ryder watches me take another bite. “You’re actually eating.”
I swallow. “You told me to.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing it.” He picks up a fry. “Is it because it’s not fancy food?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Gallagher’s cooking. It’s all gourmet stuff, right? Maybe you’re not used to that.” He gestures at his burger. “I wasn’t. It took me a while to adjust when I moved in. All that rich food every night.”
I set the burger down carefully. “That’s not it.”
“No?”
“My parents were incredible chefs. They ran a catering business, and everything they made was...” I struggle for the right words. “It was art. Every meal was special.”
Ryder goes still, processing this.
“They taught me to appreciate real ingredients. To taste the difference between fresh herbs and dried, and to understand why certain flavors work together.” My throat tightens. “Food wasn’t just fuel. It was love.”
“And now?”
“Now good food just reminds me they’re gone.” The admission comes out quieter than I intended. “Every bite at Miranda’s table tastes like everything I lost. Mrs. Gallagher’s cooking is amazing, but it just... it makes me remember.”
Ryder leans back, understanding settling over his features. “So you’re punishing yourself with junk food?”
“I’m not…”
“You eat chips and chug energy drinks. Skip meals. Barely touch dinner.” His voice isn’t judgmental, just observational. “Good food fuels your grief, so you avoid it.”
I grab another fry, defensive. “I guess it’s something my therapist will want to discuss in my mandatory shrink session.”
“You’re seeing someone?”
“Social services organized grief counseling.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. “Once a week until they decide I’m functional enough to stop.”
“Is it helping?”
“I learned the breathing thing. Four counts.” I take another bite of the burger to avoid his eyes. “That’s about it.”
Ryder doesn’t push. Just picks up his own burger and eats. I almost want to ask him how he knows about it. When I was having my panic attack in the library, he suggested it. But it's too close to the topic of therapy, and that's an area I do not want to discuss.
While the sun sets behind the mountains, I make it about a quarter of the way through before setting it down.
“Okay,” Ryder says, sliding the tablet across the table. “You can read now.”
I wipe my hands on a napkin and unlock the screen.
The essay loads, and I scan the first paragraph, expecting the worst.
But it’s... not bad.
Actually, it’s better than not bad.
I keep reading, taking bites of burger between paragraphs.