Chapter 14 #2
His analysis is thoughtful. The quotes are relevant. The structure mostly works, and there are a few places where the argument wanders, and others with awkward phrasing, but overall it is solid work.
I’m about to tell him when his phone buzzes.
He glances at it, frowns, and then lifts it to his ear. “Yeah?”
I watch him listening as he picks at the burger bun, and then his gaze meets mine.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, and then leaves the table, phone attached to his ear.
His broad shoulders hunch as his tall frame weaves between tables. His jaw doesn’t move, suggesting he’s stuck listening to someone drone on the other end.
He disappears around the corner, and I’m left at the table with half a burger, his tablet, and his guitar case.
I pick up a fry, no longer hungry, and force myself to keep reading. I make in-line suggestions for tightening arguments, questions where he could go deeper, and corrections for a few grammatical issues. By the time I reach the conclusion, I’ve eaten most of the burger without thinking about it.
I set the tablet down and look around. At the table nearest me is a family of four. The dad cuts up a younger kid’s burger, and the mom wipes sauce off the older one’s face. Both kids talk over one another about something that happened at school.
I remember eating out with Mom and Dad. It wasn’t often because they were usually busy with work. But sometimes, after a particularly successful weekend, they’d take me somewhere like this.
Dad would always order too much food and say, “A growing girl needs fuel, Sprout.”
Mom would steal fries off both our plates and pretend she didn’t.
We’d talk about everything and nothing. I didn’t know how limited those moments were. I didn’t know I should’ve memorized every detail.
The twinkle lights flicker on overhead, and I realize just how dark it’s gotten. With a shiver, I pray it doesn’t start to rain. I check the time, and Ryder’s been gone fifteen minutes. That’s a long call. Is it Chase? Or Miranda? Or a marketing person making sure he posted a photo?
Oh my gosh, I’m so dumb. It probably was Miranda, taking him to another last-minute meeting. Dang, I’m stranded here, aren’t I? How do I call the driver? Would a taxi even take me out to Miranda’s creepy old house?
“Whoa, you actually ate most of the burger.”
I jump as Ryder slides back into his seat across from me.
Ryder sniggers. “Sorry. Did I scare ya?”
I shake my head, feeling my face grow hot.
“Anyway,” Ryder says, gesturing in front of me. “I’m impressed by your effort.”
I frown. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“That’s something you say to a little kid.” My stomach flips with embarrassment. “Like I should get a gold star for finishing my vegetables.”
“That’s not what I…” He stops himself. “I just meant, I’m glad you ate. You looked like you were going to pass out earlier.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. It was scary.”
I blink at him.
He rubs his lips together, cautiously taking his time to speak again. “You barely eat and you’re…” He sighs. “You’re going through a lot.”
The words sit between us.
He’s right. He never saw me eat when my parents were alive. Never saw Dad piling food on my plate, or Mom making sure I tried every dipping sauce.
All Ryder has seen is the after. The girl who picks at linguine and carries bananas around.
I let myself breathe. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out.
“My parents would’ve loved this place,” I hear myself say.
“Yeah?”
“They made fancy food, but they weren’t fancy people. They knew how to relax.”
Ryder sits slightly forward. “Would they be okay with you relaxing?”
My breath hitches in my throat and my shoulders bunch high.
Ryder’s quick to lift his open palms. “My bad. I take it back. I just… you… like, seem tense… a lot.”
I swallow hard and whisper, “I can’t untense.”
He nods. “I get it.”
I wince. “No, you don’t.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No, I’m too dumb to understand that someone would be hurting after losing their parents.”
“I didn’t say…”
Ryder groans, swiping a hand over his face in exhaustion. “Do we have to do this?”
My mouth falls open, and it’s hard to form the words. “Do what?”
“Snipe at each other,” he replies. “I don’t want to keep being a jerk to you after your parents have freaking died.”
I shoot looks at the surrounding tables to see if anyone heard. “Hush.”
He hunches, curving a hand around his forehead to shield his face. “Sorry.”
“Ryder, I’m just trying to exist. You’re the one with the hostility.”
“You kinda crashed into my life with your existing.”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
“I know, and I’m trying to apologize.”
“Do you need lessons in apologies too? Because your technique could use some work.”
“Alice.” Ryder sits taller, smooths back his hair, and exhales slowly. “I’m sorry. Thank you for tutoring me, even though you’re starting a new life. Thank you for reading my essay, even though I’m a jerk.”
I bite into my lip, waiting for the but. The part where I need to get on with my life. The part where he’s struggling too, so my stuff doesn’t matter.
But it doesn’t come.
He just sits there, waiting for my response.
“I don’t think you’re a jerk,” I hear myself say. “You’re away from your parents too. I know that would be tough.”
He frowns. “But I can call mine.”
I sniff, nodding. “You can.”
Ryder lifts his tablet. “How was it?”
“Your essay?” I ask, glad for the topic switch. “Good. Really good, actually. I made some notes about potential improvements, but I think you’ve got a solid start.”
He slides the tablet into his backpack. “Thanks, Alice.”
“I’m curious why you’ve been struggling with English,” I say, eyes wandering to his guitar case. “Did you write the song you played on the Jameson Late Show?”
“Yeah, I did.”
I rub behind my neck, unable to look at his face while I admit, “I’ve listened to it more than a few times and memorized some of the lines. You’re really good with symbolism and metaphors. ‘What We Carry’ is full of that stuff. I thought it’d be right up your alley.”
“Maybe if the sentences were much shorter and put to music,” Ryder jokes. “But seriously, this book is a million years old. It’s just not my style.”
“Okay, I get that.”
“But you’ve really listened to my song more than once?”
I lift my gaze and find curiosity and intrigue written across his face. “Yeah. I may as well call it my new favorite song.”
He sits back, seemingly blown away. “Wow, Alice. That’s really cool.”
The surprise makes me laugh. “Why is that? You’ve had millions of views. This can’t be the first time someone has told you they liked your song.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to.”
I suddenly feel as though I’ve done something wrong. Have I broken one of the many rules he set out for me? “Why?”
“Because I was pretty sure you hated me.”
I hug my middle, needing the comfort when I confess, “I wasn’t sure if I didn’t hate you.”
He laughs. “Fair.”
“But I don’t,” I reply. “I guess you’re just… complicated.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
“Well, you’ve thrown a lot of emotions my way, but now I’m not sure if they were meant for me.”
He shakes his head. “They weren’t. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want my manager getting distracted so close to the showcase.”
“But she’s my aunt. You know I need her.”
“That’s why I was frustrated. If Miranda’s going to suddenly flick on the motherly switch, then my hardlined manager will disappear.”
I sigh. “I don’t think she has the motherly switch.”
Ryder’s hand inches across the table, but then he pulls it back. “I don’t think so either.”
A raindrop hits the back of my hand.
Then another on my cheek.
Ryder looks up at the sky just as a low rumble rolls through the mountains in the distance. The kind that starts quiet and builds, like a monster waking up.
My stomach drops.
“Rain’s coming in fast,” Ryder says, already reaching for his guitar case.
But I can’t move.
The rumble fades, and the air goes still and thick. Another drop hits my arm, and then the back of my neck.
They never made it home.
“Alice.”
The twinkle lights blur at the edges. My fingers grip the table’s worn surface, pressing into the carved initials, needing something solid and real.
Another rumble. Closer.
“Hey.” Ryder’s voice drops. “Alice, look at me.”
I can’t.
The rain picks up suddenly, pattering against the decking. Chairs scrape all around us as other diners grab their things. Children are squealing. Someone laughs about getting caught without an umbrella.
“Ally.” Ryder’s hand covers mine on the table, yet it’s the unexpected nickname that makes me jolt. “We need to move.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Thunder cracks, louder this time, and the sound splits me open. A sound escapes my throat that I don’t mean to make.
“Okay, we’re going.” Ryder is on his feet, and his arm comes around me, solid and certain, guitar case in his other hand. “I’ve got you. Come on.”
My legs find the ground but don’t cooperate. He takes most of my weight without comment, steering us toward the awning at the burger shop’s entrance. The rain is heavier, cold and wind-driven, and the deck clears fast as the other diners crowd under the same narrow strip of shelter.
We press in close. Someone’s elbow presses into my backpack, and I slip it off and secure it between my feet.
Ryder adjusts his grip, shifting me in front of him so I’m not crushed, with his arm still anchored around my shoulders.
The guitar case presses against my hip, and I focus on the solidity of him. The warmth.
I hate that I need him.
I hate that without him I’d be back at that table, staring at nothing while the sky fell apart.
The rain sheets across the deck, bouncing off the wood. Another roll of thunder moves through the mountains, and I feel it in my chest, low and terrible.
I exhale. Four counts.
Ryder’s arm tightens slightly, as if he felt it.