Chapter 15 #2
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his breath warm against my forehead. “You don’t have to be brave, Ally.”
The nickname rips the breath from my lungs. No one’s ever called me Ally, but I’m too woozy to question it. My legs give out, and if Ryder wasn’t holding me, I would collapse on the floor.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
All the anger and desperation drains out of me. I’m awash in the raw grief that’s been eating me alive for weeks. I sag against his chest, dragging in hollow gasps.
“I can’t,” I wheeze, my face pressed against his hoodie. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Live here. Pretend I can do this. Pretend it doesn’t hurt every second of the day.” The words tumble out of me, broken and disjointed. “She doesn’t want me here. I’m a burden to her.”
Ryder’s arms tighten around me. He shifts his torso toward the stairs, as if checking for my aunt.
“What can I do?” he whispers. “Tell me what you need.”
The question surprises me so much I lift my head. His dark eyes are soft with concern, leaving no trace of the distance he maintains at school.
I swallow hard and manage a raspy whisper, “Play for me?”
Ryder blinks, clearly taken aback. “What?”
“Play for me,” I repeat, my voice still thick with tears. “A song. Anything. Please?”
He stares at me for a moment, as if trying to understand what I’m asking for. Then he nods, releasing me just enough to take my hand.
“Okay. Come on.”
He leads me through the hallway to his practice room. I haven’t dared to come this way since my spectacular entrance when I first arrived. Ryder settles onto a stool and lifts an acoustic guitar onto his lap. I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest as the wall anchors behind me.
Ryder positions his hands on the guitar, pauses, and watches me with uncertainty. “Umm, are you sure you’re okay?”
I drop my gaze, not trusting my eyes to clear up, and whisper, “Please, play for me.”
Silence.
I look up. His hands are resting on the strings, but not moving. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor between us.
“Ryder.”
“I know.” His voice is low. “Just give me a second.”
I wait with chin resting on my knees, watching him. The practice room feels very small and very quiet.
“It’s just...” He exhales through his nose. “You’re looking at me.”
“I won’t look.” I press my face into my knees, hiding my eyes. “Please. I just need something to hold on to right now.”
A long pause. Then the soft creak of the stool as he shifts his weight.
His fingers find the strings. A chord. Then another. Then his hand stiffens, and the notes collapse into something ugly and broken.
“Sorry.” He mutters it like a curse word.
“Don’t be.”
“I can feel you needing it.” His voice is tight and frustrated. “And now my hands won’t...”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. This is exactly what happens when—“ He stops himself, fumbling another chord, and breathes out sharply. “I’m sorry, Alice. I want to help you, but I can’t even...”
“Ryder.” I lift my head. My eyes are still wet, but I hold his gaze. “The stumble is my favourite part. Remember?”
He stares at me.
“I’ve memorized the imperfections in your Late Show performance. I wait for them.” I swallow hard, my voice still hoarse. “I don’t need it to be perfect. I just need it to be real.”
Something in his expression shifts, and the tightness around his jaw loosens slightly.
His fingers move again, tentatively at first, picking out a simple melody one note at a time. A wrong note creeps in and he doesn’t stop. The melody catches and holds, uneven and searching, like something finding its footing in the dark.
I let my head fall back against the wall and close my eyes. The song doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard from him before. My breathing slows without me thinking about it.
I open my eyes after a while and find him watching me. Not checking on me the way he did at the pond, anxious and uncertain. Just watching. The furrow between his brows has gone, and his shoulders have dropped. His hands move across the strings as if they’ve forgotten to be afraid.
The more I soften, the more he plays.
Every chord change becomes more deliberate and fluid. The song personifies a warm embrace. My tears dry up, and I’m no longer gasping for breath.
When the last note fades into the quiet, neither of us speaks for a moment.
Ryder shifts on the stool, and when he looks at me, something settles into his expression that wasn’t there before.
“Better?” he asks softly.
I wipe my face with my sweater sleeve and almost smile.
He sets the guitar across his knees, turning it absently in his hands. “That’s the first time I’ve wanted to keep playing.” He says it quietly, almost to himself. “Usually I just want it to be over.”
I look up at him.
“When you relaxed...” He shakes his head slowly, as if he’s still working it out. “I stopped thinking about my hands, and waiting to mess up.” He glances at me, a little uncertain. “I just wanted to keep going. For you.”
I’m quiet for a beat, but my heart pounds.
“It’s like I’ve been playing for the wrong people,” he says, softer. “You didn’t need perfect. Nobody else has ever said that to me before.”
I bite my lip and shrug it off. “I’m not a record exec.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I just look at him. This boy, who’s talented enough to fill stadiums, but falls apart in the quiet.
“Will you play again sometime?” I ask timidly. “Just for me?”
He meets my eyes, and there’s something unguarded in his expression. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
The harmony between us brings a buzzing into my veins I haven’t felt in weeks. Part of me is so grateful I came here so I could meet Ryder and find his music. But that part is quickly engulfed by the icky black goo of guilt.
I only met him because my parents died.
My parents died because of my selfishness.
The tears prick at my eyes again. I just wish my parents could be here. I want a moment with them. To hold them. To share this with them.
I wipe under my eyes with the cuff of my sweater and take a shaky breath. “Why are there no TVs in this place?”
The question surprises him so much that he actually laughs. “What?”
“I haven’t seen a single one since I got here,” I explain, my voice still hoarse from crying. “I want to watch Cook-Out Champs.”
“Umm, okay?”
“Is Miranda anti-TV or something?”
Ryder sets the guitar back on its stand and looks at me with genuine confusion. “Isn’t there a TV in your bedroom?”
I shake my head. “Just antique furniture and creepy tree paintings.”
“Well, I have one,” he says, standing up and extending a hand to help me off the floor. “You can have mine.”
“You don’t have to…”
“Come on,” he interrupts, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s get you a TV.”
He leads me through the hallway to his bedroom, three doors down from mine.
When he opens the door, it’s nothing like the Gothic grandeur of the rest of Miranda’s house.
With warm lighting and comfortable furniture, it looks more like a luxury hotel suite.
The room opens on a sitting area with two cream-colored chaise lounges positioned in front of a large flat-screen TV.
Through an archway is a king-sized bed with plush coverings.
Ryder gestures at the television. “I can move this into your bedroom.”
With my legs giving out, I sink onto a chaise lounge with maxed-out exhaustion. “Can I have a minute? I’m too tired to move again.”
Ryder plonks onto the adjacent lounge and scoops up the remote to navigate through streaming services. “What episode do you want to watch?”
All I want is something normal and familiar. I’m quick to tell him, “Episode five.”
Tension leaves my shoulders as soon as the opening music starts.
The bright colors and overly enthusiastic commentary bring color back to my skin.
I almost crack a smile, hearing Mom’s voice inside my head, cheering on her favorite contestant.
The joyful chaos of professional chefs competing in ridiculous challenges washes away the emotional confrontation with Miranda.
About halfway through the episode, when a contestant named Connor successfully flambés a dessert despite the time pressure, I’m smiling with the echo of my parents’ cheers.
“That guy, Connor, was my mom’s favorite,” I say weakly, hugging my middle. “She wanted him to win. Dad would just go along with whoever she chose.”
Ryder turns to look at me, wearing a smile curved with hope. “Then it’s Team Connor all the way.”
The simple acceptance in his voice brings back my tears. I’m so appreciative that he didn’t question why I wanted to watch the show. He’s not telling me to move on or process my grief. He’s just letting me be.
Keeping my eyes on the TV, I whisper, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not letting me go when I asked you to. For…” I continue to watch the screen, where Connor explains his flavor profiles to the judges. “For this.”
Ryder doesn’t respond immediately, which makes me glance over at him.
He meets me with a cheesy grin. “No problem. This is my favorite show.”
My mouth falls open. “It is?”
He snorts. “No. I’ve never seen it before.”
Something resembling a laugh murmurs out of me.
Ryder shrugs. “Worth a try.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lame attempt at making you laugh.”
“Oh.” I can’t tell if I’m smiling or not.
Ryder smiles, and I hope I’m smiling back.
I turn my attention back to the television, where Connor is indeed advancing to the next round. I allow myself to imagine that somewhere my mom is pleased about this small victory.
Maybe Mom doesn’t want me uncovering the secret feud she had with her sister.
I feel Ryder watching me from the adjacent chaise. After what he did for me at Alto Burger, it’s no surprise he once again caught me when I was falling.
I sigh at his profile in my peripherals. Maybe, just maybe, I’m not as alone in this cold house as I thought I was.