Chapter 10
ELLA
I think I’m mentally unstable.
Like the purple-wigged old lady I see in the grocery store, wearing a nightgown, and pushing a Cabbage Patch doll in a baby stroller. Last week, she opened up a jar of sardines on aisle four and tossed one in my face when I tried to squeeze past her. I’m talking that level of derangement, if not more.
That can be the only answer for why I offered to come back to Ry’s homestead and let him use my hotspot.
I take a staggered breath and slide out of my SUV, dragging my backpack behind me. Ry wanted to drive me out to his place and then drive me back into town when we were finished with our homework. It made no sense. He started to argue about my safety, so I locked myself in my SUV and pulled up beside his truck, idling the engine, until he climbed in his vehicle and led the way.
He quickly places battery-operated lanterns on all of the side tables on the patio and lights a fire. I settle into one of the Adirondack chairs, deciding it would be more comfortable for reading than the chair I sat in last night. Plus, there’s a lantern right beside it, shining brightly. By the time Ry sits down in the seat next to me, I’ve already turned my hotspot on. He must see it right away on his laptop wireless options because he softly says thank you for no other apparent reason.
We work in silence for a while; the only noise is the crackling of the fire and the clicking of his fingers on the keyboard of his computer. I’m handwriting the outline of my theme paper as I read. I hate those things. Despise them. It shouldn’t even be classified as writing.
“I think symbolism is a bunch of crap. Don’t you think that sometimes the author chooses to make the person’s shirt red simply because it’s the first color that pops in their head, and not because red symbolizes that this character represents the red devil that lives in all of us?”
He looks up from his keyboard. “Yep. I take it you’re having to write a paper on the book’s symbolism?”
“Yes, and it infuriates me.”
“I felt the same way in high school.”
“Ry, how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
He must be in the same year of school as Carrie. She’s only twenty, but she’s always one of the youngest in her class because her birthday isn’t until June. “So, you’re a junior in college?”
“No, this is my last semester at the two-year community college.”
I chew my lip, thinking of the math in my head.
His raspy chuckle stirs that lustful feeling low in my stomach. “Hell, Lulu, don’t overthink it. I didn’t fail a grade. I took a year off after high school to save money.”
“Save money for what?”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it. He was going to make a smartass comment about me coming from money. I know he was. “Tuition and books and this computer.”
“What about student loans?”
“I refuse to take student loans. I don’t wanna start my life indebted for an education, an education I have to have because of some unwritten bullshit law that book experience is more valuable than real-life experience. Every job requires training. Book smarts don’t account for much in my opinion.”
Is that code for someone who has struggled in school? Someone who has made bad grades? That’s surprising; Ry strikes me as a very intelligent person.
“You worked at the garage to save money?”
“I did. I started working there part time in high school. Harlan and my grandpa were best friends.”
I study the shadow of his face. He’s so damn good-looking, he drives me insane. “So, how often do you work?”
“My classes are Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, nine a.m. to two p.m. I work after that, and I work all day on Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes, I work on Saturday morning before Harlan’s grandson comes over.” He rubs his fingers across his lips, watching me, studying me. “What about you? Do you have a job?”
“Of course, I do. It’s a little thing called finding my sister .”
He rolls his head back, eyeing the moon hanging in the sky. “Way to make a guy feel like an asshole.”
Sometimes I really am a bitch. I try to hide my smile by biting the end of my ink pen.
He closes his laptop and sets it down beside him, staring at the fire. “So, tell me, what is the latest on Carrie?”
My mood swings to the opposite end of the spectrum, pulling me down into a deep hole of melancholy. I stack my book and notebook beside me on the side table and straighten my back. “Nothing. No new leads have come in. That’s why I started looking at things, looking at the gas station. I noticed Carrie was driving all the way across the county to go to that gas station. She was using the ATM inside the store. Which didn’t make sense because she used her credit card every place she went. And she was buying that certain drink, which was just weird—that blackberry sweet tea. So, I decided to stake it out. I confronted her ex-boyfriend and he finally told me that she was using drugs. And pushing them, like you called it.”
All of a sudden, I realize I described my sister in the past tense. Guilt shrouds my heart and I wonder if I should correct myself.
“Stake it out? You realize how that makes you sound, right?” he asks, interrupting my disturbing thought.
I square my shoulders and grip the armrests of the chair. “How does it make me sound, Ry?”
“Like a Nancy Drew vigilante.”
“And what would you do if it were your brother?”
“You have met my brother, right?”
I keep my comments to myself. It’s one thing to speak ill of your own sibling, but a completely different thing to have someone else speak ill of them.
“No new leads?” he asks when I don’t say anything. “All of the news stories haven’t produced anything?”
“In the beginning they did. But I’ve learned more in the past couple of days than I have in the past six months. We really got lucky with the news coverage, but even the major news outlets are starting to lose interest. And they are tiring of my parents’ antics and attitudes. At least we got what we did.” I snort. “Another benefit of being a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl—a white girl—who looks like a super model.” Sad, but true. I wish every missing person got the kind of media attention Carrie did—no matter what they look like and no matter how much money they have in the bank.
He nods, agreeing. “Carrie is very beautiful.”
And there you have it… Now, I’m jealous again of my kind, loving, older sister. My missing sister. No wonder he kissed her. He stopped because she was under the influence. What if she hadn’t been? Would Ry have had sex with her? With my sister?
“Go ahead and ask me. I know you want to.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Don’t beat around the bush, Lulu. I already told you I like you when you get to the point.”
I give in to his demand without fighting. “Would you have slept with her? If she hadn’t been under the influence, would you have had sex with my sister?”
His stare is so dark and intense it makes my heart race in my chest. My palms break into a cold sweat. I hate the feeling. And I also like it. Really like it. I feel more alive with Ry than I have since Carrie disappeared.
I feel more alive with him than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
His voice cuts through the air like a knife. “I wish I could say no, but I can’t. I don’t know what would have happened. But I have never slept with any girl who has been drunk or high. And I don’t ever plan to.”
Well, that statement opens up the door to so many unanswered questions. Does he exclusively hang out with impaired women? How many girls has he slept with who haven’t been drunk or high? Does he have a disease?
And shoveling a few feet deeper down this different rabbit hole, I wonder if he thinks I’m beautiful like Carrie? Does he wanna kiss me? Sleep with me? Touch me?
Accepting my silence, he stokes the fire and leans back in his seat.
I reach back, rubbing my scar in thought. Five minutes? Ten minutes? Who knows. I rub until my skin is raw. Slapping my hand in my lap, I ask him another question. “So, what are your plans after this school year?”
“I don’t know. My degree will be in General Studies so, I guess, I’ve left the door open for a lot of stuff.” He turns to me. “What about you?”
“I’m supposed to start at the University of Virginia. Architecture.”
“You like architecture?” He can’t hide the surprise in his voice.
Avoiding the question, I stand up. Embarrassment is better than talking about architecture and the future my parents have outlined for me. I loudly announce, “I need to use the restroom.”
Ry leads me over to the lit pathway, reaching into one of the storage containers to hand me a roll of toilet paper.
I can’t believe I’m about to pee in the woods.
Before I head back into camp, I pull out my phone to check the time, firing off a quick text message to Hudson, telling him that I won’t be meeting everyone for the late movie.
Ry’s still standing there when I walk back. I notice he placed a blanket on my chair, paying attention to the temperature drop that’s happened over the past hour. “Wash your hands?” He holds up a gallon of the distilled bottled water and a pump bottle of hand soap. Laying my phone down on the top of a storage container, I hold out my hands while he squirts soap into my palms and then rinses the bubbles away with water. Right then, my phone beeps and lights up with a text message on my home screen.
Hudson: What do you mean you’re not coming to the movie? What are you doing?
Ry sees it. And reads it. He doesn’t even hide it.
Pulling open the doors to the storage container, he puts the stuff back where it belongs and secures it. I’m flapping my hands around to air dry them. He grabs the edge of his long-sleeve T-shirt from where he haphazardly half-tucked it into his belted jeans. “Here. Dry.”
I know he has towels and paper towels. I saw them last night. So, why is he offering me his T-shirt?
Who cares? I sure as hell don’t.
I twist my hands in the blue fabric, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth when my fingertips brush against the taut skin of his abdomen. The unread text message beeps again, and I quickly grab my phone.
“Movies? With the boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I shake my head. What an absurd notion. “I was supposed to meet some people for a late movie if I didn’t have anything else to do.”
“Friends?”
“They aren’t my friends. They’re just classmates.”
He cocks his head to the side. “So, I go to parties with people who aren’t my friends. And you? You go to the movies with people who aren’t your friends.”
“Sounds about right.”
He opens his mouth, but is interrupted by the jarring ring of my cell phone.
Guess his sarcastic but spot-on reply will have to wait.