28. Ryker
Ryker
Twenty Years Ago
The whole room was dark as I crawled out of bed.
I was thirsty and hungry. I rubbed my eyes as I made my way to my bedroom door.
I saw my toy soldiers on the floor next to my bed and picked up two to take with me to the kitchen.
I walked quietly to the door, as I knew my dad would be upset if he knew I was out of bed.
I’d get in trouble and be grounded, and I wouldn’t be able to play video games, and that would suck.
I turned the doorknob, and it squeaked. I paused and held my soldiers tightly as I peeked into the corridor. There was no noise, and no doors were opening. I was safe.
I crept out of the room and tiptoed, avoiding all the loose floorboards that I knew made noise.
I made it to the top of the stairs when all of a sudden, I heard a noise.
I froze, and I looked behind me to make sure my dad wasn’t coming out.
No doors opened, but once again I heard the noise.
I tilted my head to the side and listened again.
It sounded like a sob. As if someone were crying.
My lower lip wobbled, and I wasn’t sure why. I started heading back to my bedroom, but then stopped and walked toward the bedroom my mom slept in. My friends thought it was weird that my mom and dad slept in different rooms, but it was all I’d ever known.
I made my way to her bedroom and opened the door slowly.
I waited in the doorway as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then I saw her, curled up on the bed, her face in her hands, her hair a mess on her pillow, and she was sobbing.
I stood there, watching her, my heart thudding, my stomach feeling empty, and my face turning red with heat.
Her sobs seemed to get louder as I stood there, and both of my toy soldiers fell out of my hands to the floor.
I bit down on my lower lip, scared that my mom heard the noise, but she didn’t.
If anything, her sobs got even louder. As her tears cascaded down her face, I watched her fists hit her pillow as if she were punching it. I didn’t understand what was going on.
“Mommy?” I said softly, not sure what to do. I wanted to go over and hug her. I wanted to ask her if everything was okay. I wanted her to hold me in her arms and kiss the top of my head like she did every morning before I went to school.
But my feet wouldn’t move. I leaned back into the doorway and started to suck my thumb.
My dad would be pissed if he saw me. He told me boys didn’t suck their thumb.
I tried not to, but there were some times when I couldn’t stop myself.
This was one of those times. I wanted to be a big boy; I really did.
I was eight; I should be able to stop, but sometimes I just couldn’t.
“Mom,” I said again, wishing she would look up, see me, and stop crying, but she didn’t hear me or see me. Instead, she just kept crying and crying.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,” she cried out into her pillow, and I started sucking on my thumb more vigorously.
“Mom,” I whispered, my whole body feeling cold with uncertainty.
“I just want to die,” she cried out, and I so badly wanted to go over to her and kiss her.
I so badly wanted to tell her I loved her.
But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.
I stood there for about ten more minutes and then quietly picked up my toy soldiers, closed the door, made my way to my room, crawled back into my bed, closed my eyes, and pretended to sleep until it finally took me.
When I woke up the next morning, my father told me that my mother had gone to Heaven earlier that morning.
I stared at him as my heart closed in and my stomach tightened.
He didn’t reach out to hug me or ask me if I was okay, and I didn’t reach out to him.
Instead, I walked back to my room, got back into my bed, curled into a ball, and sucked my thumb.
Present Day
Every morning, I would wake up and lie in bed without opening my eyes.
It used to be that I wanted to avoid the beginning of the new day for as long as possible.
I’d lie there and imagine that I was somewhere else—anywhere else.
Sometimes, I’d picture I was on a deserted island, the sun on my face, the salty air caressing my cheeks as I tried to figure out how to climb the closest coconut tree and pick as many coconuts as I could.
Other times, I would picture myself at Mila’s house with her family, playing board games or just sitting around the dinner table talking about our days.
I’d always found it funny that they’d seemed so interested in hearing about my life, as if I were important or mattered to them.
No one else had ever seemed to care. Certainly not my father.
He cared about my grades, my sportsmanship, and what girls I dated.
Nothing else in my life was important to him.
I’d learned at an early age not to bother going to him when I was happy, excited, or sad.
He didn’t listen, and he didn’t care. And I learned not to care, not about anything.
It wasn’t important. I wasn’t important.
Though, for some reason, I was important to Mila and Parker, and their parents, and even Nonno looked at me like I mattered.
It was a strange feeling, nice, but uncomfortable.
When I woke up in the mornings now, I still kept my eyes closed, but it wasn’t to think about other places I could be; it was to let my mind think about Mila completely unadulterated.
I would picture her smile, the bright, happy look in her eyes, the way she plays with her hair when she’s nervous.
I would think about the way she smells, like roses on a dewy day, fresh, crisp, clean, fragrant.
I would imagine her touching my arm or chest, pressing her head against my chest and holding me tightly.
I would see myself pulling her into my arms, kissing her forehead, and then we would just be there, bound together by some emotion I didn’t want to acknowledge.
And then, as my anxiety crept in, and the doubts started to come, I would find my eyes opening slowly, ready to face the day, to forget the fantasy that I didn’t think I really wanted.
And then I would focus on the task at hand and on why there will never be a moment like that in my daydreams again.
This morning, I awoke, but I didn’t just lie there.
I didn’t focus on anything. My eyes flew open, and I looked over to the right to look at Mila, to see that she was okay.
It was weird having her share my bed now.
Sometimes I woke up and thought of her, kissed her, and caressed her in my mind, yet in person—in real life—I just lay there, not able to express the feelings within.
“Morning,” I said when I saw her eyelashes fluttering as I faced her.
I knew she was awake and just pretending to sleep.
She didn’t answer me, and I smiled to myself as I felt a surge of happiness trailing through my body for no real reason.
It always surprised me how happy I felt just being in her company.
Unfortunately, I also felt surges of anger and jealousy when around her.
If she looked at another guy and smiled in her sweet, friendly way, it enraged me.
Didn’t she realize that other men might read something into her smile?
What annoyed me even more was wondering if she was interested in them as well.
What really did she see in me? What did she want from me?
Would she be happy to be with another man?
I knew these thoughts were irrational, but they always came, and I absolutely hated them.
I hated feeling like she was taking over my brain; making me think and feel things I didn’t want to feel.
She opened up doubts, pains, hurts I didn’t want to think about.
The happiness was a high, but the flipside of that, well, the flip side was dark.
“I said, good morning, Mila,” I repeated and reached over to tickle her under the arm.
“No, you didn’t.” Her eyes popped open as her body reacted, and she pushed my hand away.
“You said ‘morning,’ not good morning.” She smiled at me sweetly and yawned.
She pushed her hair away from her face, and I wondered at how beautiful she was.
How could her brown eyes do so much to me when she looked at me?
“So, you were awake?” I grinned at her and leaned forward to give her a quick and soft kiss on the lips. Her eyes widened, and she just lay there and stared at me as I moved back.
“I never said that.” She bit her lower lip, her eyes sparkling. “My subconscious must have heard.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded, rolling my eyes. “That must be it.”
“Yeah, it is.” She laughed and then reached over and touched my hair gingerly, running her fingers through my unkempt, short, dark locks before touching my face.
Her fingers lightly ran along my jawline, touching my stubble, as they made their way to my chin.
Her touch was like magic, but I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like the way she looked at me adoringly as she caressed my face.
It made me feel . . . well, I can’t describe the emotion.
It turned my stomach into knots, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I felt out of control.
“So, are you feeling better this morning?” I asked her, pulling back and looking away. Sometimes, gazing into her eyes was too unnerving for my equilibrium.