24 Ryan
A few weeks pass.
She hasn’t left. But she hasn’t said she’s staying, either, and neither of us says a damn thing about it.
It isn't real life, I know that. It’s like a play- an imitation of something real.
I go to work, stop by my apartment for whatever I'll need the next day, then end up back at her place.
My toothbrush somehow winds up next to hers.
A few changes of clothes in drawers in the dresser.
There are books on her nightstand that belong to me and coffee creamer in her fridge that she doesn't even drink.
Neither of us ever talks about it. Really, we don’t talk about any of the things we probably should.
Not where she spent the last three years. Or what’s going to happen next.
Not the fact that I kissed her the second I saw her and we just pretend it didn’t happen. Not the fact that we are sleeping curled up next to each other every night.
So we talk about work. My students. Books.
Her plan to get her drivers license.
Anything except the truth.
It's ridiculous.
We're closer than we've ever been, and somehow neither of us has any idea what we are.
She avoids Jamie and Christian almost entirely.
There are a few tense interactions when they happen to cross paths, but nothing that risks becoming real.
My own interactions with them aren’t much better- brief, strained, careful in a way we have never been with each other.
I know they’re angry, confused, waiting for answers I don’t have.
Last week I sent one text promising I’d tell them the second anything concrete was decided, but nothing concrete ever is.
And every time I think about pushing, I stop.
Because I don’t know if she’d stay through that. And the truth I hate most is that I’m so terrified of her running again that I let us stay here, suspended in this strange, temporary version of peace, pretending that if we don’t talk about it, it can’t all collapse.
~
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m hoping to sleep in, but I wake up to the sound of a lawnmower right outside the window.
I drag on a pair of shorts and step outside, squinting into the sun. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Christian cuts the mower and looks over at me, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Mowing the yard.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I say. “Why?”
“Because someone needs to take care of shit, Ryan. Not just play house and pretend things are all good.”
“What- that’s not, I mean, I’m not-“
“What’s the plan, anyway?” he asks. “You moving in? You two together now? Gonna live happily ever after and just ignore Jamie and me?”
“No- we’re not ignoring you- ”
“Oh?” he cuts in, sharp. “So you’re a we now?”
“No. That’s not- ”
“You’ve finally got her and Jamie and I can just fuck off, right?”
Before I can correct him, he continues, “I’ve gotta know- is fucking her everything you thought it would be, or- ”
Something in me snaps at his words, at the way he’s talking about her.
My fist connects with his face and his head flies back, blood already pouring from his nose.
The second it happens, I know I fucked up.
“Oh my god!”
I turn to see Frankie running toward us in her pajamas- the ones I bought her last week, because she brought nothing and her sleeping in just a T-shirt was too fucking distracting.
She goes straight to Christian. “Let me see,” she says, reaching up, but he’s too tall. She can’t quite reach, and he’s not lowering his head.
Her eyes go wide. Then she spins toward me, pointing a finger.
“Bad.”
And then she’s gone again, jogging back toward the house.
“Jamie!” she calls as she disappears inside.
“Uh… I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my T-shirt off and handing it to him.
He takes it, pressing it to his face, then turns and spits a mouthful of blood before covering his nose again.
Jamie comes up fast, Frankie on his heels. “What happened?”
“I punched him,” I admit.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You- what?”
“I’ll be fine,” Christian mutters through the shirt, already heading for the house, Frankie right behind him.