Chapter 3 #2
Inside, the door clicks shut behind us, and I drop my bag by the entry table. The place is Ryan's through and through. Posters from his film fests on the walls, a stack of scripts on the coffee table.
Not luxurious, but solid. Rent's covered by his paychecks. Without him... I'd be back in university halls, scraping by.
I head straight for the bathroom, twisting the tap to splash cold water on my face. It shocks the skin, but not the thoughts.
He's not good for you. Who? Why?
By the time I pat dry and step out, Ryan's sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, football blaring. Some playoff game, cheers roaring from the TV. He's kicked off his shoes, feet up, beer cracked open.
"Rough day on set." He mutters without looking up. "That DP's a nightmare. Wants every shot like it's Oscar bait."
I hover in the doorway, twisting my shirt hem. Hunger gnaws, but so does the weight of the day. "Yeah? Sounds brutal."
A beat, then, "You wanna help with dinner? I can chop veggies if you handle the pasta."
He waves a hand, eyes glued to the screen. "Nah, babe. Just throw something simple together. I've got maybe an hour before this game's over. Don't wanna miss the halftime show."
Simple. The word irks, a spark to dry tinder. I've been in classes all day, brain fried from lectures and that damn text, and now this?
"Come on, Ryan. It's quick. Boil water, stir the sauce. We can eat faster if we team up." My voice edges higher, insistent. I need the distraction, the rhythm of chopping to drown the buzz in my head.
He pauses the play, rare, and glances over, brow furrowed. But it's not softening. He sets the beer down with a clink and stands, striding over in three long steps.
Before I can back up, his hand's on my neck. Not choking, but firm, fingers curling just enough to pin me in place. His face inches from mine, breath hot with frustration.
"How many times, Iris? I've told you. Don't bug me during the match. It's my unwinding time. You think I want to play chef after ten hours of yelling at grips?"
The words land harder for how quiet they are. Detached. The kind of tone that makes the space between us feel suddenly smaller. Fear flickers. Not the text kind, but this familiar jolt, the one that shrinks me. His grip tightens a fraction, thumb pressing my pulse, and my heart hammers.
"I-I'm sorry." I whisper, eyes dropping to his collar. "Didn't mean to. I'll handle it."
He holds there a second longer, breath heavy, then releases with a huff. Steps back, running a hand through his hair.
"Good. Just... think, okay? We're a team." But the words feel hollow, tacked on after the storm.
I nod, throat tight, and turn to the kitchen. The fridge hums as I pull out ground turkey, onions, and a jar of sauce. Simple, like he said. Chopping board out, knife slicing through the onion with sharp thwacks that echo my pulse. Tears sting from the fumes, but I blink them back.
This is Ryan. The guy who waited for me after my first lit class, bought me coffee when I forgot my wallet.
The one who held me through nightmares about the crash.
Mom and Dad's car hydroplaning, the screech of metal I wasn't there for but feel anyway.
He's rough around the edges, sure. Stressed from work.
But it's better than being alone. I'd be drowning without him.
The pasta boils, sauce simmers, and he doesn't glance over once. By the time I plate it, steaming spaghetti with meat sauce, a sprinkle of cheese, he's unpaused the game, yelling at a bad call. "What the hell was that ref? Blind?"
"Dinner's ready." I say softly, setting his plate on the coffee table.
He grunts a thanks, grabs it without pause, fork diving in as the crowd on TV roars. I settle on the other end of the couch, my own plate balanced on my lap.
We eat like that, silent, the only sounds clinking forks and commentator banter. His focus is absolute, eyes tracking every play, body tense with each fumble. Mine wanders to the screen, then away, the food turning to paste in my mouth.
Public Ryan, the charmer at pickups, the joker with my friends, is a mask, polished for show.
Here, it’s edges with the shout, the grip, the dismissal.
It hurts, a dull ache under my ribs, but I swallow it down.
Like the pasta. He's not always like this.
Just... tired. And me? I'm the one who needs this. The reliability. The not-alone.
Upstairs in the spare room, my ‘office,’ really, with a desk crammed by the window, I fire up my laptop. The assignment glows, 1,500 words on unreliable narrators, due Friday. I type a sentence, delete it. Type another. Nothing sticks.
The text creeps back. Stay away from Ryan. What does ‘not good’ mean? The shout echoes in my head, his hand on my neck, firm, not violent, but... enough.
Is that it? Someone saw? But how? University kid prank, maybe some creep from seminar who swiped my number from the roster, messing with the quiet girl. Yeah. That makes sense. Harmless. Right?
I scroll through my contacts, half-tempted to text Maddie about it. But no. She'd worry, push for details, and Al would show up with that protective frown.
Ryan's voice drifts up, cursing a touchdown. I type another line. The narrator's lies build dread, each twist a mirror to the reader's doubt. Fitting. My own doubts swirl, about him, about this, about me staying quiet.
Hours blur, the clock ticking past ten. My eyes burn, words inching out slow. Footsteps on the stairs jolt me. Ryan, in sweats, rubbing his neck. "Babe? How long you gonna keep the light on? Some of us work tomorrow."
Guilt pricks, sharp. "Sorry. Almost done." I save the doc, screen going dark.
He lingers in the doorway, silhouetted. "Come to bed. You push too hard. You'll crash."
"Yeah." I stand, stretching kinks from my back. "Coming."
In bed, he pulls me close, arm heavy over my waist, breath evening out fast. Sleep claims him, snores soft and steady. But me? I’m wide awake, ceiling shadows dancing in the streetlight glow.
Ryan shifts, mumbling something. His hand grips my hip, possessive even in sleep. I stare at the wall, heart a quiet thud. Better than alone. Has to be. But as minutes stretch to hours, doubt whispers louder. What if it's not a prank? What if someone's right?