6 #3
Ryan hooked one finger beneath my chin. “Mírame.”
The word from the page felt completely different in his mouth.
I lifted my eyes.
“I’m not correcting you,” he said. “I’m telling you I had a life in Flint before this summer. That life didn’t stop me from ending up here every damn day.”
My throat tightened. “You won’t have every day.”
“No, I won’t.”
At least he didn’t lie. That was somehow comforting and terrible at the same time.
“Things are going to change.”
“Yeah.”
I swallowed while Ryan’s thumb moved once beneath my chin.
“Changing isn’t the same as ending.”
“We don’t even know what this is.”
“No, we don’t.”
The honesty landed between us as his hand moved from my chin to the side of my neck.
“But I know I’m not spending every free hour I have with you because I’m killing time until camp.”
My heart kicked hard. “I didn’t say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
“You cannot actually hear thoughts.”
“Yours are loud.”
I almost smiled, but Ryan watched me too closely for the attempt to work.
“You think I’m going to disappear once I leave.”
The accuracy of it made my stomach twist. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That sounds unfair.”
“It probably is.”
I rubbed my fingertips across the edge of the notebook. “I know Flint matters.”
“Yeah.”
“I know hockey matters.”
“More than almost anything.”
I nodded while his hand stayed warm against my neck.
“That scares you?”
“The change does.”
The answer felt safer, but it was also true. Change had always made my brain louder. A different schedule, a shifted appointment, or someone arriving later than expected could make me spend the entire day feeling like I had missed something.
Ryan had quietly become part of my routine through morning texts, coffee, Professor Brown, the Book Nook, his apartment, my apartment, Spanish in the truck, and his name appearing on my phone before I realized I was waiting for it.
“How bad?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“You’re not allowed to answer an emotional question with your shoulders.”
“I didn’t know that was a rule.”
“It is now.”
I sighed. “I don’t like not knowing what something is going to look like.”
“Flint?”
“Us.”
The word landed before I could stop it.
Ryan went still, and heat climbed my neck as I looked toward my coffee.
“Forget I said that.”
“No.”
“Ryan.”
“You finally said something real, and now you want me to pretend I missed it.”
“It sounded more dramatic than I meant.”
“It sounded like a question.”
“I don’t know what the question is.”
“That I believe.”
His thumb brushed the side of my neck. “We’re seeing what happens.”
“I know.”
“That still okay with you?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately, and Ryan’s eyes sharpened.
“Good.”
He should’ve returned to the lesson, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t relieved. Another fear had been circling the larger one, more embarrassing because it had nothing to do with schedules or distance and everything to do with how easy Ryan had always been for women to want.
Flint would have women who didn’t spend twenty minutes hating themselves in mirrors before letting him through the door.
Ryan caught the shift in my expression. “What now?”
“Nothing.”
“Charm.”
I exhaled. “You’ll meet people.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I already know people.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That means I definitely want to hear it.”
I tried glaring at him, but his dimple appeared.
“Women,” I muttered.
“What about them?”
“You’ll meet them.”
Ryan stared at me before laughing.
Humiliation flared, and I pulled away. “Never mind.”
His hand caught my wrist before I could stand. “I’m not laughing at you.”
“You definitely laughed.”
“I laughed because there are women in Kimball Falls too.”
“That isn’t helpful.”
“It’s relevant.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.” Ryan tugged gently until I faced him again. “You want to know whether I’m going to Flint and start fucking somebody else.”
My entire face caught fire. “I didn’t say that.”
“You tried to make me translate it through travel logistics.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
His confidence was obnoxious, and worse, it was justified.
Ryan slid his chair closer until my knee fit between both of his. “I’m not interested in anybody else right now.”
Every thought inside my head stopped.
He said it like it was simple, with no reason to soften the statement or hide behind ambiguity.
“I’m seeing where this goes with you,” he continued. “If I’m doing that, I’m not entertaining somebody else at the same time.”
My heartbeat thudded beneath my ribs. “You mean—”
“I mean exactly what I said.”
“We aren’t together.”
“I know.”
“So you’re saying—”
“I’m saying I’m not fucking anybody else.”
The directness made heat spread everywhere, and Ryan’s mouth curved.
“You’re turning pink.”
“You say things like that very casually.”
“No, I say things like that clearly.”
“That distinction doesn’t help me.”
“It helps me.”
I looked down at our knees, but he leaned closer.
“Works both ways.”
My eyes snapped up.
Ryan waited without looking jealous or insecure. He looked like a man asking a question he expected an honest answer to.
“You want to know if I’m seeing anyone else?”
“I know you’re not.”
“That’s arrogant.”
“I pay attention.”
I shook my head, and Ryan kept his gaze on mine.
“What I want to know is whether you want to.”
The question settled deeper. “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
I hated him for making me say everything.
“I’m not interested in anyone else.”
Something changed in his face, subtle and satisfied, with enough possession beneath it to send a thrill down my spine.
“Good.”
“That sounded smug.”
“It was.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still here.”
His hand slid from my wrist to mine and threaded our fingers together. The simplicity of it nearly undid me more than the conversation had.
We had no title or announcement and hadn’t used boyfriend or girlfriend, but we understood that whatever we were doing, neither of us was doing it with anyone else.
Ryan turned back toward the notebook as though he hadn’t just changed the shape of my entire summer.
“Now we’re doing vowels.”
I stared at him. “You cannot possibly expect me to discuss vowels after that.”
“I absolutely can.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
“You’ll thank me when you stop pronouncing everything like a tourist.”
“I pronounce things beautifully.”
“You murdered buenas noches two days ago.”
“I was nervous.”
“You called my night good cheese.”
I covered my face. “You promised never to mention that again.”
“I promised nothing.”
Ryan laughed and pulled my hands away.
For the next half hour, he made me repeat vowels, basic phrases, and enough greetings that I threatened to throw the yellow book off the balcony.
He corrected me relentlessly and rewarded every improvement with that pleased little shift in his expression.
Somewhere between ?Cómo estás? and hasta manana, he got up without asking and went into my kitchen.
I turned in my chair. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
“You ate lunch.”
“That was hours ago.”
He opened the cabinet where I kept the plates.
I stared until Ryan looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“You know where my plates are.”
“I’ve been here before.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What’s the point?”
I didn’t know how to explain why something as stupid as Ryan opening a cabinet in my kitchen made my chest tighten.
Maybe it was because he knew where the plates were without asking, or because his coffee sat beside mine while his cap rested on the counter and his books took up half my table like they belonged there.
He had written my name across a notebook I would still have after he left for Flint. Somewhere along the way, all these little pieces of him had worked their way into my apartment so quietly I hadn’t noticed until I started imagining them gone.
Ryan opened the refrigerator and frowned into it. “You have absolutely nothing useful in here.”
“I have food.”
“You have sparkling water, berries, three kinds of cheese, and something labeled microgreens.”
“They’re good for you.”
“They look like lawn clippings.”
I laughed as he reached for the cheese and glanced back at me. “Crackers?”
“Second cabinet.”
He opened it without hesitation, then paused with one hand on the door before looking over his shoulder. The slow smile spreading across his face told me exactly what he had noticed.
“Look at you telling me where shit lives.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
His smile widened as he grabbed the crackers. “You’re thinking too loud again.”
“That’s my line.”
“You stole it from me.”
He brought the food to the table, opened the crackers, and nudged them between us while I pretended the domestic ease of the moment wasn’t making my chest hurt.
I took one because he was watching. When he turned his attention toward the books and left the food alone, I took another. Eventually, we moved from Spanish into literature.
Ryan pulled out Poe first, followed by e.e. cummings, Amy Lowell, and two collections I didn’t recognize.
“No Bronte?”
“Not today.”
“You’re cheating on her.”
“She knows where she stands.”
“Does she?”
Ryan glanced at me. “You jealous of Emily again?”
“She’s dead.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
I laughed and opened the Poe collection where a ribbon marked “Annabel Lee.”
“This one?”
“Read it once without trying to impress anybody.”
“You?”
“Especially me.”
“That seems unlikely now that we’ve established monogamous literary expectations.”
Ryan nearly choked on his coffee.
I smiled sweetly while he set the mug down. “You’re getting bold.”
“I’m developing confidence.”
“Brown created a monster.”
“You helped.”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved slowly over my face. “I did.”
The heat in his gaze made me look at the page.
I began reading, and the poem felt simple until it didn’t. By the final lines, the obsessive devotion had crawled beneath my skin. Love that refused to accept death as separation should have felt theatrical enough to dismiss, but something about the insistence made my chest ache.
When I looked up, Ryan was watching me instead of the book.
“What?”
“You.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is.”