I’m too tired to even take a shower, so I throw on a big, white, cotton T-shirt—either Ryan’s or my pops’—and hop into bed. I focus on the sounds outside to distract me from my thoughts. I hear the bass thumping from a car a few houses down, a group of teenage boys heckling each other, sirens in the distance, and the rhythmic sound of the wheels of a skateboard hitting the cracks in the sidewalk. And before long, the soundtrack of my city lulls me to sleep.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I feel two strong arms around me and a nose nuzzling my neck. Ryan. Lately, he only sleeps with me when he’s fucked up. I can smell the alcohol seeping through his skin, but somehow, it’s still comforting.
“You can’t leave me, Rem,” he whispers into my ear, his voice as rough as his touch. The desperation in his words breaks my heart and reminds me of the wounded boy he once was.
“You’re almost done with high school.” He continues, “And soon, you’re going to go off to college and leave us behind. I can’t protect you if you’re not here.”
“Shh, it’s okay.” I soothe him, rubbing his arm like I always do when he’s like this and avoiding the topic altogether. I know I shouldn’t lead him on. I know this is going to blow up soon, but now—when he’s drunk, vulnerable, and unstable—is not the time to serve him a healthy dose of reality. I’ve got defusing the bomb that is Ryan down to an art form, and nothing I say right now will go over well. Not when he’s in this state.
He squeezes me tighter, and a few minutes later when his breathing evens out and I know he’s passed out, I succumb to the security of his arms and drift back to sleep.
I reach blindly for my phone on my nightstand, knocking a water bottle off in the process before I finally feel the cool plastic of the case in my hand. I open one eye and try to focus on the time. Once my eyes adjust, I spring out of bed like it’s on fire. School started ten minutes ago.
Shit. Why the hell didn’t my alarm go off?!
I’m kicking myself for not showering when I had the time last night. I yell out Ryan’s name on my way to the bathroom, but I don’t get a response. I brush my teeth while I go in search of him. This place is a shoebox, so he shouldn’t be hard to find.
“Ryan!” I yell around a mouth full of toothpaste. “Where are you?”
I shove his door open, only to find his empty bed.
Jesus Christ. I’m late for my second day of school.
I get dressed in record time and throw my unwashed hair into a messy fishtail braid. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and run outside to see if by some miracle Ryan got up early to work on his old school Firebird that’s been sitting on blocks in the driveway for the past year. Nope. No such luck. And even worse, his bike is gone.
Come on, Ryan. Don’t fuck me over like this. Not today.
It’s way too late to catch the bus now. I’m weighing my options in my head—all zero of them—when I hear the telltale rumble of his Harley in the distance. Halle-fucking-lujah.
Ryan swings into the driveway and lifts one leg like he’s about to get off his bike.
“No, no, no, don’t you dare! I have to leave, like, five minutes ago! Where were you?” I screech, scrambling toward him.
“Back off, Rem, and get the fuck on. I had some shit to take care of early this morning. I’m fuckin’ tired, and I don’t got any patience for your tantrums right now.”
I don’t know what could have possibly gotten him out of bed before noon, short of the world ending, but I don’t have time to hound him for answers. I snatch my new helmet off the old metal patio swing and hop on behind Ryan. He takes off like a bat out of hell, and I’m forced to hold his middle tighter. He weaves in and out of traffic and somehow manages not to get stuck behind one single red light.
We pull into the parking lot, and I don’t know what time it is, but the horde of students outside tells me that second period is about to begin. I think Ryan is going to let me off, but much to my utter horror, he keeps on going. Straight for the fountain. Straight to where half the school still lingers. He romps the sidewalk and slides to a stop parallel to the fountain, effectively creating a scene.
“Here you go, princess,” he taunts. I roll my eyes while I unbuckle my helmet and start to slide off, but his huge hand grips my thigh, keeping me in place. I arch an eyebrow in question.
“Say ‘thanks’, Rem.”
“Thanks, Rem,” I grit through clenched teeth.
“Say it
sweetly, baby doll,” he insists. All eyes are on us, and to them, it probably looks like nothing more than a little PDA. But Ryan’s hand squeezes my thigh so tightly that my eyes water.
Who is this person?
“Ryan. Enough. I’m already late.”
“Not until you thank me,” he says with venom in his voice and points at his cheek.
Fuck this, I think, and once again, try to get off the bike. His fingers crush my leg, but it’s his thumb digging into my inner thigh that causes me to cry out in pain.
“What the fuck, Ryan!” I practically scream, and I’m thankful that most of the other students have gone inside. The fear of being tardy trumps drama—yet, another difference between West Point and Riverdale. Ryan points to his face one more time with a malicious glint in his eye. He’s an asshole, but I’ve never known him to be cruel. This is not the Ryan I grew up with, and this new realization hits me right in the stomach. Gone is the boy who made me mac and cheese and reluctantly let me tag along with him and his friends to the skate park, the boy that I idolized and worshipped. This is a stranger wearing my stepbrother’s face.