Breaking the silence, Stryder says, “This is kind of awkward.”
I laugh and nod. “Just a little. It shouldn’t be, though. We know each other well enough that we should be able to make this work.”
He scans the space again, taking it all in, the non-walls, the zero space for privacy, the only other room being a bathroom just as tiny as everything else. We are going to be in each other’s business . . . a lot.
“I got us something.” Stryder goes to his duffle bag, the distance achieved in a few strides. From the side pocket, he pulls out a deck of cards and holds it up with a boyish smile on his face. “Wasn’t sure if you know how to play any games. Thought it could keep us busy.”
“Oh, good idea. I don’t have any games or cards, because they’re all at my parents’ house. We can sit at the table.”
Like a gentleman, Stryder pulls out the chair for me and then takes his seat. He sets his glass of Sprite on the floor to give us a little more space on the table. He opens the fresh deck of cards, pulls them out, and hands them to me. “Care to do the honors of the first shuffle?”
“Oh, I would be absolutely delighted,” I answer with a slight British accent. Not sure why, just felt like the thing to do, although from Stryder’s raised eyebrow, he’s probably considering how strange I am.
The cards are stiff to my touch, sharp on the edges, and smell like heaven. I always like the smell of a fresh deck of cards. Brings me back to my childhood when my dad and I used to play when Bryan was tucked away in his room. My dad spent a lot of one-on-one time with Bryan, so when I had a chance to get him alone, we always played cards.
I make the first shuffle, forming a bridge with my hands, letting the cards crisply slide down on top of each other. “What do you want to play?”
He leans back in his chair, legs spread wide, casual and comfortable. “There is the obvious War or Kings in the Corner. But what about a little bit of California Speed?”
I smile inwardly. I am amazing at this game. And I don’t mean amazing, like I was “amazing” when I bowled with Colby. I mean I am REALLY amazing. I am so quick on the trigger, Stryder is going to have his work cut out for him if he wants to win a game.
“Love that game.”
He must notice the giddiness I’m trying to tamp down because he says, “Uh oh, am I about to be shown up?”
I shuffle some more. “You very well might be.”
“Then bring it on.” Leaning forward now, he cracks his knuckles and for the first time in a long time, I see the Stryder I first met. Fun, outgoing, ready for a good time. It almost seems like some life has been breathed back into him.
I glance at the clock on the oven. Twelve minutes left. We have some time. “We can get a couple of games in before dinner will be ready.” I begin dealing the cards. “Get ready to loooooose.” I drag the word out like a child, giving him my best version of trash talk.
It doesn’t faze him. Instead, he smirks and gathers his cards, ready for what’s to come.
“My card got there first.”
“Bullshit,” Stryder says, leaning forward, hand pressed down on the card he claims to have dropped first, despite mine being under it.
“I think it’s obvious since my card is underneath yours.” I hate to be that person, but come on, it’s plain as day my card got there first.
“It’s because you slipped it under mine once I put mine down.”
Okay, that makes me laugh. “You’re insane. I couldn’t have possibly done that. Just admit it, I beat you . . . again.”
It’s true, Stryder has yet to win a game, even after “replenishing” himself because he was “feeling weak.” Dinner did nothing to help him, and he still couldn’t beat my quick draw.
“You made me slow with that mac and cheese.”
I gather the cards off the table and set them all in the correct direction. “Sorry to say, Stryder, but you were slow before you consumed all that mac and cheese.”
And he consumed a lot. I wasn’t expecting that. When I make a dish of mac and cheese, it can last me up to six days. I’ll be lucky if I get two out of this batch. Where does he store it all?
He pats his stomach. “It was good. I couldn’t stop myself. Thank you again by the way.”
“Of course. Maybe tomorrow night you can cook us something.”
“Can’t promise it will be good, but I’ll give it a try.” Taking a look at the time, he pats his legs and says, “We should get to bed. Don’t you have an early class in the morning?”
“Yeah, but if you want to stay up some more, it’s okay. I can put in earplugs or something. Don’t alter your schedule for me.”
He shakes his head and stands, stretching his hands above his head, revealing a small patch of skin just above the waistband of his shorts. “Nah, I don’t really have a schedule. If I wasn’t here or at Ryan’s I would most likely be at a bar, so going to bed now isn’t going to disturb my routine.”
Walking over to his bed, he gathers his toothbrush and toothpaste and heads into the bathroom where he quietly shuts the door.
I sit at the table, trying to wrap my head around the night.
My ex-boyfriend’s best friend is here, in my apartment, brushing his teeth. We just spent the evening playing cards, eating mac and cheese, and laughing. I saw a part of Stryder I hadn’t seen in a very long time, and even though I don’t think I know him like I should for someone who is staying in my apartment, I trust him. I trust him because he belongs to Colby. They’re brothers, and anyone Colby trusts, I trust. Is that why it feels so comfortable with him here?
When Stryder comes out of the bathroom, I quickly get ready for bed, brushing my teeth and washing my face. When I emerge, Stryder is lying on the air mattress, feet hanging off the end, his shoulders almost too broad for the little space, looking beyond ridiculous.
“Oh my God, Stryder, please take my bed. You do not fit that thing at all. It will be the perfect size for me, just let me take the twin.”
Defiantly, he shakes his head. “I’m good.”
“Stryder.”
Not even giving me a glance, he repeats himself, a little sterner to get his point across. “I’m good, Rory.”
Knowing I won’t win this battle, I give in and head to my giant bed, feeling like a complete ass. When I get under my covers, I watch him for a moment while he’s on his phone, scrolling. “I feel stupid being in this giant bed when you’re on what looks like a child’s mattress.”
“I’ve slept on worse, believe me. My dad used to put us through his own personal boot camps when I was young. This mattress is a dream compared to what I used to have to sleep on.”
From what Colby told me in the past, Stryder’s dad was a real hard-ass on him. He spent a lot of time prepping Stryder for the Air Force, constantly challenging him, never truly letting him be a kid.
I couldn’t imagine what life must have been like for him and Colby. No wonder they’re such good friends; they both needed the support and brotherhood when they reached the Academy. They couldn’t have been better matched for each other.
I want to ask if Stryder has heard from Colby, if they talk at all and how often, but I don’t want Stryder thinking I’m letting him stay here so I can get information out of him. In all honesty, I don’t want to know for me, I want to know for Stryder. I want to know if he has anyone else to rely on, to talk to, to share with. Are Ryan and I the only ones who he can come to?
I guess he has his brother, but at the bar, he didn’t look that much better. Must be the curse of the father. Such a tool.
“If you get too hot, just let me know. I have a window AC unit in my closet I can set up. I had to use it a few times last summer when it was really hot, but for the most part, if I keep the windows open, we get a nice cross breeze.”
“I’m good. Seriously Rory, stop worrying.”
I’m not worrying per se. I’m just trying to make sure he’s comfortable. I can’t imagine living in a cold household with a dad so harsh. I’
m not sure if it’s the innate need within me to care for him because I feel bad for him, or because of his friendship with Colby.
Whatever it is, I say, “If you need anything, just let me know. Don’t be afraid to wake me up. Even if you have a scary dream.”
He turns his head to the side, eyebrow quirked. “A scary dream?”
I play with the blankets on my lap, flipping them casually back and forth. “Well, you know, if some gremlin tries to eat you.”
He chuckles. “So if I have a dream about a monster that isn’t a gremlin trying to eat me, should I not wake you up? Am I only waking you up for gremlin-type dreams?”
“Gremlins, monsters, and possessed dolls. How about that?”
“That’s fair.” He chuckles and turns his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling. Keeping his eyes trained there, he says, “I know I’ve said it before, but I want you to know how much it means to me that you and Ryan are offering to help me out for a bit. I don’t think you know how bad it was at my house.” He pauses for a second and then lets out a long breath. “I got to rock-bottom, Rory, and I’m trying to climb my way back up, so thank you for being a stepping stone for me.”
With that, he turns his body away from me, toward the wall, ending the conversation abruptly before I can even get it started.
Heart racing, my mind whirling with millions of questions, I open my mouth to say something when I realize it’s not the time. This is our first night together, and if we’re going to make this work and not be super uncomfortable, we need to take baby steps, one night at a time.
But I will say this. While Stryder is staying with me, it will be my mission to make sure the fun-loving, exuberant man I knew from the past returns, and the broken and battered man resting a few feet away disappears.
Chapter Nine
STRYDER
Eight years ago . . .
“I want everything typed up and put on my desk in the morning. Do you hear me?” my father booms from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah, I got it,” I answer, loosening my tie as I make my way to my room. Shutting my door, I lie flat on my bed, pamphlets in hand, and take a deep breath.
Fuck, that was miserable.
After the admissions counselor for the Air Force Academy left, my dad spent the next hour and a half grilling me, getting in my face, berating me for my many shortcomings, the ones he thinks won’t get me into the Academy.
Receiving an A- in algebra will be the end of me.
The inability to do thirty pull-ups in a row will sink me.
My lack of extracurricular activities outside of sports will destroy my chances.
More, he wants more. But I have nothing left to give. I’m a fucking freshman in high school and I can barely fill my lungs. Every day he breathes down my neck, questioning my every move, suffocating me with his demands.
I’m going to snap. There will be a breaking point and I can feel it.
Deep breaths, take deep breaths.
I toss my notebook to the ground, putting it out of my sight for a short period of time, because I know I’ll spend my entire night staring at it along with the computer, typing up my notes for my dad, letting him know how I’m going to correct my shortcomings, how I’m going to make it impossible for the Air Force Academy to say no to me, along with a step-by-step process on how I plan on doing that.
Fuck.
I drag my hands over my face, wondering what my friends are doing right now. What would it be like to live the kind of life they have? One that’s not predetermined for them. To have the freedom to be your own person.
I don’t even know what that feels like—to have an opinion on a matter—because any opinion I form of my own is quickly squashed by my father. He would then drill me until I’m blue in the face about what I’m supposed to believe instead.
And what really sucks about all this bullshit with my father is this: as I listened to the admissions counselor talk about the programs the Academy has to offer, I actually got excited. Maybe this could be for me . . .
Maybe it’s because it’s in my blood, or because I’ve been conditioned to think a certain way, but shit, the programs they have, the aeronautics and glider classes, they felt like something I want to be a part of.
Isn’t that a fucking kick to the dick?
I want nothing more than to defy my father, to join the Army and give him the middle finger as I walk out the door, but after that meeting, I actually felt inspired and antsy to get up in the air.
I want to be a part of something bigger than the world I live in right now. I want to be high in the sky, flying a heavy piece of machinery through the clouds, defending and protecting.
I want to jump out of airplanes.
I want to have a sense of brotherhood, a sense of belonging.
I want to do something for me and no one else, and it physically pains me that it’s the exact thing my dad wants for me.
It pains me to think that I don’t fall far from the tree, that my bones and blood yearn to be in the sky, that I want nothing more than to hear my call sign over the coms in the cockpit.
I realized that despite everything my father drilled into me—decided for me—there was a moment of clarity. Like everything around me had washed away and I could see myself as a pilot.
Because one word resonated with me as the counselor talked. One single word that stuck out among all the others.
Freedom.
Freedom in the sky.
I crave it. I want it. I will do just about anything to get it, even if it means gritting down and obeying my father.
It might be painful, and no doubt I’ll hate my dad even more, but I can now see a goal: becoming a pilot will get me away from this hellish household and allow me to achieve the freedom I’m desperate for. And that is all I want.
Chapter Ten
STRYDER
“Did I wake you up this morning?” Rory asks as she places her keys on a hook near the door and drops her gym bag on her bed.
Perched on my air mattress, I look up from my iPad and shake my head. “Nah, I’m usually up early anyway. How was your class?”
She shrugs and fills a glass of water before chugging it. “Some girl took a huge spill on her step today. She didn’t lift her foot enough and tripped forward, knocking down the other person in front of her.”
“Really?” I can feel my eyebrows rise in humor.
“Yeah. Everyone was fine, but it was hard to keep a straight face while I asked if they were okay. It was just like a domino effect.”
“Do you usually have casualties in class?”
Moving from the kitchen, she goes to her bed and lets her hair down from the tight ponytail holding it together. Like a wave of chocolate, it falls past her neck, soft and inviting with a little indent where her ponytail once was. Devoid of any makeup, wearing a tight-fitting long-sleeve shirt and spandex pants, she looks amazing. Maybe I need to start going to some morning workout classes to see what she’s like, how she teaches. I can imagine a ball of energy, encouraging people with her soft voice.
Leaning back on her hands, she shakes her head. “Not really. But there are people who like to grunt when I’m teaching my lifting class. I’m all about exerting energy, but there is this older gentleman who really lets it go, and it gets uncomfortable. It almost sounds sexual.”
I chuckle. “Maybe it’s sexual for him.”
“I sure as hell hope it isn’t.” She takes a look at her watch and groans. “I have to be at practice in an hour.”
“Practice? Are you part of some kind of adult team I don’t know about?”
She stands up and starts pulling clothes from her dresser. “No. I coach Bryan’s track and field team. We’re meeting up at Coronado High School today.”
And here I thought Rory would be home this weekend, but I guess Ryan was wrong. At least it gets me off the hook for having to come up with something fun to do with Rory. A deck of cards is pretty much the extent of my knowledge of fun that doe
sn’t involve sex, jumping out of a plane, or alcohol.
“If you’re not doing anything, you’re welcome to join me. Don’t feel pressure or anything but it might be fun to get out of the apartment.” She shrugs, looking shy.
Without even giving it a second thought, I say, “I’d love to.” Standing up, I continue, “Practice is at one?” She nods, looking excited. “Want me to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while you get ready? I’m assuming you haven’t eaten lunch.”
Her face softens, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips and looking so goddamn beautiful it hurts. “I would really appreciate that. Thank you.”
She goes into the bathroom and shuts the door to take a shower. Quickly, I change into an Air Force shirt and a pair of black Nike shorts and then head to the kitchen to find the makings of lunch. I went to the store this morning after Rory left for the gym and got a few staples I could keep here while I was back and forth between her place and Ryan’s.
Holding off on the application of jelly so the bread wouldn’t get soggy, I cut up apples for both of us and peel some carrots, hoping she likes both. She doesn’t take very long in the shower, and when she emerges, her hair’s wet, she’s wearing red athletic shorts and a Special Olympics Coach shirt, and looks cute as fuck. But it's the huge smile on her face when she sees the plate I made for her that hits me the hardest. This girl is so easy to please. To love.
“Uh, do you want more water?”
“That would be great.” She takes a seat at the table and twists her hair into a mess on the top of her head. She takes a bite of a carrot and says, “You didn’t have to do all of this. Thank you, though.”
Mimicking what she said last night, I say, “I had to eat as well, so might as well make something for you too.”
She points at me. “Ah, I see what you did there.”
I give her a glass of water and take a seat in front of my plate. My second meal with Rory. It’s peanut butter and jelly, but for some reason it feels more intimate than last night. I’m not sure if it’s because I made her the meal, or if it’s because some of the awkward tension has subsided and we’re feeling more comfortable around each other.