Chapter Four
Ryder
My home meant a lot to me. It was mine. I didn’t have much to be proud of, but I was proud I had been able to keep a roof over my head. This house had saved my life. Without it, I was right back where I started. A lonely boy with a notebook full of songs and a past so scarred that he kept other people at a safe distance. Everyone was too afraid to mess with a ticking landmine of a boy.
I sighed as I checked my phone. It had vibrated three times in a single day, which in my book qualified as non-stop. There was only one person who made it do that. I had no idea how she had gotten this number.
Ry, come home. -sent at 10:42am
We all miss you. Even Dad. -sent at 12:15pm
She keeps asking for you. This isn’t fair to her. You need to see her. -sent at 3:40pm
Rachel was angry with me. She was the one that wasn’t being fair. She was lying. Dad didn’t miss me. He didn’t give a shit about me. He said so the day I left for good. It killed me each time she texted me. It didn’t matter how many times I changed my number. She always found it. She never called. She only texted. She would never stop texting.
I added her to my empty list of contacts without responding to her texts. I never responded yet she still texted. It was just a sad part of our fractured relationship. I played the part of the brother who never answered and she was the sister who always waited.
I wondered if she still cried for me. I didn’t deserve it. The only reason I knew is because the one time she called me in eight years, she was drunk and crying. She had called to tell me Mom had the early stages of dementia. Of course, being the dutiful older brother that I am, I found out through voicemail. Rachel had ended the voicemail by calling me every name in the book, using curse words I was surprised she even knew. It had been two years since she’d called. I listened to that voicemail every night before bed just to hear her voice. I didn’t even skip the end.
Pouring another cup of coffee, I pushed the thought aside. I wouldn’t think about Mom. That was reserved for at night. During the day it didn’t exist. I could pretend she was fine because in my mind, she was. I preferred to remember her as the way she was the day before I left. Happy, smiling, full of life. I didn’t want to think of what dementia had taken from her.
I took my cup of coffee to my room. Layla stopped me in the hall. “Thanks,”
“For what?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t want to talk long. Thinking about my family had put me in a bad mood. I didn’t want to ruin her good mood with my bad attitude.
“For fixing the lock on my door. I really appreciate it. So thank you.” Her face lit up like the sun. Fixing her door had brought her so much happiness. The change in her when she smiled, really smiled, was insane. Everyone looked better when they smiled, of course, but Layla did it so rarely that the effect was all that more powerful.
“Of course, it was no problem,” I said, meaning it despite my bad mood.
“Well, I’ll leave you be. Hey, uh, is there more coffee? I could really use a cup to get my day started.” She smiled at me.
I gestured to the kitchen. “Full pot on the counter, help yourself.”
“Thanks, Ryder, honestly. For everything.”
I nodded once and continued to my room. My phone lay on my dresser, fading to black just as I happened to glance at it. Setting my coffee down, I snatched it off my dresser and saw why. Another text.
Breakfast lunch was delicious. :)
-Layla
I chuckled and replied back. I was surprised I knew how to do that. Breakfast lunch? Don’t they normally call that brunch?
My phone dinged with a response seconds later. She was fast. :P Yeah but from what I understand brunch is before noon. I woke up at one-thirty. So breakfast lunch it is.
Shaking his head in amusement, I texted back, not nearly as fast as her. Brunch is usually around ten where I’m from but I imagine it can be anytime. Can I interest you in another brunch tomorrow?
Three dots appeared. Breakfast lunch! And yes, I would love another breakfast lunch! You are a damn good cook, Mr. Daniels.
Another three dots.
Hey, I’m in the kitchen. Where’s the sugar?
Why?
What? You don’t drink coffee with sugar? Le gasp! Monster!
I smirked. I like my coffee like I like my soul. Black as the abyss, sweetheart.
:P Okay, whatever you say, Blue Eyes.
I don’t have any sugar. I can pick some up Friday before work if you want it that badly.
I don’t want it. I need it. Sugar is my life’s blood! It’s okay I can run right now. I’d be too afraid you’d come back with more nasty black coffee if I sent you, Mr. Black Soul.
Do you need me to come with you?
:P no thanks dad. I’m twenty-three, remember? Three more dots. Another message.
Work on your music some more. I want a front-row seat tonight.
My bad mood was washed away with that simple conversation. The angry song I was going to write softened into a gentle ballad about a girl in my dreams with sensual, powerful eyes. The words mixed with the melody beautifully. It left me exhausted when I was finished.
A song that powerful hadn’t hit me like that in years. My creativity licked at the page like hungry flames. I ended up writing three more songs before I was completely spent. It was more than I written in months. I didn’t want this burning creative passion to leave. I’d missed it like an old friend.
My coffee had gone cold. I drank it anyway, grimacing in disgust. Cold coffee was horrible. Going to the kitchen, I passed by Layla’s room. It was empty. She must have still been out getting sugar for her coffee. The pink teddy bear still lay against her pillow. I’d forgotten to ask her where she got it. Maybe I would after our little impromptu concert tonight.
She must’ve heard me singing last night. Did she like it? I played at the various bars in the city almost every Sunday for some extra pocket money, but never for just one person. Not in a long time.
Pouring myself a second cup of coffee, I sat outside in the old green and white folding chair I’d had forever. It was the most comfortable chair I’d ever owned. It was the first thing I’d ever bought with my own money. I was nine. Every week, my dad would pay me five dollars to clean out his truck. I’d saved up and had my eyes set in that folding chair so we could go camping and I could sit around the fire with my dad like a big boy. He’d promised that as soon as I got it, we’d go camping that summer.
The day came, March tenth, when I could finally afford the chair. I was so proud and couldn’t wait for school to let out. I’d wrote up a to-do list of everything I would do. Sitting around the fire in that damn chair was number one on the list. Summer came and went. Dad hadn’t even mentioned it once.
The one good thing about cleaning Dad’s truck was that there was always plenty of beer cans. He would sit in it and drink, giving the illusion that he was hiding his drinking from Mom. Every week, I hauled out the cans in a big trash bag and set it behind the garage. By the time next summer rolled around, I cashed in enough cans to afford a new ten-speed bike. The first time I went camping was when I was nineteen. I stood around the fire and threw in that to-do list, watching it burn to ash.
I’d left my chair at home.