Chapter Six
Ryder
I was raped. The words echoed in my mind as I sat against my bed in my bedroom, alone. There was no late-night concert tonight like I’d expected. No music. No Layla. I was alone tonight. But I wasn’t alone. My thoughts kept me company. I couldn’t wrap my head around why Layla wasn’t more freaked out, or why she wasn’t willing to get help. I couldn’t force her. She was an adult. She wasn’t my fourteen-year-old sister.
My sister came home at two in the morning on a Tuesday. My mom was on the phone with the police. I was getting ready to go out with my dad to look for her. She stumbled in, gripping my dad so tight her nails were pressed into his forearm, nearly breaking skin. Her shirt was ripped, the button on her jeans was missing, her hair was a mess as if someone had been pulling at it, and she was missing a shoe. “D-daddy…”
“Oh my God, Rachel! Baby!” My mom hugged her from behind.
“What happened, princess?” my dad asked Rachel, petting her hair. It did little to stop the tears flowing from her eyes. “Shh, it’s okay. We’re here, honey.”
“I was at my book club and then everyone left to go home…”
I was raped. I would never forget Rachel’s words, hers having been said with a thousand times more emotion than Layla’s. Her voice was cracked, broken. Her innocence stolen forever. I could still feel the bastard’s face as my fist collided with it. After my parents took Rachel to the hospital, I ran to the place of the only guy in Rachel’s book club. He was a senior on the football team. He was bragging to his buddies about the freshman girl he just nailed when I walked in. White hot rage swelled inside my chest and exploded like a bomb.
When I came to, three police officers were pulling me off of a bloodied shell of the once handsome starting quarterback of Westbrook High as a fourth officer threatened to taze me.
He never played football again. I never went back to school again. I spent the next three days in jail. My dad bailed me out.
My mom’s eyes were filled with a mix of understanding and sadness. My father’s were a mix of alcohol and anger. After slamming three more beers on top of the ten he’d probably already had, he stormed into my room, picked me up by the back of my neck, and dragged me to the backyard. It started with yelling but ended in a beating.
It wasn’t the first time I got the belt for misbehaving, but it was the worst. I hadn’t been able to sit for days. It was humiliating. A few months later, my dad and I got into a screaming match. I decided to leave. It was for the best. My illness was only making things worse.
Even now, properly medicated, it would probably make things worse for Layla and I. Borderline Personality Disorder made me feel everything too much. When I loved, I smothered. When I hated, I burned everything to the ground. My life was extremes. There was no middle for me. It would kill me if I smothered Layla. It killed me knowing I would. Something in my brain left me without that switch every else had, the one that told them to stop, to stay within boundaries. I belonged on the island of misfit toys.
My heart thudded in my chest and it was hard to draw in enough air. She would hate me. She would hate me. She would hate me. That thought was running laps in my head as I fought to breathe while at the same time fighting the urge to scream. Panic attacks were nothing new, I’d been having them since I was seven, but they were always terrifying. Using the advice of my therapist, I got up, sat on the floor of my room, and tried to identify five things around me using each of my senses.
My guitar. The sleek brown finish was slightly worn with age. The book on my nightstand, David Copperfield. It was a classic.
I hadn’t read a single line. I’d never been much of a reader, but Rachel was. She used to tell me about the latest book she was reading. She read one in her book club, and another outside of that for her own personal enjoyment. She loved her book club, but it was nice to not have to talk about every little thing in every book she read, she said. I had made a mental list of all the books she told me about. I was sure I couldn’t possibly remember them all, but I was reading the ones I could. It helped me feel closer to her.
Three more things. Focus. I was getting off track. My chest tightened. It felt as if I was in the middle of a vice, crushing my lungs. My eyes darted around, looking for something, anything, to focus on. Starry Night, a copy of Van Gogh’s famous painting hung on my wall. My mom painted it for me a few days before I was born. She loved to paint. She said I’d kicked her as she was painting that and said she knew I’d be a creative genius. She was wrong. I didn’t have a creative bone in my body, except for my music. Even then, I had wasted it.
Focusing on the painting, it was easier to breathe. The colors, the swirls of dark blue, splashes of yellow, calmed me. Mom was right about one thing. Art was calming. My anxiety fell away like water rushing out of an open dam. After a few deep breaths, I got up and strummed a few chords on my guitar.
It was three in the morning before the flow of creativity stopped. Exhaustion weighed down my arms and legs as I set my guitar down and trudged to bed. My phone glowed.
Ryder, I need you.
Chelsea. I would have to change my number tomorrow. Picking up my phone, I began my nightly torture.
“Ry, I love you. I know it’s been a few years, and I normally don’t call, but it’s Mom…”
When I opened my eyes, the sun was higher in the sky than usual. Crap, I overslept. Routine was key in managing my disorder. Bolting out of bed, I walked quickly to the kitchen and popped open my pill bottle. The pill tumbled down my throat on a sip of water.
Layla was nowhere in sight. I sighed. What would I say to her? Did I pretend like nothing happened? It was clearly that was what she wanted. It wasn’t a healthy alternative, but I couldn’t ask her about it, could I? I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by asking about her personal life. She hadn’t even told me her name when I first met her. She was obviously troubled. I wanted to help. She didn’t want my help.
“Looks like you owe me two breakfast lunches, Mr. Sleepyhead.” Layla said as she walked in. She was fully dressed in a yellow T-shirt and tan capris, looking more awake than I’d ever seen her this early in the morning.
“Wow, you’re up,” I teased. “Special occasion?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor almost immediately. “I was…out.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “Listen, I don’t really feel up to cooking. How about I take you out for breakfast?”
“Sure, sounds great,” Layla said, her mood lifting like a once-wilted flower receiving water. “Mind if I stop at the phone store real quick first?”
“Sire,” I said, still puzzled at why she had looked down at the floor. I was determined to make Happy Girl stay. Sad Girl wouldn’t be showing her face at all anymore today. Operation Happy Girl was in effect, starting now.
“Do you want to say a prayer to make sure Chelsea stays away, or would an exorcism be more appropriate?” She smirked.
I laughed. “C’mon, she isn’t that bad.”
She shrugged, turning, steps away from her room. “Either way, I look forward to spending the day with you, Blue Eyes.”
Sitting at a small outdoor cafe, it was another perfect day of Californian weather. After the terrible rainy weather last week, it was nice to see the sun again. The sun helped my mood. I was still waiting for the bad moods to come. It was like balancing on broken eggshells. I didn’t want it to happen. I knew it would eventually, but I didn’t want Layla to see that side of me. I was headed for disaster, waiting to feel the impact of the crash. It was broiling just beneath the surface.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I jumped. Layla laughed.
This is great, Blue Eyes. I’m so hungry I could naw my arm off.
I looked at her. “Are we really doing this?
Yes!
Chuckling, I shook my head. “People are going to think we’re that crazy couple that everyone hates that is always on their phones instead of talking to each other. Are we really going to pretend to be that couple?
Layla’s grin grew wider as her thumbs tapped as if they were on fire. Yes! We are so going to pretend to be that couple that everyone hates because we’re texting instead of talking to each other!
I laughed. “Well, you have fun texting. But what are you going to do when the waiter comes to take our order?”
“I’ll talk. My fingers are getting tired anyway. So, what looks good to you?”
“I’m getting a big stack of waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. It’s what I get every time I come here for breakfast.”
Layla looked up from her open menu. “Really? You don’t order anything new?”
“I like routine,” I said simply.
“Are you scared?” She laughed. “I triple-dog dare you to order something you’d never tried before.”
“Oh? A triple-dog dare? Great, now I have to do it. What if we make it fun? You order for me and I’ll order for you.”
“Game on!” She smiled and shook my hand just as the waiter approached.
“Are you ready to order?” He held up a pen and a notepad.
“Yes, she’ll have the short stack of pancakes with a side of fresh fruit.”
The waiter raised an eyebrow but wrote it down. “And for you, sir?”
Layla was looking at the menu methodically with a finger to her lips. “He’ll have the egg and hash brown special with a side of buttered toast.”
She sipped her Diet Coke with a smirk as the confused waiter walked away. “Hope you enjoy your meal, Blue Eyes.”
I grinned back. “You too,”
Our food arrived a little while later. The waiter said he hoped we enjoyed our meal and left the table. I grabbed my knife and fork and cut into one of the overly greasy sunny-side-up eggs. Popping a piece into my mouth, I chewed thoughtfully. “Hmm, not bad, sweetheart. How is yours?”
She was picking at her pancakes like they were hiding a rattlesnake that would bite her if she ate them too fast. She sighed. “Sad waffles.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sad waffles.”
“What?”
She cracked a smile. “Sad waffles. Pancakes are just sad waffles. I don’t like pancakes. I prefer waffles.”
“Would you like waffles?” I asked. “Cuz I can get you waffles.”
Her eyes met mine. Until that moment, I’d had no idea how much waffles meant to her. It was as if I were offering her the lottery. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said, taken aback by how much this simple gesture meant to her. Calling the waiter over, I politely asked for a plate of waffles. He offered to take the pancakes away, thinking there was something wrong with them. “No, that’s okay. We’ll take them home.”
Once the waffles were in front of her, I asked, “Why did you eat my pancakes when we first met? I distinctly remember you taking one.”
“I was hungry. I’ll eat anything when I’m withdrawing and hungry.”
“Oh,” I said, taking a bite of toast.
“But I like your pancakes, Ryder. I really do.” Layla said as she swallowed a big bite of waffle. She grinned suddenly. “Truth or Dare?”
I nearly choked on my water. “What?”
She huffed impatiently. “Truth or Dare?”
“I got that. What I meant was, now?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me you’re chicken.”
“I am not! I’m just afraid you’ll make me do something stupid!”
“Exactly. Ch-ic-ken.”
“That’s called being smart.”
“Great, good for you. Now, Truth or Dare?
Sighing, I shook my head. “If I do a dare, will you stop?”
Her eyes lit up and she nodded. “Sure,”
“Okay, what did you have in mind?” My pulse picked up speed at the thought, but I kept my face a blank mask. Whatever she had up her sleeve, I would be ready.
“I want you to walk up to that group of girls over there and ask one of them out.”
Under the shade of a beautiful weeping willow sat a group of five girls. All five of them were extremely pretty and wore similar outfits. I scoffed. “What are we, twelve?”
She chuckled. “Just do it, Blue Eyes. I want to see one of them slap you after you use some cheesy pick up line about how blue all of their eyes are.”
I shrugged. “Your loss when I’m taken,”
Layla laughed loudly. “You wish,”
Walking over confidently, I saw the leader of the pack held up a hand for the girl facing her to stop talking, her shrewd blue eyes sizing me up. Her rose-red lips turned up in a deviant smirk. “Why, hello there, handsome. What can we do for you today?”
My heart rate tripled. Luckily, my voice came out calm and cool as a cucumber. “I was wondering if I could talk to you, miss.” I directed my words at a girl quietly reading a book. She had brown eyes and her blond hair framed her heart-shaped face.
She looked up from her book in surprise. “M-me?”
“Yes, miss, I’m sorry. I normally don’t do this, but I couldn’t help myself. What’s your name?” For effect, I gently took her hand and kissed it. She blushed red and shyly giggled. The leader looked annoyed she wasn’t getting the attention. Good. From the looks of things, the girl I was talking to wasn’t used to getting much attention. I was glad I could help. She was very pretty and deserved a nice boy to pay attention to her.
“My name’s Janey,”
“Well, Janey, would you mind giving me your number?” I held out my phone to her, open to the contact screen. Taking it, she quickly tapped in the number and handed it back. “Sweet, I’ll text you later, okay? My name is Ryder. Catch ya later, sweetheart.” I winked at her.
“See you,” Janey said faintly as I walked away. The three other girls started whispering excitedly, nudging Janey. The girl with the blue eyes was staring daggers into my back. I fought back the urge to flip her off. Girls like her really pissed me off.
“Impressive, Blue Eyes,” Layla said, finishing her waffles. The pancakes and my food were neatly stacked on top of each other in their own Styrofoam box next to her. “The chick sitting on the table is currently wishing you’d burst into flames, but I am impressed.”
“The girl I talked to was nice. Her name is Janey, and I’m planning to take her out for coffee in two months after her finals,” I said as I hit send on the text. I faintly heard a phone start playing a poppy, bubble gum type song. I grinned.
Layla’s mouth popped open in shock. “What?”
I snickered. “What? Jealous? You asked me to ask a girl out, I did, and now I’m following through. I’m not gonna be that jerk who asks a girl out on a dare and doesn’t call her back.”
“Wow, didn’t know you had a chivalrous streak,” Layla said.
I laughed. “Oh? And taking you off the streets wasn’t chivalrous? Besides, I distinctly remember us having a short conversation about chivalry when we met.”
She snorted. “No, what you did with me was what normal people call kidnapping.”
“I’m just gonna ignore that. My turn. Truth or Dare?” I scanned the crowd of tables, spying a lone guy at the table to the right of us. He would do nicely for a dare.
“Dare, of course. You are not getting a truth out of me until you get a few drinks in me.”
I grinned. “Duly noted. I dare you to ask that guy out. The one sitting at the table alone to the right.”
Layla smirked. “Oh, I’ll do you one better.” I watched with arms folded as she sauntered up to the stranger. “Hey,”
“Hello,” the guy said politely. “You’re pretty. What’s your name, gorgeous?”
“Betty,” she said as she slid onto his lap. “Like Betty Boop,”
“Man, oh man, you’re cute. Can I get your number?” He asked, pure lust in his eyes. “We could do something fun sometime. No strings attached.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I can do you one better.”
In one swift, fluid motion, Layla’s tongue was down the guy’s throat. He was shocked, but clearly enjoying it as she deepened the kiss. As quickly as she had sat down, she abruptly ended the kiss and walked away. The guy sat back in his chair, stunned.
“Wow. W-what was that?” I asked.
She smiled slyly. “Nothing, Blue Eyes, that was nothing.”