This wasn’t supposed to be his life. Things had been great, everything was normal, and then Beau had to fuck up and ruin everything.
When he got out of the hospital, Beau’s injuries were still too severe for him to come back to school. Eventually, talk about his friend lessened, and Ryan could pretend things were settling down.
One night after soccer practice, Ryan’s house phone rang. It barely pierced his consciousness; he never answered the landline. If someone wanted to call him, they called his cell. So he was surprised when his mother called up to tell him the phone was for him.
“Ryan?”
The voice on the other end made him suck in an angry breath. “What the fuck do you want?”
Beau took a deep breath, something between a choke and a gasp before he continued. “I didn’t do it, Ryan.”
“The fuck you didn’t. You know what? I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t call here again.”
“Wait!” Beau’s voice broke ,and despite Ryan’s better judgment, he stayed on the line. “I swear to God, man. I wasn’t driving. Ashley was driving.”
“Well that’s convenient, don’t you think? The dead girl was driving? Except I saw you. I saw you get in your car.”
There was a sound on the other end, and he pretended he didn’t know it was Beau crying. “I wasn’t,” he said after a minute. “You’re my best friend. You have to believe me. Why don’t you?”
Ryan pictured the way the world had spun and the way the glass of his truck window had felt against his forehead that fateful night. Beau had gotten into his car. With every passing moment, the scene became clearer and clearer in his head, his mind filling in the details he knew must have happened.
Beau waving. Beau getting in the driver’s seat.
Ryan had seen it. No matter what Beau said, it happened.
Ryan’s life was changed forever. It was more complicated and darker than it ever should have been. Police interviewed him, and the state’s attorney called his parents. Every day as he walked through the front doors at high school, he came face to face with Ashley’s picture and the bouquets of flowers propped on the wall beneath it.
Now Beau was lying? Fuck him.
“You killed Ashley. Admit it, man. Maybe they’ll take it easy on you. But you should come clean. Everyone knows what happened that night. No one believes you.”
“Not even you?” The words were a choked whisper.
“Especially not me.” Mercilessly, he went on, “Because I saw it.”
Beau cried openly now, and it made Ryan sick. Another moment on the phone would be too much, so he hung up.
The knock on his door came too quickly. “Want to talk about it?” his mother asked.
“No.”
She came a little further into the room and leaned against his desk. “Ry, should I get someone for you to talk to? This is a lot for a boy your age.”
The idea of talking to a shrink or the guidance counselor pissed him off even more. “I’m fine, Mom. I just need to forget about the whole thing.”
His mom stared at him long enough he wanted to scream at her to leave him alone. He clenched his fists and refused to look in her direction. Eventually, she sighed, and the door to his room closed.
He needed to relax. Soccer didn’t help. Running until his lungs burned didn’t help. Meeting Kaylen in the locker room didn’t help.
Finding his backpack, he dug through his pencil case, taking out the joint he’d bought from Davis. Then he opened the window and climbed out onto the roof, lighting one end and sucking in. Holding the sour-smelling smoke inside his lungs, he waited for the wave of oblivion to come, and when it did, it was sweet. It was everything he needed.
He leaned back against the shingles, enjoying the rough texture against his arms, and stared up at the sky before taking another hit and closing his eyes. This is much better.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, he developed a routine. He went to school. Met Kaylen whenever he needed a distraction. He played soccer, went for a run, did homework until his eyes were bleary and his head pounded, and then he smoked.
After he fell asleep on the roof a few times, he started smoking in his room with all the windows open. He bought an air freshener and hoped it did the trick. Honestly, he didn’t give a fuck. His parents couldn’t complain; his grades had never been better. He’d scored two penalty shots at the last soccer game, and he and Kaylen were named Homecoming King and Queen.
Beau never returned to school, and Ryan waited anxiously for a phone call from the cops asking him to tell his story again.
On those nights, he wanted to crawl out of his skin and one joint left him paranoid, so he’d grab beers from Dad’s dorm fridge in the garage. Three or four beers combined with a joint or two—or on really awful nights, a blunt—did the trick, and he could sleep.
But eventually the call came. Beau was going to trial. They were going to ask for jail time, and they needed his testimony.
Beau’s trial got a lot of attention. There were cameras set up at the school and news vans in front of the courthouse. It was all anyone talked about. Ryan assumed he was the only one testifying. The cops hadn’t told him any differently, and he didn’t ask.
The night before the trial, Beau’s named flashed on his cell phone. He’d never expected to hear from Beau again, so he stared at it, waiting for it to go to voicemail. When it finally did, he breathed a sigh of relief. Until it started ringing again. And again.
On the fifth attempt, he picked up.
“What the fuck, Beau?”
“Thank God,” he breathed. “I had to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Ry.” His voice broke, disgusting Ryan. Who was this guy who called him and wept? Beau took a deep breath and began again. “Ryan, I’m going to go to jail.”
“Yeah?”
“To jail. For a long time.”
“You’re lucky you’re alive to go to jail. It’s not like it’ll be forever. Not like being dead.”
“Fuck, man. How can you be like this?”
“Fuck you. You killed someone.”
“I didn’t kill her!” he yelled. “I wasn’t driving! I’m begging you to believe me. Please, man! You testify tomorrow, and I’m done. My life is fucking over.”
“I’m not going to lie. I know what I saw. If they ask me, I’m going to tell them the truth. I’m going to tell them everything.”
“But you’re wrong. You’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. I wouldn’t make a mistake like that.” Before Beau could reply, he hung up the phone, dropping it on the bed. His hand shook as he wiped it across his face. Feeling sick and jittery, Ryan paced around his room. His skin itched, and he needed to scream. Without thinking, he slammed first one fist and then another through his wall.
The pictures in the hallway rattled, and he heard Mom call up, “Ryan! Are you okay?”
Pulling his hand out of the hole, he stared at his bloody knuckles in surprise. With forced calm, he opened his door and called out, “Yeah. Sorry! Dropped something.”
“Okay,” she called back.
The edges of the hole were tinged red from his blood. It dripped across his hand, landing in a small dot on the carpet. He walked into his bathroom, ran his hands under the water, and reveled in the sting. Then he went into his desk and found the flask he’d taken to carrying around with him. One swig followed another until he was tilting the container back as far as he could, shaking out the droplets. Instead of feeling lighter, looser, his stomach roiled, sick.
All Beau’s fault.
* * *
Ryan wore the same outfit to testify against Beau he wore before away games: a buttoned shirt, a tie, slacks.
“Are you okay?” It was his mother’s mantra. The first thing she asked when he woke up, and when he got home, and after dinner, and when she said goodnight.
“Yeah,” he answered, and this time, climbing the steps to the courthouse, being waved through the scann
er, he really was. Testifying meant the end, and he was fucking sick of all this. Of everyone being sad and having this whole thing hanging over his head. Today, he’d tell the judge what he’d seen, and he’d go home and get on with his life.
The trial was already in session when they got there. He and his parents were to wait in the hallway outside the courtroom. The state’s attorney told them they could end up there for a while, but their butts had barely touched the seats when the bailiff came for them.
His parents were seated in the back of the room while he followed the bailiff to the witness stand. The courtroom didn’t look anything like what he’d expected. It was low-ceilinged, and while the judge’s bench was raised, the room had the appearance of a cafeteria. Tile floors, hard seats, cinderblock walls.
Raising his hand to be sworn in, he met Beau’s gaze and was shocked. The change in Beau was startling. Pale and gaunt, he looked ill, like he was dying.
Guilt.
Apparently, it was eating away at Beau. Ryan refused to believe it had anything to do with him.
As he sat in the witness stand, Ryan tried to concentrate on the prosecutor, but his eyes kept going back to Beau. Beau’s leg was in a walking cast beneath the defense’s table, and his arm was in a sling. His dark hair was shiny, like he hadn’t washed it. Behind him were his parents, who remained focused on the floor or Beau.
“Ryan, tell us what you saw the night of September 15th.”
The attorney’s voice made him focus. “I saw Beau and Ashley get into his car and drive away.” He cleared his throat.
“And who was driving that night?”
“Beau was.”
“Are you sure?”
Beau looked up at that, his eyes pleading. Ryan didn’t look away. Let him see I have no doubts. “Positive.”
Beau lowered his head, and his shoulders slumped as if whatever life was left in him disappeared. Perhaps he believed Ryan would change his mind. But Ryan knew what was right, and he wouldn’t lie. Not even for his former best friend.
The defense attorney questioned him after the prosecutor finished, asking a series of questions about how much he’d drunk and how sure he was it was Beau he’d seen. The way the questions were framed built Ryan’s anger again. The man made it seem as if Ryan couldn’t be trusted, as if there was no way he could be absolutely, positively certain Beau was driving.
Well, he was. Absolutely. Positively.
SIX
Ryan’s Past, 2 years later
RYAN LOOKED AROUND his dorm room.
Bunk beds.
He’d moved out of his parents’ house and graduated to—bunk beds. Two sets actually, since this room, which should house two people, had to fit four. Half a dresser and one side of a closet was all he had to his name. Luckily he hadn’t brought much. His flask, his clothes, his phone, computer, bong—he was set.
A week into his first year in college and his childhood was a million years in the past. Where it should be. So far, he hadn’t seen anyone he knew, even though he was sure at least half his graduating class attended Brownington College.
Grabbing his meal card and key, he shut the door to his room. Lately, a lot of his time was spent eating; he needed to join club soccer or something. Unlimited meal points and a fucking awesome cafeteria would lead to a major weight gain. Bagels galore. A frigging soft-serve machine. Pizza. Every. Night.
The lobby of the dorm was crowded this afternoon, and he had to push through guys to get to the doors.
“Duuuuude!”
There were a lot of dudes in the dorm, so he assumed he wasn’t the dude in question.
“Dude in the Captain America shirt, hold up!”
Feet slapped against the tiles, and a hand clapped his shoulder. Turning around, he braced himself for a run-in with an old classmate, but he didn’t recognize the guy touching him.
“Yeah?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
The guy laughed, unbothered by his less-than-friendly attitude. “Dude. We’re looking for pledges. Interested?” He gestured behind him. Pledge week. That explained the crowd.
There were four different tables for frats: Sigma Phi, Alpha Tao, Lambda, Phi Gamma. The guy’s t-shirt read Lambda.
“Sorry, man.” Ryan wasn’t going to fawn over someone because they were in a frat. He could buy his own Natty Lite. The first guy waved another guy over.
“You should pledge.” The new guy crossed his arms and nodded his head in a very make it so way.
“I don’t think so.”
“Dude.” The first guy put his hand on his shoulder again and stared at him intently. “Beer. Babes. Bongs.”
Put that way, the idea seemed a whole lot more appealing. “Done.”
The two guys laughed, gesturing toward the table. “Pledge week starts Friday. Fill this out and then show up at noon. You know where we are?”
He nodded. Lambda’s house couldn’t rightly be called a house. It was a mansion right on the edge of campus. Every time he went to his Sociology 101 class, he passed by it. Its gargantuan size made it easy to recognize. Everyone on campus knew which frat it belonged to.
Someone shoved a clipboard at him, and he quickly filled it out before dropping it on the table.
“This is your bid card. Don’t sign it until you come on Friday. If you decide you want to join, you sign it, and then the fun begins.”
Looking over the innocuous piece of card stock, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m not doing some fucked-up trunk walk. So you can take it now if all this is about is getting your rocks off.”
The guys laughed. It started with a chuckle and turned into side-splitting guffaws. As he turned and left, the sound of their laughter followed him out the dorm.
Until he actually showed up at Lambda’s front door, he hadn’t been sure he was going to pledge. He got in line with the other guys, surprised at the sheer number of people who wanted to pay for the honor of doing keg stands.
“Welcome to Lambda!”
The frat brothers lined the huge dual staircase. They all wore matching navy suit coats, buttoned shirts, and khaki slacks. Tools. He was ready to turn around when the guy who’d approached him at his dorm called out, “Ryan! Ryan Valore!”
Shit.
“Don’t leave yet, my brother.” Doing the arm pat he seemed so fond of and holding out his hand, he whispered in Ryan’s ear, “You’re the one we want.”
Ryan lifted one brow, taking the proffered hand.
“Gerald Warshafsky.”
“You know who I am.”
“You bring your bid card?” Gerald asked.
Earlier, he’d weighed heavily on the not interested side, but Gerald was entertaining, and he had listed three of Ryan’s favorite things as selling points, so he let it ride for the moment. The potential pledges, along with Gerald and Ryan, were directed to follow the brothers into a large room. On the walls were pictures of the fraternity house and their members. A hundred photos at least, and then, since the camera hadn’t been invented yet, portraits of long-dead brothers.
The group moved to the front of the room, and he was both impressed and put-off by their choreography. Hive mind.
“My name is Bryce Porter; I am the president of Lambda.” A blond-haired, blue-eyed giant of a man spoke about the history of the frat and their mission.
These guys are full of shit. If they were founded, as Bryce purported, to be a literary brotherhood where works were read and discussed, then perhaps Beer, Bongs, Babes, and whatever else it was Gerald had used to lure him in was actually a philosophical tome and not a description of every Friday night.
But Ryan doubted it. So, they’re a bunch of liars.
Did he really care? It seemed everyone he trusted lied to him, so why not accept it was the way the world worked and really embrace it.
In order to drown out the rest of Bryce’s spiel, he stared at the pictures, the marble floors, the winding staircase, and the other pledges, who looked on in rapt attention. Did they really believe this shi
t?
“Now!” Bryce clapped his hands together. “Who’s ready to sign their bid cards?”
A resounding cheer echoed through the room before silence descended as the pledges signed their cards.
“Come on, man.” Gerald sidled up to him again.
“Tell me, Gerald,” Ryan asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is Beer, Bongs, and Babes an original work?”
Gerald stared at him in confusion for a moment before laughing. “Oh yeah! Ha! No. Not original. Kind of a theme we all work on.” Offering a pen, he encouraged, “Come on. You’re the only one out of these pussies I could actually party with.”
“Whatever.” Grabbing the pen, he signed his name. “If you suck, I’ll quit.”
Gerald laughed, leaving him to wonder if the guy ever took offense. “We have a rat!” he called out, and the brothers made a sound like they were part of a military academy and not a fraternity of privileged white kids.
My fraternity of privileged white kids, his brain amended.
Pledging began immediately, and it was everything he anticipated: a series of increasingly stupid tasks. His role was errand boy, or would have been if he actually completed the errands. The brothers didn’t know what to make of him. They saw him as some kind of curious, entertaining anomaly.
Ryan found himself liking them. For all the enjoyment they got out of flinging slices of ham at blindfolded pledges, they were actually intelligent guys. The president, Bryce, was pre-med, and Gerald, a guy who smoked more weed in a week than Ryan could in a month, was a math genius. As a sophomore, Gerald had solved a theorem his professor had been working on for the past decade.
While he respected himself less and less, the simplicity of this existence couldn’t be beat: class, beer, homework, weed, class, party. No thought needed at all. Initiation came, and life went on.
He moved out of his four-person dorm and into the frat house as soon as he was initiated. The brothers had practically begged it of him, though none of the other first-years were asked.
Leaving a joint dangling from his fingertips, he opened the window of his room to stare at the small city, watching its lights wink on. In the distance he could make out the dark space that was the lake.
Finding Valor (The Searchers Book 2) Page 4
