by Xavier Neal
My brother shakes his head slowly at me. “They started treatment about a week ago. Enrolled him in private therapy sessions. He's got a lot eating at him, Ryder.”
“Tell him to join the fucking club.”
A sigh escapes Noah, but he pushes onward. “He wants to talk with you when you finally get out. If you ever get out.”
“Is that why you're here? To be the spokesman for our possibly dying father? Because I gotta say, you wasted more than just gas in your Audi.”
“A dying father and becoming one does something to a person, Ryder.” The tone in his voice is now sharp and less filled with the perfect practiced public speaking skills. “You don't wanna make amends with Dad, fine. What the hell ever. But I can't keep this going on between us. I don't want to.” Suddenly his hands are folded and thumbs twiddling. “I don't want my daughter not to know her uncle. I don't wanna be in my 60s wondering why I can't spend the holidays with my brother.”
The words confuse me. They’re so unexpected I'm not sure where they should go in the drawers of things I hate.
“I don't want the relationship we used to have. I wanna fix it. I wanna give Shelby the best family I can and believe it or not dick head that includes you.”
His insult makes me smirk.
“Look, I don't know...what's keeping you here, but whatever it is face it, please. Let it go. And get the fuck out.” His blue eyes, one of the only physical traits we share, bore into me. “It's time for you to get out and start over. Live your life the right way, whatever that fucking means. I'll help you anyway I can. I just need you to get clean and stay that way. If not for me, than do it for the blonde hair, blue eyed little girl with a huge ass bow in her hair that should get to love her uncle. Who wants cousins to play with some day. Hell, do it for you, Ryder.”
I look away. At a table close to the entrance for the visitors I notice a man and woman clutching hands tightly. She's the one on the inside. He's the one waiting. Up until this moment, I didn't think anything was waiting for me on the other side of those fucking sliding doors. Knowing that there is should change everything. I'm just not certain it does.
“I have a four o'clock meeting,” Noah states glancing at his watch. “Keep in mind what I said.”
My big brother stands, adjusts his cuffs, and strolls away as if he didn't just give the most important speech of his life time. Maybe to him he didn't. But it damn sure was the most important one he's ever given me.
On my way back to my room, I keep my eyes down on the polished floors. The weight of his words, a pebble on the bolder that I already carry around, except the pressure feels like it's too much. Maybe our relationship is shot. Maybe it's fucking not. That's not what's gnawing at me. No. The little blue eyed princess who should have an uncle. The child, the innocent fucking child that has to grow up in the shit storm of the Collins' ways is what's antagonizing me. I used to want children. I used to want so much before I became fixated on chasing a high I knew no drug could ever replace.
“Ryder.”
Doc's voice invades my ears. When I look up, I'm startled at the fact, I'm in the room I should be in. The one I vowed I would skip today. Honestly I whisper out, “I don't know what the fuck I’m doing here.”
He coldly states, “Completing your time.”
I shut the door behind me. “I meant to go back to my room.”
“You meant to be here.” He says picking up his clipboard. “That's why you're here.”
Uncomfortable I caustically say, “We're in the 21st Century. They make computers and tablets now.”
Not amused he replies, “They also make suppressors instead of pillows to muffle gunshot sounds.” He makes a motion at the wall space I collapsed into yesterday. “Have a seat, Ryder.”
As instructed, I do. My legs instinctively bend for me to dangle my arms on top of them. “Why can’t I sit in a chair?”
“You tell me.”
Realizing he never commanded I sit on the floor or where I sit at all, makes me grimace. I know why. It's the same reason I do most of the shit I do in here. Because it's what I feel I deserve. I shouldn't be entitled to sit where the privileged brats of America do. The ones that are here because mommy and daddy need them to look better on camera. To hold their personas just a little cleaner for the camera.
He offers me a candy cigarette, “Speak Ryder or I walk and this session counts for nothing.”
I snatch the object. “Because I'm not here for looks. I'm not here to keep up appearances.”
“What are you here for?”
The candy lands between my lips and for a flitter of a second I swear I can feel the nicotine lap dancing on my tongue. A heavy sigh leaves me, “I don't know...”
“That's part of the problem,” Doc counters. “You don't know. You don't know what is ahead of you. You don't know what it is you want to be in front of you Ryder and as long as you don't know you're comfortable here because it is something you do know. You are comfortable in the false idealistic simplicity you have created here. You are not any healthier for being behind these closed doors. You are not any less addicted to the substances that brought you here. You are not any of those things because you don't know where or who you are.”
His words call to the part of me that's begun to crave isolation and self-deprecation. It's the part when I lie in bed at night that haunts me almost as loud as the cries of the soul I hurt aside my own. “I don't know who I am anymore.”
“No,” he agrees. “You don't.”
The candy finds its way between my fingers where it sits like the real thing waiting to be lit. My silence is accompanied by my head falling forward. His accusations while off book are accurate enough to warrant baleful reactions to roll around my mind. Am I really any better than the pathetic Reality T.V. Royalty that sits in these chairs?
“Stop pretending you aren't faking an appearance,” Doc commands. “It's a good place to start.”
I look up. “And next?”
“You do like you did yesterday.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You go back. You take another look at who you once were and decide which of that is worth keeping and which of it was bullshit.”
My eyes glance away, but my head nods.
“Presley Morrison.” Her name out of his mouth is irreverent. Out of my own, at this point, I know it has to be viewed the same way. Shy of God himself, I am not sure if anyone could say her name innocently. “Tell me more about her.”
With a sarcastic smirk, I shove the candy stick back into my mouth. “Because she was my first?”
“Because that's when you started to lose you.” Before my eyes can look away he continues. “You abandoned yourself in an attempt to gain something. Walk through this and at the end you will know who the fuck Ryder is.”
My fingers dig into the back of my hair. I tug at the turmoil building. I attempt to tear out chunks of anxiety to keep my mind from once again admitting that he is right. Maybe he has a point. I believe, in my own mind, losing Presley is where the foundation of so many of my fuck ups lay. I've relived so many tragic moments time and time again. I'm not sure bringing them to the light is for the best. I'm not sure giving them light will help.
“What did you do after you broke up with her? Did you fuck around like your father suggested?”
A wretched taste of the memory tests my gag reflex. “I should've. I should've taken that time to stick my dick in anything that would have me. Things might not have ended up as shitty as they did.”
“Explain.”
“Pres and I...” Her name closes my eyes like a silent prayer meant to be lit by the candles of deities for greater ones. Shaking my head, I start again, “There was this girl named Bambi. Bambi Summers...”
A couple days after Presley and I split, Bambi landed in my lap. Literally landed in my lap. I was drunk at some party and she was playing beer pong poorly, which landed her in my lap. She didn't get up. She just sat there and threw herself at me until my dick in her mouth shut
her up. I meant it to be a one night thing, but it was so easy. She was so easy. I need easy. I want easy. I want anything that can help keep my mind off the beautiful one that I see when I close my eyes at night. Cigarettes help like beer does. Momentary soothing. I want something with a longer affect.
Bambi is short, slightly attractive, but slutty enough that I'm getting pats on the back for finally cutting the virgin loose. I don't want pats on the back for hooking up with someone who reminds me why it's important to get my dick checked regularly. I don't want a pat on the fucking back at all in this godforsaken war that our school has seemed to turn into. I want my girl back.
The two of us stroll in our marketing class together hand in hand. She says she switched into my class because her parents want her in a class that will look good on her college application if she ever fills it out, but she's full of shit. She just wants to be around me all she can, whenever she can. It's annoying when it's not a mutual feeling.
Marketing is the one class Presley and I share. The wedge between us is physical as much as it is mental now. We sit on direct opposite sides of the classroom. Bambi and I sit towards the middle all the way on the right, Pres sits toward the back all the way on the left. The ground in between is soil shared by people who enjoy swimming in the animosity between us.
Presley walks in and my heart sinks. It always does when I see her, hell even when I don't. If someone mentions her name to me or in passing, hell anything that even sounds close to it, my heart shatters. My father who I thought would be proud I did something he suggested didn't seem to care one way or another. In fact he made sure to remind me, not to go around knocking any girls up now that I wasn't going to be 'keeping it in my pants'. I almost drove across town, dropped on my knees, and begged for Presley to take me back when he said that. To undo all the misery my life was turning into. I'm not even sure what stopped me.
“I can do a fun trick with this lollipop,” Bambi giggles as she leans over my desk. In a seductive voice she coos, “Wanna see?”
“Sure babe.” I shrug and try not to let my eyes follow my heart. She shoves the entire thing down her throat, a skill I've gotten to enjoy first hand. “Impressive.”
It wasn't anything special when I was sober. In fact, it took my dick too long to cooperate with the idea of coming for her if I wasn't a little buzzed. I can't blame it. Between her insisting on wearing clothes a size too small and the obnoxious way she baby talks, I wonder how any dude busts a nut quickly. I'm only dating her in an attempt to save face. Most of the school hates me for breaking Presley's heart the way I did. Dings in my car. Key scratches. Shit scribbled on my locker. Random hateful texts. The worst part is I don't blame anyone for hating me. I hate me. And if it wasn't me who had done the shitty thing and hurt the only person I fucking care about, I would be on the band wagon of making my life a living hell too.
“How about we skip next period and do the real thing?” she whispers as our teacher, Mrs. Flynn, strolls in.
“Maybe.”
“Just maybe?” she snaps.
“That's what I said.”
While Bambi turns around to pout, I glance over my shoulder to enjoy the breathtaking view. Lately, Presley has taken to dressing a little more provocatively. Our first week apart, it was hoodies and baggy jeans, now, almost a month later, she's wearing tight skirts and boobs shirts. It's as if Project Runaway did a special “Make Your Ex-Boyfriend Jealous” edition starring her. She looks so damn good all the time, my dick literally hurts at the end of this class period for standing at attention for so long.
“Ryder,” Mrs. Flynn states, catching me red handed. My head rolls back towards her before anyone else can notice. “Why don’t you start the reading? Page 61.”
Bambi turns so we can share her marketing book. I managed to leave mine at home again. I'm making a habit of leaving books as well as my homework at home. I'm also almost fucking tardy in the mornings now. It's hard to get out of bed. It's even harder to care about getting an A on a paper or quiz when the only thing that matters, the only thing that ever pushed me, is now pushing me away. Well, I pushed her away. So I deserve to suffer for it.
After a long discussion of marketing techniques and questions a preschooler would ask courtesy of my current girlfriend, we’re dismissed to work among ourselves on our book work.
“Ryder,” she whispers my name, the end of her pen next to her lips.
“Hm?” I glance up to see her wrap her tongue around it. Subtle. “Well I know what’s on your mind.”
“Well…can you blame me?”
Instead of responding, I let my eyes drift behind her at the sight of Presley heading out of the classroom.
“You’re so sexy and we haven’t even-”
“I need to take a leak.”
Bambi's face twitches into a pout.
I quickly pop up and head to Mrs. Flynn. “Hey, can I use the pass?”
Distracted by the romance novel she’s hiding in her newspaper, she nods and shoos me away with her hand. Casually I grab the extra pass and head out towards the restroom dying to catch one hidden moment with Presley. One moment not seen by the watch dogs that document our every move like a sick fucking news reports.
The nook where the bathrooms are is also home to a water fountain. It's the one I lean beside while I anxiously wait for her to exit. First time the door swings open, I'm disappointed at the sight of the Goth student who hisses at me. Next is a petite blonde. After her it's a petite brunette. Uneasy with the idea that maybe she used the other set of restrooms that are of equal distance from the classroom, I prepare to give up on my move of desperation.
“Ry?”
The syllable lifts my fallen face. “Hey.”
Clearly unsure how to respond she simply folds her arms and leans her back against the wall on the other side of the fountain. “Hi.”
My mouth opens, prepared to beg, prepared to plea my case in front of the only person in this courtroom of love that matters, but doesn't say anything. Instead I soak in every curve displayed in her black top and create new fantasies of what to do with her in that white skirt. I shouldn't be focused on what she does to me physically. I should be ready to spew vows of eternal love or some shit. “You look good.”
“I know.” The cockiness is cute. She pushes up her glasses. I love her glasses. They make her look intelligent. Sexy. Some weird hot nerd combination. “What are you doing anyway? Complimenting me? Won’t your pet get fussy?”
I shrug and lean closer. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“Obviously.”
We both chuckle lightly at the joke.
In a whisper I manage to say, “God, I miss the hell out of you.”
Presley leans a little closer. My heart races a little faster. “I miss the hell out of you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
My hand reaches out to touch the skin I know as well as my own. For a brief moment she lets me. Our fingers feather. This is the only moment in the past month that has made any fucking sense to me. The only thing that's satisfied the craving inside she creates.
Sadly, the moment is short lived. Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway, which sends her away like a mouse sneaking away from a distracted cat. “Later Ryder...”
“Later...” On that note, I slip into the bathroom where I dampen my face with cold water to help swallow my pride. Pretending not to care about someone takes a lot more energy than actually caring about someone ever did.
Blowing out fake smoke rings in itself is oddly therapeutic. It's a tactic I'm sure most therapists would frown their pretentious faces at. I don't give a shit. It works for me. I don't hate it.
“The moment you had with Presley-”
“Please don't say her name.” The strength and tone in my elocution is non-negotiable. Firm but filled with enough zeal it would be easy to mistake her as a current love instead of a past one. I'm not even sure she is a past love, so much as the only love.
> “Fine.” Doc nods. “The moment you had with Blue Dream...how did it feel?”
I pretend to ash. “Like standing at the gates of Heaven. Light touching your toes. The warmth all right there for you to have.”
“You were robbed of that moment. That security. That high. So what did you do as a result?”
“I replaced it with another...”
“Let’s smoke,” Morgan, Bambi's best friend, anxiously says the second Thomas, one of their friends, locks the front door to her house.
“Alright,” he shrugs as he approaches us sitting in her downstairs living room. “Bong?”
“No,” Bambi whines. “I always fuck that up.”
Morgan giggles and drops down onto the floor so we're all siting around the coffee table, “Sad.”
