by Shandi Boyes
I’ll even forgive her for keeping Savannah’s letter from me if that’s what it will take for her to see there's an entire population who doesn’t believe backhanding is a way to thank someone for the meal they slaved over for hours. If he's stupid enough not to know pea and ham soup recently removed from the stovetop is hot, how is that her fault?
I sit on my parents’ bed, staring down at Savannah’s letter for several minutes. In all honesty, I don’t know if I want to read it. It may make matters worse instead of better. I love my mom, but I’m furious she kept this from me. She saw the anger I amassed with every month that ticked by in silence. She witnessed me cut down the ladder of my treehouse when Savannah’s dad came to pick up her bike the weekend following her thirteenth birthday. She knows how gutted I was, but because she constantly puts my dad above anyone else, she added to my misery instead of easing it.
If I didn’t love her so much, I would have said that makes her just as abusive as my father.
Breathing out my anger, I carefully pry open Savannah's letter. Dried-up rose petals fall to my feet when I unfold the tightly wrapped document. The thought of Savannah stealing a rose from Mr. Wilson's garden makes me smile. She plucked one every time she walked the cracked sidewalk at the front of his residence neighboring mine. That was a minimum eight to nine times a week.
After giving myself a lecture on not being a pansy, I drop my eyes to Savannah’s letter. The first two sentences sucker punch me in the guts.
Dear Ry-Ry,
Our parents are having an affair.
That's just like Savannah. Straight to the point.
The remainder of her letter is the ramblings of a broken-hearted thirteen-year-old girl. Although she apologizes time and time again for placing the blame on our shoulders instead of our parents, the undertone in her letter can't be denied. She was hurting—badly.
I can only imagine how bad her pain got when I failed to reply to the last paragraph of her letter.
I miss you, Ryan, so much. I can’t breathe without you in my life. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll be waiting for you Saturday night at Roach Park. My curfew is 5 PM. I’ll wait for you until then.
Please come...even if it’s only to hear my apology in person.
If you don’t want to see me again after that, I’ll understand.
Anna-Banana xx
While folding Savannah's letter back into a tight bundle by using its original creases, my eyes catch sight of the alarm clock on my parents’ bedside table. It's 4:55 PM. If I had received the letter as Savannah intended, nothing would have stopped me meeting her at the park on the corner of Milvine and Router. I would have sprinted the entire three miles if it was the only way I could reach her.
Although there are plenty of parks nestled between our houses Savannah could have chosen, I know why she picked the one she did. It's the only one with our names engraved in an old oak tree that shades a set of swings.
While Brax and I waited for Chris to sneak out of his family home half a block from the park, I scratched a pointy stick against the tree. Before I knew it, I had engraved Savannah's name into the tree trunk. I thought I was doodling, but that afternoon proved she was continually on my mind, even when she wasn't with me.
Much to my friends’ disgust, I refused to leave the park until I finished engraving my name underneath Savannah’s—I may have even added a corny heart as well. What? I was thirteen and dealing with more hormones than I had ever handled.
I never intended for Savannah to see my design, and in all honesty, I didn’t know she knew it existed.
A red light flicking on the alarm clock gains my attention. My heart skips a beat when the time switches to 4:56 PM, leaving me only four minutes to travel over three miles.
Although it's utterly ridiculous to pretend Savannah is still waiting for me, I'm galloping down the stairs without a second thought. I didn't get her letter years ago, but I received it today. That alone is enough incentive to keep my legs moving.
My brisk charge across the living room stops when I notice flowers strewn across the stained carpet. The vase they were in when I arrived home an hour ago is crunching under my mother's feet as she frantically cleans up the shattered glass before anyone notices it.
I scan the room, noting my father's keys and jacket are no longer spread across the entranceway table where he dumps them after every shift. Sensing my presence, my mom's eyes lift to mine. The sucker punch Savannah's letter caused my stomach turns into a full-blown strike when I spot a dark bruise circling her right eye.
“Ma... why didn’t you call out? I can’t protect you if I don’t know he’s hurting you.”
When she lowers her head, hiding her tear-stained face from my view, I push off my feet to pad closer to her.
“Let me see,” I request, carefully placing my hand under her chin to lift her lowered head.
“It’s nothing, Ryan. I’m fine,” she assures me, her tone as low as my heart is sitting. “I tripped on the rug and knocked over the vase. You know me, always a klutz.”
“Then how did you bruise your eye?” I glance into a pair of icy blue eyes that are identical to mine in every way. Hers are just wearier than mine.
My mom’s eyes flicker as her foggy brain struggles to remember which excuse she gave me last time he hit her. "That's the same bruise from last week. When I fell and headbutted the chair. Remember? I...umm...tripped over the new rug in the dining room."
I know she's lying—I hate that she is lying—but I’m not going to call her out as a liar. She’s barely holding it together as she is. She doesn’t need more devastation added to her plate.
“Sit down and let me clean it up for you.”
I help her into the dining room, being extra careful not to touch the marks on her arms he caused by grabbing her to strengthen his hit.
“Do you need pain relief? A glass of water?” A gun?
Mom licks her parched lips before shaking her head. Even though she said no, I head into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water before setting to work on cleaning up the shattered vase I gave her for her fortieth birthday last year.
“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” my mom asks as her tear-filled eyes glance at the pink roses scattered across the floor. “He knows pink is my favorite color. That’s why he bought them for me.” She fiddles with her engagement ring, aligning the tiny diamond until it sits in the middle of her finger. “I should have just said thank you for his kindness. He wouldn’t have brought them if we couldn’t afford them, so I shouldn’t have bothered him with my worries.”
She continues defending him until I’ve cleared away the evidence of his assault.
She continues defending him until I've helped her prepare him a three-course meal.
She continues defending him until he arrives home four hours later reeking of another lady’s perfume and a cheap bottle of whiskey.
She will continue defending him until the day he kills her.
11
Ryan
“A penny for your thoughts.”
I lift my eyes from my clenched fists to where the singsong voice is coming from. The torment plaguing me the past several hours eases when I spot Savannah climbing in my bedroom window. I’m so shocked to witness her do something she hasn’t done in years, I can’t manage to help her. I don’t even blink for fear she will disappear. I’ve imagined this exact visual so many times the past five years, I’m certain I am dreaming.
The grunt she releases when she lands on the floor with a thud leaves no doubt I’m not dreaming. “Thanks for the help, Ryan,” she mocks with a giggle, standing to her feet.
Smiling to assure me there's no malice in her words, she runs her hands down her body, ridding her clothing of the ivy leaves gathered during her climb. My eyes follow her hands’ path, taking in her outfit: a pair of tiny denim shorts and a green spaghetti-strapped top. With the wind being a little nippy, a white jacket has joined the ensemble I’ve se
en her wear a minimum two to three times this week alone.
After dumping a handful of leaves out my window, Savannah closes it before joining me on my single bed. The cuffs of her shorts ride up high on her thighs when she braces her back on the headboard. She cocks her legs so her cheek can rest on her knees. She peers at me with shining eyes, her face void of the anguish mine is carrying.
“What happened?” she asks, intuiting there's a reason for the extra crinkle between my dark brows. Even though she’s curious, she respects I’m not a fan of deep and meaningfuls.
"Same as always." My short reply can't hide the anger in my voice.
Over five hours have passed since I discovered my dad had once again hit my mom, but my fury hasn't weakened in the slightest. If anything, it has grown. Every time I peered at my mom tonight, all I saw was Savannah.
Savannah was confident last week she’d never let anyone hurt her, but so was my mom at her age. For every excuse my mom gave for my dad’s rough handling, the more violent his attacks became. At first, it was a slap across the cheek, then it grew to two. Within a couple of years, it went from open hands to closed fists. If the violence continues escalating at that rate, there will only be one outcome: someone will be dead. I hope it's my father, but I know it will most likely be my mother.
That’s why I walked away tonight. If had to watch his lipstick-smeared mouth kiss her for a second longer, I would have killed him. My dad says he loves my mom. I don’t believe a word he speaks. He doesn’t even have the decency to wipe another woman’s lipstick off his mouth before kissing the mother of his children. If that doesn’t show how little he respects her, I don’t know what will. He makes me sick. He makes me fucking mad.
“I hate him,” I grind out through clenched teeth before I can stop my words. “I wish he were dead.”
Savannah takes my fury in stride, having heard it all before. This isn’t the first time she’s worn the brunt of the anger I should be directing at him. She heard it a minimum once a month the year before she left.
“Can we get her help? Take her somewhere? Bring someone here?” Savannah asks the same questions she did the last time she comforted me.
We were barely kids when my dad beat my mom so bad she spent a week in the hospital, but we were forced to pick up the pieces like we were adults. I want to say reaching adulthood made this easier for me, but that would be a lie. I’m just as confused now as I was back then.
“She won’t listen, Savannah. She never listens. I tried... God, did I try. I practically fell to my knees and pleaded, but she didn’t hear a word I spoke.”
The ice immobilizing my heart thaws when Savannah curls her arm around my torso. She doesn't say anything; she just offers me quiet comfort, understanding no amount of words will change my predicament.
I've had counselors come and see my mom when dad is at work. I've left pamphlets for domestic violence support groups in inconspicuous places around our house. I even went as far as buying an illegal firearm as a form of protection for her. But nothing I do changes anything. He continues abusing her, and she keeps making excuses for him.
“It won’t end. No matter how hard she strives to please him, nothing she does will ever be good enough for him. He’s going to kill her, Savannah. He won’t stop until she's dead.”
Throwing my head back, my eyes snap shut, praying the moisture pricking them doesn’t fall. The last thing my faltering ego needs is Savannah seeing me as a pussy. How can I promise to keep her safe mere hours after she witnesses me crying? I can’t, so I won’t.
Any worries of crying like a pansy are lost when the warmth of a body curls around mine. After banding her arms around my back and her thighs around my hips, Savannah dips her head under my chin.
“He won’t kill her, Ryan, because you won’t let that happen,” she murmurs into my chest, her words stuttering like my heart. “You protect the people you love, even when they stupidly believe they don’t need it.”
She’s not only referring to my mother. She is also talking about herself.
My heart thudding against her ear must be deafening, but she doesn’t complain. She just continues holding me tightly, wordlessly coercing me off the ledge I’m standing on.
And that's how we stay until the sun peeks over the horizon.
12
Ryan
Ignoring the thump of my skull begging for more hours of sleep, my eyes slowly flutter open. It takes me a few moments scanning my room to gather my bases. It isn't the effect of minimal sleep that has my mind in a fog; it's the strands of honey hair tickling my bare chest. I know whose smooth beige legs are twisted around mine and whose warm breath is fanning the hairs on my chest. I’d just rather not recall why Savannah is using my body as her pillow.
Just like when we were kids, Savannah knew I needed her last night. It's like she has a sixth sense that activates the instant my life circles the drain. It didn’t matter if it was an argument with one of my friends or an event like last night, every time without fail, she’d crawl through my window and coerce me off the ledge.
This is selfish of me to say, but I didn’t realize how much I relied on her until she was no longer sneaking into my room in the middle of the night. I had become so accustomed to her promise that everything would be alright, I lost the ability to handle my emotions on my own.
I think that's where most of my resentment came from the past five years. I pretended I was just angry that Savannah cut ties with her old life to favor new friends, but in reality, it was more than that. I wasn’t annoyed that she lived in a pretty house and drove to school in fancy cars worth thousands of dollars. I was resentful she wasn’t there when I needed her.
Only now, while glancing down at her shiny locks glistening in the early morning sun do I realize I don’t need her to work through my turmoil. But I want her standing by my side. Those are two entirely different things.
Savoring a rare moment of peace, I weave my fingers through Savannah’s hair. The morning wood I wake with every day swells to an uncomfortable thickness when she moans softly into my chest. I peer down at her beautiful face, worried the heavy thud of my heart has awoken her. It hasn’t. Her eyes remain closed, and her lips are still slightly ajar.
When my finger drifts across the little groove imbedded in her cheek, her arms tighten around my torso. She barely moves, but her minor adjustment causes her knee to scrape my crotch—my very hard and erect crotch.
“Savannah...” I growl in warning when I feel her lips curving against my chest. “If you keep laughing every time I get a boner, I’m gonna get a complex.”
“I’m not laughing,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from just waking up. “I’m smiling. That’s completely different.”
“It better be a good smile,” I warn.
My threat holds no steam. Even if she's laughing at me, I’d rather her find my appendage amusing than not be here at all.
“It’s an, ‘I’m so impressed, I can’t contain my smile,’ smile,” Savannah assures me.
The huskiness of her voice makes me wish I didn’t fall asleep wearing jeans. I’m going to have a zipper mark permanently etched into my dick at this rate.
“You’re killing me, Savannah.”
I want to say more, but since I’m five seconds away from showing her how appreciative I am of her compliment with my tongue instead of words, I keep my mouth shut.
Smiling, Savannah burrows her head into my chest. It could just be wishful thinking, but I swear she mumbles, “You’re not the only one dying.”
We remain quiet for several minutes. It should feel odd holding another man’s girl in my arms, but it doesn’t. Savannah was mine years before Axel came into the picture, and she will be mine years after he’s gone. I’ll make sure of it.
“I can’t believe you still wear this,” Savannah murmurs a short time later, her voice still sounding tired. It's husky and sweet, sending a pleasing zap to my balls.
My lips twist into a smirk when her attempt
to spin the frayed rope circling my wrist fails. “I guess my dick isn’t the only thing that’s grown the past few years.”
The six clumps in my stomach crunch when Savannah’s fist lands in the middle of them. “We’re trying to ignore the monstrosity in your pants, not encourage it.”
“Monstrosity?” I say with an arch of my brow, my one word husky with laughter.
“Yeah. Monstrosity,” Savannah mimics, her tone nowhere near as playful as mine. “Because keeping that thing locked up is outrageous.”
Someone fucking kill me. How the hell am I supposed to respond that?
Thankfully, Savannah continues talking, saving me from issuing a shameful response. “This is new.”
Goosebumps prickle my skin when she traces lazy circles on the thin trail of hair extending from my belly button to the rim of my jeans. Although her touch is innocent, the crackling of sexual tension building between us is anything but. It grows and grows and grows until she's mere millimeters from an area moments away from breaking the fly on my jeans.
When her fingertip grazes the shiny metal button sitting low on my hips, my eyes snap shut and my ears prick, praying I’ll hear a familiar click.
Disappointment engulfs me when Savannah’s hand darts away from the rim of my pants while muttering, “This is new too.”
The worry in her voice forces my eyes back open. Her panicked gaze is locked on an inch-long scar on the lower right hand side of my abdomen. “Was that done by... him?” she asks, her bottom lip shaking.
I shake my head. “No.”
She lifts her head off my chest to peer into my eyes, seeking any untruth in them.
I’m not lying. I’ll never lie for him.
“My appendix erupted three years ago. That’s where they took it out,” I explain, loving the concern in her eyes.
