Isabella growls, but she can’t help smiling too. She likes talking about when she was younger, back when Mom and Dad were happy and still together in the same house. I know she must feel insecure about the future.
I know I do.
“What’s that light?” she asks as we approach the house. She points toward our house in front of us. “In there?”
I look and see that there’s a light turned on in the guest room downstairs, the one we never use.
“That’s odd,” I say. “I don’t remember going in there recently, do you? I don’t think I have been in that room for weeks.”
Isabella shakes her head. “I never go in there. It’s just a lot of boxes and old stuff anyway.”
“Then how come the light is on?”
I stare at the window, feeling frightened. Is someone in our house? I open the door using my key, then put Damian on the couch, where he continues to sleep. I walk to the closet and grab one of Damian’s baseball bats. With it lifted, praying it’s not a burglar, I walk to the guest room and push the door open. Inside, I see him. Ryan. He’s sleeping, lying on the bed on his side, curled up into a ball.
“It’s Dad,” Isabella says behind me.
I lower the bat as my fear goes away.
I signal for her to be quiet, and we look at him together. He doesn’t look homeless. His hair is clean and recently cut. He smells good too. He doesn’t smell like alcohol at all. He is taking care of himself. I wonder if he knows about Sandra…if he has heard. I am sure his friends have told him. He is sleeping heavily and doesn’t even notice we’re there. I’m guessing he needs his sleep. I sigh, turn out the lights, and we leave him in there, closing the door quietly.
At least I know where he’ll be tonight.
Chapter 9
I dream about Ryan again that night. Nothing unusual in that. I dream about him most nights, just like I think about him most days. What is unusual is that he is crying. He sits in a corner and cries, his body shaking. As I try to comfort him, he starts to scream. I jump back, my heart beating so fast it’s almost painful, and I fear it’ll never relax again. I wake up with a start and realize I am completely soaked in sweat. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I fight to breathe and calm myself.
That’s when I realize I am not alone in the room.
Someone is sitting in the chair by the door next to my bedside, in total darkness, staring at me. Frantically, I turn on the bedside light and look at him.
It’s Ryan.
“Geez, you scared me,” I say and clasp my chest. “How long have you been sitting there?”
He doesn’t answer. He stares at me, his red-rimmed eyes almost glowing. He looks upset. Angry.
“Are you okay, Ryan?” I ask.
Then, I see the tears. They’re running down his cheeks. His face is strained, and he can no longer keep himself composed. His body is shaking. I don’t think twice about it. I jump out of bed and go to him. I hug him and hold him tight while he cries.
“Is it because of Sandra?” I ask as I feel him calming down slightly in my arms. “Are you crying because of her?”
He nods, then sniffles loudly. “I don’t think I’m doing so well.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I say and hug him again. His tears and snot wet my shoulder. His body is shaking, and he smells like alcohol. On the bedside table stands an almost empty glass. There’s a little bit of scotch left on the bottom. The bottle next to it is completely empty. He’s been drinking while watching me sleep.
“What’s going on, Ryan?” I ask, squatting in front of him. “Can’t you tell me what is happening with you?”
He shakes his head, still crying. I stare at his lips, missing them terribly. I have the oddest urge to dive in, to let go of all my issues, all my worries, and just do it. After all, I don’t know with certainty that he has cheated on me. Their meeting could have been about something else, something completely different. It might not even be anything terrible. Maybe he just missed her because they were friends? I know I am lying to myself, but I don’t care. I need this distraction right now. I need this.
I kiss the lips. I lean forward and kiss him. He kisses me back. We stay like this for a few seconds until he pulls away. I don’t understand, so I look at him, puzzled. His shoulders are shaking. I raise my hand and put it on his neck. He doesn’t push it away. I pull him closer, and we kiss again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “If I haven’t made your coming home easier. I want to, but you have to help me. You have got to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
He pulls back forcefully. I realize I have gone too far; I have pushed him again. He doesn’t like that. He straightens up, then pushes my hand away from him. Then he laughs. It’s a bitter laugh. The terrifying sense of panic is rising inside of me, devouring me. I don’t feel like I can count on him. He seems out of it—like the time he tried to strangle me. Remembering this, I pull back.
“Ryan?”
I can see the veins underneath his skin. He gets up and grabs the empty bottle next to him. I want to go to the front door, but he is blocking my way. I have to get past him first, and I don’t want to, not now that he’s holding that bottle in the air, his other hand in a clenched fist.
“Please, Ryan,” I say on the verge of tears. I raise my hands to protect myself. “I’m sorry.”
The bottle hits the wall behind me and shatters. Glass rains onto the carpet, and I sink to my knees, terrified. Seeing this, Ryan stops. He reaches down toward me, grabs me by the shoulders, and helps me get up.
“I’m scared,” he says. “Don’t you understand? I am so terribly scared.”
“Of what?” I ask, crying. “What is it you’re so scared of?”
“I’ve been to war! Don’t you get it? I have seen rocket-propelled grenades that just missed me by inches. I have been shot at, blown up, and I have seen children die. I was almost killed myself.”
His shoulders slump as he says it. I feel my heart grow soft. My fear dissipates. He’s not dangerous. He’s a broken man. He’s hurt.
I rise to my feet and take him in my arms. He leans on my shoulder and cries again. Then we kiss some more. I feel his body close to mine. He kisses me now, demandingly, grabs my hair and pulls it; then he pushes me down on the bed. He is on top of me, taking off my clothes, and we make love right there on top of the bed. He is rougher than he used to be with me, and it scares me a little, but I also enjoy being close again.
“I still can’t believe she’s dead.”
Ryan shakes his head. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when he starts to talk. It’s unexpected, and I sit up, worried that I might ruin the moment if I say anything.
He turns to look at me. His cheeks have color in them, probably from the sex.
“Sandra,” he adds. “I can’t believe she’d kill herself.”
I swallow. It takes me a few seconds to finally find the courage to ask.
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
He scoffs. “I don’t even remember. Right after we got back, I think.”
He puts on a sock, then pulls it up. A ton of alarm buttons go off inside my mind. Ryan just lied to me.