Come Break My Heart Again by C.W. Farnsworth

Chapter Four

Iturn Betty down the unfamiliar road, bouncing with each jolt of the car’s suspension. Sad, tired surroundings greet me as the tires roll closer to the end of the dirt lane. Signs covered with peeling white paint are the only decoration in what could generously be described as front yards, and I park beside the one denoting the address the school secretary reluctantly handed to me.

I step out of my convertible, glancing around nervously. My car stands out like a drop of blood in pristine snow. So do I. Grass has been scuffed down to its roots in the center of the front yard, and I follow the attempt at a path up to the front of the trailer, gingerly climbing the stairs to knock on the door.

“What?” The flimsy door bangs open, revealing a woman. Her hair is a muddy shade of brown styled half-up and half-down. Not in a purposeful way, but as though she pulled it up a while ago and gravity has slowly been working away at it ever since. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a tight tank top her cleavage is practically spilling out of.

“Hello,” I say politely. Her face screws up, exacerbating the lines already creasing the skin around her eyes and mouth. I’d guess she’s in her mid-thirties, but she has the troubled appearance of someone much older. Who’s lived through a lot—little of it pleasant.

She doesn’t repeat the greeting, letting us marinate in awkward silence.

“Is Ryder home?”

“You sleeping with my son?” Crystalline green eyes I’ve only ever seen on one other person narrow.

I blush at her brash question. “Uh, no.”

“Good. You look like the type to get attached.” Most definitely not a compliment.

“Is Ryder here?” I try again.

“No.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No.”

Extracting information from this woman is like squeezing a desiccated lemon.

“Okay,” I sigh. “Thanks.” For nothing.

The door bangs shut without another word. I sigh again, turning to head back to my car. I’m halfway back to the half-dead stretch of grass where I parked when I see a truck that looks exactly like the sort of vehicle Ryder James would drive pull between the rusty fridge and stack of bald tires marking the entrance to the trailer park. Ryder’s truck rumbles to a stop next to my car, the trail of dust it raised drifting off into nothingness.

He’s not alone in the cab. There’s a younger boy sitting beside him, probably twelve or thirteen, if I had to guess. As soon as the deafening engine quiets, the boy jumps out of the passenger seat.

“Well, hello there,” he drawls.

I already surmised they must be related, even though they look very little alike, that line confirmed it. My status is thanks to my last name and family’s net worth. Ryder’s confidence seems to be intrinsic. And hereditary.

“Hi,” I reply, giving a dorky little wave I immediately regret.

“Wicked car,” the boy announces, shoving back some of his shaggy, sandy hair, presumably in an attempt to get a better look at my red convertible.

“Thanks,” I respond, smiling at his blatant admiration.

“Can I drive it?”

The driver’s side door of the truck opens and closes.

“Aren’t you a bit young to drive?” I ask amusedly.

“Christopher. Go inside,” Ryder states.

“Don’t really feel like it,” Christopher replies. He leans against the bumper of Ryder’s truck. Kid’s not lacking in confidence, that’s for sure.

“It wasn’t a request,” Ryder snaps.

“Why? She your girlfriend, or something?”

“Inside, or I won’t take you to the garage for two weeks.”

Christopher heaves out a sigh, but it’s an effective threat. “Way to ruin my fucking life.”

“Language,” Ryder yells after Christopher’s retreating back. A second slam of the trailer’s front door is the only response.

“Sweet kid,” I comment, shifting my gaze to Ryder for the first time. It’s only been three days since I last saw him, but my eyes feast on the sight of him hungrily as though it’s been months. Years.

Muscular forearms I’ve spent a number of unproductive minutes staring at in the short time he’s been back in Fernwood are smeared with what I think is grease. The same tar-like substance mars the fabric of the distressed jeans and white undershirt he’s currently wearing. Ryder pulls off his ball cap to run a hand through his messy brown hair and then replaces it with the brim facing backwards. I swallow as I’m met with his harsh gaze.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“You weren’t in school,” I retort, matching his combative tone.

“So?”

An excellent question. Ryder not showing up for school today shouldn’t matter to me. But I was worried Saturday’s activities had turned out to be messy. Concerned he might have packed up and left again. I don’t share either of those truths.

“So, I brought you what you missed.”

“Great, so I’ll have no excuse for not having it tomorrow?”

The question is caustic. He’s in a bad mood, and I should take it as a sign to get out of this place where I don’t belong with this boy who clearly doesn’t want me here.

I stay in place.

“You’re welcome,” I toss back, staying in place.

“Fine, give me it.” He takes a few angry strides toward me and holds out a hand.

I pull the sheet of notebook paper I wrote all of his assignments on out of my backpack and hand it to him. He scans the list. “I don’t have—”

I hand him our history textbook and math workbook. Ryder raises both eyebrows. “You broke into my locker?”

“Once again, you’re welcome.”

“Miss Perfect committed a felony?”

“Breaking and entering is a misdemeanor,” I respond.

“Already studying for the bar? Daddy must be so proud.”

I ignore the dig. “Where were you today?”

“Went on a cruise, stole some cars, robbed a bank.”

“Where were you, Ryder?”

“Hard to recall. I’m still recovering from the news you’re not a goody two-shoes.”

“You already knew that, remember?”

Ryder sucks in a sharp breath in response to my reference to our past. “Don’t come back here again, Elle.”

“Don’t skip school again, Ryder.”

A brown dog slinks around the corner of the trailer and approaches us hesitantly, like it’s drawn to our raised voices rather than poised to flee the way any animal who senses anger tends to do.

“You have a dog?”

“He’s just a stray,” Ryder replies.

“He seems to know you.” The dog reaches us. It eyes me nervously but rubs its head against Ryder’s calf.

“Ryder!” The door bangs open, and the same woman who helpfully told me absolutely nothing eyes us. “I need your help.” Her gaze shifts to me, then the dog. “If you stopped feeding that mutt, maybe he’d go shit food meant for us in someone else’s yard for once.”

There’s another bang, and the door shuts.

Ryder doesn’t say anything, but the same jaw muscles that always seem to get a good workout in around me jump a couple of times. I zip my backpack up again and start toward Betty, taking my time walking back to the convertible. Hoping he’ll say something else.

Tell me where he was.

Thank me for coming.

Show me a glimpse of the guy who came to Paige’s birthday.

But the trailer park remains silent and empty as I climb inside the car and start driving to the part of town where I’m from.

* * *

“Do we think there’s a chance we’ll win tonight?” Paige plops down on the grass beside me to stretch her hamstrings.

I send her a dubious glance. “Does it make me a bad captain and a terrible girlfriend if I tell you we have no chance?”

“Probably.”

I roll my eyes and stand, turning my gaze to the football field to glance between Fernwood High’s green huddle and Thompson High’s blue one. “Then there’s a two percent chance? Maybe?”

“You’re a bad captain and terrible girlfriend,” Paige informs me, laughing.

“It’s not my fault our football team is incapable of scoring touchdowns,” I retort.

The two huddles break, indicating the start of the game. I move into position on the sideline, although from experience I know the squad won’t have anything to do until our half-time performance. Thompson High’s football team is one of the best in the state. Two percent was a generous estimate of our odds, to be honest.

Sure enough, Thompson manages to score three touchdowns in the span of time it takes us to reach half-time. Green jerseys trudge off the field with their shoulders slumped. I lead the cheer squad out onto the field and the crowd of Fernwood fans finally perks up as we start our routine.

I actually love cheering. I joined the squad because Sarah did, because it was expected of me. But I’ve always enjoyed dancing, and cheer provides a similar outlet. The same rhythm, the same structure, the same bliss of being lost in movement and unable to think.

The second half of the game drags. Fernwood improves their performance in the rest of the game, only allowing one more touchdown. But the 28-0 lighting up the scoreboard leaves no illusion we didn’t just get trounced.

I groan as I grab my pom-poms and jacket, already dreading the post-game party held every Friday night. I have no doubt Liam is going to be in a terrible mood. As someone who thrives on being revered and respected, I know his lack of skill when it comes to football is a perennial source of embarrassment to him. He should quit the team, but it’s not like we have a Tom Brady waiting in the wings. Plus, quitting would bring about its own form of mortification.

I change in the locker room with the rest of the squad, taking a seat on one of the wooden benches to wait for everyone else to finish getting ready. Primping and preening over my appearance doesn’t sound appealing. There’s no one I’m trying to impress tonight.

Paige is one of the last to get ready. We trail after the rest of the girls heading toward the parking lot. It was overflowing earlier; now there’s no more than a dozen cars left. Liam’s Mercedes is gone. We normally drive to the post-game party together, but it looks like I’ll be bumming a ride from Paige.

She realizes the same. “You need a ride?”

“Apparently.”

I climb in the passenger side of her SUV. Loud pop music assaults my ears as soon as Paige turns the car on, but neither of us bother to turn it down. After twelve years of friendship, I know Paige likes her music as loud as possible. I’m normally the one trying to preserve our sense of hearing, but I’m worried she might ask about Liam if I turn it down. Or worse, Ryder. The told-you-so looks she gave me for the rest of her birthday following our pool-side conversation were bad enough.

As we wind along the dark streets of Fernwood, my phone vibrates with a message. I pull it out to see a text from my mother. It’s a reminder they’ll be staying at our townhouse in the city tonight following the gala they’re attending tonight. A warning wrapped in maternal concern.

Paige parks crookedly along the curb in front of Jack Rodger’s house. We walk up the brick path illuminated by tiny lamps lining the edge and inside the house busting with bodies, booze, and blatant disregard for personal space.

I’ve been to dozens of high school parties by now, possibly hundreds. The scent of sweat swirling around with overpriced perfume and cologne is familiar. The sound of excited voices mingling with suggestive music is expected. The sight of scanty outfits and styled hair is predictable.

Anticipation thrums through the room, too. There’s the thrilling possibility of a crush acknowledging you. The chance to mingle with the popular crowd. The ability to contribute to the gossip that will no doubt be flying through the halls of Fernwood High come Monday morning.

Belonging is a heady feeling—especially when you’re in high school.

I grew immune to this atmosphere a while ago. Just like at school, I know exactly what to expect when I step inside a party. There’s no suspense about what will happen or how I’ll be received.

My classmates don’t disappoint. As soon as Paige and I step through the door, they swarm, drifting toward us like we’re exuding a gravitational pull. The shift in the room ripples throughout it, drawing my attention to the solitary two figures that don’t attempt to move closer.

Ryder James is here.

Leaning against the wall sipping a bottle of beer and listening to something Danielle Collins is saying as if she knows the secrets of the universe.

My first, embarrassingly vain thought? I should have taken the time to glimpse at my appearance rather than sprawl out on the locker room bench. The possibility he might be here never even occurred to me. School spirit and social status seem to be two things Ryder avoids like the plague. Plenty of both are present tonight.

Green eyes meet mine, and it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. I keep my face blank as I internally try to sort through the many emotions his presence elicits. We haven’t exchanged so much as a brief glance—never mind the prolonged eye contact we’re engaging in right now—since he unceremoniously grabbed the assignments I brought over to his trailer.

He hasn’t skipped school once in the past two weeks since then. Either whatever he was doing instead that Monday hasn’t come up again, or he took my threat of showing up again if he did seriously. Pretty sure it’s the former.

I look away first. Not because I want to, but because Kennedy has apparently been trying to talk to me for a while. There’s a touch of impatience in her voice when she asks me if I know where Liam is. I shake my head, and wonder if she’s seen that Ryder is here. Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain I’m the only one at this party so painstakingly aware of his presence.

But that doesn’t mean his presence has gone entirely unnoticed. I’ve seen Danielle at some of these parties before, which has served as the impetus for most of the rumors about her. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her here with a fellow occupant of the trailer park, though. I’m not sure if the side glances are because of that fact alone, or the fact that Ryder is still a novelty three weeks into the fall semester, but everyone is behaving as though there’s an invisible bubble around the two seniors leaning against the wall.

Paige and I migrate toward the kitchen, with our fan club close behind. I feel her eyes on me as we pass Ryder, but I don’t meet them. She hasn’t brought up Ryder again since her birthday party, and I hope it’s a trend that continues. I can’t decide—or admit—how I feel about him to myself. Trying to put that into words, even to my best friend, is not something I can or want to attempt to do.

The kitchen is filled with more people to greet. I lose track of Paige as I chat with peer after peer. I eventually reach the kitchen island, which is spread with a wide array of drink options. I settle on a soda, not really in the mood to drink any alcohol despite knowing I won’t be met with any disapproving stares when I arrive home tonight.

I’ve just cracked the seal on the can when Kinsley appears next to me.

“Elle!”

“What?” I take a sip, and then swing my gaze to her. There’s a strange mixture of dread and uncertainty on her face I’m surprised to see.

“Uh—Stephanie was just upstairs with Connor.”

“Good for her.” I take another swig from the can and hold it out. “Can you hold this for me? I have to pee.”

“They walked in on Danielle. With… Liam.”

“Oh.” I wait for the shock. Anger. Betrayal. Anything. Instead, I’m simply surprised Danielle migrated upstairs so quickly. It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes since I saw her in the living room with Ryder.

Kinsley studies me sympathetically, possibly expecting me to burst into tears at any moment. Is that the expected response in this situation?

Liam chooses this exact moment to enter the kitchen. His brown eyes are wide as they glance around the room, clearly looking for someone. For me. Guilt swamps his expression when he spots me leaning against the island, with Kinsley at my side. He hurries over to us.

“Elle!” he calls, drawing some attention. Is he thinking I’m going anywhere?

I simply stare at him when he reaches us, still waiting for some devastated emotion to materialize.

Nope. Still nothing.

“Heard you were upstairs with Danielle,” I finally state nonchalantly.

Liam doesn’t seem to realize the indifference isn’t faked because he still looks panicked. “You—it didn’t—I mean—” Liam fumbles.

It’s entertaining to watch him squirm, but I also don’t care enough to see him uncomfortable. A somewhat disconcerting realization, seeing as we’ve been dating for the past eight months.

“Yes or no, Liam?” I cut in. His face tells me the answer, even though he doesn’t verbalize it. “Okay, then.”

His expression morphs to an amusing mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“Okay? We’re… good?”

“Yup.” I nod. “We’re great. Have fun hooking up with your new girlfriend.”

Understanding dawns on Liam’s face. By good, I mean over. He thought I’d play the role of the “good wife” and protect us.

A flash of motion catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. Ryder’s just entered the kitchen. I start walking toward the doorway, not caring it’s going to put me right in his path. Everyone in the kitchen is watching this scene unfold, and I’m over it. For the second time tonight, I’ve been confronted with the unexpected, and it’s making me miss the expected. For once.

“Elle!” Liam follows me. “Elle! It was a mistake, okay? It won’t ever happen again. She means nothing to me. Nothing at all.”

My life has turned into a cheesy teen sitcom plot.

I spin back around. “I don’t care, Liam. We’re done.”

“What? We can’t be! We’re perfect together. Everyone expects—”

“I don’t care what everyone expects. I’m done. Feel free to hook up with whoever you want. Or spend some more time practicing football so my squad can actually cheer for a winning team!”

Liam’s face turns an ugly shade of puce, but his voice is still cajoling. “You’re mad. I get it. Please, just talk to me.”

“I’m not mad. I just don’t have anything left to say to you.”

Kinsley stands silently by, watching our exchange just as closely as everyone else in the immediate vicinity. No one wants to intervene in the meltdown of Fernwood’s golden couple.

Malice twists Liam’s handsome features as it finally seems to register that I really mean what I’m saying. “Fine,” he snaps, in a harsh tone I’ve never heard from him before. “Just know most guys would have gone to Danielle a lot sooner. No girl, no matter how hot she is, is worth waiting that long for. You barely even let me—”

One moment Liam’s slurring out insults. The next he’s flat on the floor, holding a bloody nose. I don’t need to look over to see who gave it to him.

There’s only one person in Fernwood who would punch Liam Hathaway.

Who would actually defend me, despite the pedestal everyone put me on a long time ago.

Liam scrambles to his feet, wiping blood from his nostrils and glaring at Ryder. “You fucking—” Comically, he glances to me. Either he’s too conditioned not to swear in front of me, or he’s still holding on to some false hope I’ll forgive him if he keeps up the perfect guy charade. “You’ll pay for that, James.”

“Bring it, Hathaway,” Ryder retorts. He’s got several inches and more than a few pounds of muscle on Liam. He also appears totally sober, which is more than can be said for my ex-boyfriend.

Testosterone chokes the air around me at the two guys stare at each other.

It’s completely silent in the kitchen, and the lack of noise is starting to spread through the rest of the house. It’s an open layout on the first floor, and my classmates are taking advantage of the fact the rest of the lower level provides a view of the kitchen. I’m no stranger to being the center of attention, but the scrutiny feels especially claustrophobic right now.

“Can you drive me home?” I ask Ryder.

He glances down at me, his tense posture loosening some.

“Are you kidding me, Elle?” Liam asks angrily.

I ignore him. “Ryder?”

“Yeah,” he replies quietly.

“Elle! Seriously? You’re going off with trailer trash? Worried I’ll return the favor?” Liam wipes his nose.

“No, I’m leaving with Ryder, because I’m worried about your face. And that’s really all you’ve got going for you, so…”

That comment breaks through the shocked silence. There are a few titters from the crowd, and Liam’s face flushes. I brush past him, not waiting to see if Ryder’s following me.

“If you leave with him then we’re done!” Liam calls out after me. His voice is full of bravado, but I can hear the desperation buried deep beneath. He’s also staking us on our joint reputation, which proves he doesn’t really know me. At all.

“Promise?” I yell back as I push through the crowd gathered around the kitchen. Once they realize the show is over, they start to part pretty quickly. Or maybe it’s the presence behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know that Ryder is right behind me. I’m definitely not bothered by Liam’s betrayal because I’m numb, because right now, I’m the furthest thing from apathetic.

Awareness races across my skin and ricochets inside my stomach as I open the front door and step outside into the cool night air.

“Holy shit,” I breathe when we’re back on the path that leads to the sidewalk. “That just happened, right?” I know it did, my imagination is nowhere near that creative, but I need Ryder to acknowledge it.

He does. “Got the bruised knuckles to prove it.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“For punching Hathaway? My pleasure.”

I nod.

“You actually need a ride home, or was that an excuse to get out of there?”

“I actually need a ride home,” I admit. “Paige picked me up for the game earlier. But I can ask someone else…” I half-turn back toward the house, giving him a clean out.

“Nah, it’s fine. I was over it anyway. Come on.” Ryder starts toward the street. We start walking down the sidewalk. Side by side. For the first time since he’s returned, we’re completely alone, and I’m painfully aware of it.

Ryder stops at his truck, and I have the chance to survey his vehicle up close. It’s what an unbiased observer would probably consider to be better suited for a junkyard than a side street, but it fits Ryder somehow. It’s straightforward, just like him. What you see is what you get. Except I’ve always viewed Ryder as having a hidden side. With layers I think I glimpsed freshman year, but I haven’t been able to discern whether they’ve disappeared since or are just better hidden now.

I climb into the passenger side, onto a cloth seat that smells like chewing tobacco. Ryder cranks his window down, and the scent of fresh night air replaces it. Unlike in Paige’s car, there’s no burst of noise when he turns the key in the ignition. No music—either assaulting the eardrums or as mere background noise.

Neither of us breaks the silence as he pulls away from the curb and starts driving down the street.

“You didn’t come with Danielle?” I finally ask.

He slants a glance my way, but I keep my eyes forward. I’m well aware I just acknowledged I spotted him before he entered the kitchen. That I maybe care why he was at that party and who he was with.

“She’ll get home fine,” is all he says.

More silence, and then I continue my trend of saying exactly what I’m thinking for the first time in a long time.

“Can we stop at the treehouse?”

He glances over at me, and I meet his eyes this time. “You want to go to the field?”

“Unless they’ve moved the treehouse, that was the idea, yeah.”

“Didn’t…” I’m stupidly relieved he’s more concerned that I have negative feelings toward the field because of my family, not because he doesn’t want to go there with me.

“My sister wrap her car around a tree there?” I finish. “Yeah.”

“Seems like a place you’d want to avoid.”

“I started avoiding it before that happened,” I tell him honestly, losing any filter entirely. Good thing I’m completely sober, or who knows what might come out of my mouth next. “She died. That field just happened to be where it happened.”

Ryder doesn’t say anything else, but he does take the turn that will lead us straight past the field. Five minutes later, we arrive.

I haven’t been back here since the last time we met here freshman year. Terrible as it sounds, Sarah dying here was the best possible excuse I could have come up with for avoiding ever coming to this field again. Prior to that, it was sometimes a challenge to find reasons not to attend the get-togethers often held here. Returning here with Ryder was a possibility that never occurred to me once in the past two years.

He parks his truck on the very edge of the growth that marks the start of the field. There haven’t been any parties held here since my older sister died. I’d say it is out of respect for her memory, but I think it’s more because no one wants to hold a party I might not attend. Having it here makes that a distinct possibility.

Ryder doesn’t make any attempt to climb out of his truck, so I make the first move. With a cringe-worthy squeal the passenger side door opens. I climb out into weeds that reach up to my knees. A similar sound indicates Ryder followed my lead. I pick my way through the undergrowth dotted with wildflowers over to the massive maple that the treehouse is perched in.

“It looks higher than before, right?” I ask Ryder, who’s right behind me. “Which is stupid because we’re taller now. Or at least you are.”

I take a moment to admire his physique. It’s a full moon tonight, and he’s standing in a spot free from shadows.

Ryder scrutinizes me back, his brow wrinkling. “Are you drunk?”

I laugh. “Nope,” I pop the P. “Stone cold sober. Another thing Sarah ruined for me.”

“Your sister was drinking?”

“Yeah. More alcohol than blood in her veins, according to the coroner’s report. Not that my parents let that see the light of day. Not sure what else they thought people would think, though. Sober people don’t normally race at a tree like it’s just another stretch of open road.”

“Did she have a problem with drinking?” Ryder asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Sarah was… complicated. She was the sun and the storm. Up one day, down the next. We’d always gone to different private schools until high school. When we were freshmen, she’d act like the perfect sister at school, and like I didn’t exist at home. She was robotic at times, and others… She took me dress shopping for Homecoming. We were going into the city, on the highway, and all of a sudden, she just started speeding. Racing along. We were going a hundred miles an hour—maybe more. It—well, it scared the shit out of me. Sometimes… I wonder if that was how it felt when she crashed. When you’re moving that fast, things start to slow down. I wonder if she saw it coming.”

“Do you think she meant to do it?” Ryder asks the one question I’ve asked myself every day since the two officers that comprise the Fernwood Police Department came to our door in the middle of the night. The one question I’m sure every person in town has thought. Ryder’s the first one to ever verbalize it.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

He breaks the heavy moment by nodding to the wooden ladder. “Ladies first.”

I start climbing, eager to leave the depressing topic of my sister behind. Anxious to be back in the treehouse with him. Despite the fact it’s a rickety, old structure, it’s one of the few places in the world I feel entirely safe. I reach the top rung and haul myself onto floorboards littered with leaf debris. It’s obvious no one has been up here in a while.

Ryder's head appears through the opening in the floor, and I scootch backward so he can climb inside.

“Brings back some memories, huh?” I tease. Because we both know what memories I’m talking about.

Ryder glances at me, both eyebrows raised.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask.

There’s a pause. “Sure.”

“It might make you mad,” I warn.

He doesn’t say anything, but curiosity burns in his gaze as he gives me a short nod.

“It’s about your dad.”

Surprise flashes across his face. I’m pretty sure he was expecting me to bring more memories up.

“What about him?” he questions cautiously.

“You mentioned Christopher’s dad, but not yours. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Ryder says.

“Was he around before you left?” I press.

Ryder and I never discussed his family during our freshman year fling. He never brought it up, and I was too uncomfortable to do so myself. The difference in our home lives was already glaringly obvious based on our respective addresses. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to know more about him. I just didn’t know what to ask or how to ask it.

The trip to his trailer and explanation for his two-year absence provided me my first glimpse of his background. I’m eager to know more and being alone with him is not a regular occurrence. Right now is my best—maybe only—chance of peeling back some more layers.

“Before we moved here,” Ryder finally answers.

“Before you moved here?” I never asked, but I assumed Ryder has always lived in Fernwood and our paths didn’t cross until freshman year because our social circles were far too removed until my shift to public school took place.

“My dad went to prison when I was eleven. That’s when we moved here to live with my uncle. He headed south a few months later—we stayed here.”

“The same uncle from Florida?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did your dad go to prison?” I ask softly. The words are barely a whisper. I’m treading on ice—thin, thin ice—and well aware I could fall through at any moment.

“Drugs.” There’s no pause before Ryder answers. “He ran a pretty big operation. Took a while for it to catch up with him. He’s probably still in prison. If not, he hasn’t bothered to let me know.”

“Were you close with him?” I ask, and there’s a flash of surprise clearly illuminated in the moonlight. I’m guessing that’s not the first question people usually have following a revelation like that.

“Yeah,” Ryder answers, matching my quiet tone. “I was.”

The words aren’t harsh, but there’s a clear undercurrent of finality. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He’s already given me far more than I expected him to, so I let it drop.

Unfortunately, being around Ryder in silence is dangerous for me. Without conversation to distract me, I am forced to confront my attraction to him head on. It’s worse in the moonlight. In what feels like the middle of nowhere.

All I can focus on is him.

My heart beats faster. Adrenaline journeys through my veins, sharpening my senses and making me feel as though I’ve just downed some illicit coffee. I feel alive. Aware of everything. Worried about nothing.

So, impulsively, I lean over and kiss him. White hot lust races through me, heating my blood and wreaking havoc on my hormones.

Ryder James was not my first kiss. I doubt he’ll be my last. But I know he’ll always be the kiss. The one I think of and will want to relive. Over and over and over again. But right now, I’m not reliving. I’m living. I don’t realize how much of a difference there is until I become consumed by the distinction.

Something about him—how different he is, how dynamic, how forbidden—has always stirred desire in me in a way no one else ever has. When he’s around he’s all I can think about. Focus on. Care about.

And that sensation is tripled tenfold when we’re kissing.

When I realize he’s kissing me back.

His tongue swipes mine, hot and seeking and urgent, as he eases me back onto the wooden boards. That’s the other thing about Ryder. He’s dominant. Controlling. Even when we were fooling around freshman year, there was the undeniable sense of control. Having met his brother and mother the other day, hearing about his father just now, I have a newfound sense of where those instincts might come from.

The arms I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time admiring pull me closer, and I let out a little gasp. If there’s such a thing as arm porn, Ryder’s a prime example. Toned tendons and strong ligaments covered with tan skin interrupted with maps of veins. They’re impressive to look at. Less superficially and more importantly, his arms make me feel as safe as the structure I’m lying upon. Cherished. Protected.

I run my hands upward simultaneously, marveling over the muscles shifting under my palms. I follow the curve of his shoulder, the column of his neck, and then weave my hands into hair that feels as soft as it looks. I rake my fingers through the strands the way I’ve seen Ryder do himself so many times, and he bites down on my bottom lip.

Beneath the desire and déjà vu are fresh sensations. Maybe because the body hovering above mine feels so much more solid and masculine than the last time we were in a position like this. Maybe because I’ve spent the past eight months dating a guy I never once felt like this around. Maybe because I was awfully uncertain about how Ryder James felt about me, and I’m a little surer with his tongue in my mouth.

My hands leave his hair to trace down the slope of his back. I hesitate when I reach his waist, torn between yanking his t-shirt up or dipping into the waistband of his shorts.

Ryder doesn’t give me a chance to do either.

He pulls back abruptly, rising to his elbows, then palms, then fully upright. “We should go. It’s getting late.”

Not sure how he knows that, since he hasn’t glanced at his phone since we got here, but I’m too taken aback to say it aloud.

“You don’t want to have sex?” I ask, incredulously. Maybe if he hadn’t just been eagerly tongue-fucking my mouth, I wouldn’t be so surprised by his sudden interest in the time. His sudden lack of interest in me.

Rather than answer my question, he just says “It’s getting late,” again.

“I don’t have anyplace better to be.”

“I do.”

Ouch. “Why did you kiss me back?” I challenge.

“It seemed like you were having a bad night,” he replies, running his fingers through his hair. All it does is remind me of just doing the same thing myself. It’s a sad testament to how attracted I am to him that even in the midst of his rejection, I’m still wishing I could be doing that again right now.

“Yeah, I am. My boyfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t have sex with him. Yet you’ve suddenly got places to be before either of us is naked?”

“A pity kiss is one thing. A pity fuck’s another.”

“Wow. Don’t hold back now.” I jerk upright myself, not bothering to hide my annoyance or anger. Yeah, I’m pissed.

Liam hooking up with another girl one floor above me? Not ideal. Liam announcing that fact to most of the senior class in a desperate attempt to ensure his cheating wasn’t the end of our relationship? Wish it hadn’t happened. Ryder James losing interest in me? I’m seeing red.

Hopefully Ryder thinks it’s some sort of delayed reaction to the scene in the kitchen.

Maybe it is. I hope it is. Because Ryder James is one of the last people I should allow to have this level of control over me. For a whole host of reasons.

I brush past him, descending the ladder as quickly as I can. Where’s a door to slam when you really need one? Not only is this a far cry from a dramatic exit, I also had the brilliant idea to ask Ryder to drive me home. Back when he was punching people for me, not abandoning me to do who-the-fuck-knows-what. Whatever. I try and fail to convince myself I don’t care. Car rides can be silent, and despite my currently abysmal track record, being around Ryder does not require me to converse with him.

I start striding for Ryder’s truck as soon as my feet brush grass, not bothering to wait for him to descend the ladder after me. But I feel his presence behind me seconds later, a silent shadow radiating disapproval. What does he have to be mad about? If I hadn’t just decided to give him the silent treatment, I would ask.

I’m halfway to the truck when my flip-flop snags on a stray branch hidden under an overgrown weed. I pitch forward, barely remaining vertical and losing the flip-flop in the process. Does Ryder stop? Nope. He keeps walking toward the truck, not saying a word. I huff out a breath and flip off his back before dropping to my knees to retrieve the errant sandal. What the fuck is his problem? Was the guy who came to a birthday party just to apologize to me abducted by aliens?

I find my shoe and stomp the rest of the way to the truck, keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid breaking an ankle. Ryder would probably just leave me here.

The passenger door creaks open, and I view Ryder’s truck as a whole lot less charming and a whole lot more as a piece of shit. The squealing sound of the door grates on my nerves as I climb back up on the vinyl seat and yank at the seatbelt. Nothing. The strip of fabric doesn’t move. Piece of shit.

I give up on my attempt to employ any safety features for this trip, and instead reach out to close the door. Finally, one to slam. Enduring the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound again is almost worth it to hear the satisfying smack as the metal door meets the frame of the truck. I’m a little surprised it doesn’t fall off.

Equally impressed Ryder doesn’t yell at me. He does grit his teeth.

Guess I’m not the only one utilizing the stupid yet effective silent game.

We sit in silence as Ryder drives through downtown. All the shops and stores are still and silent. The massive clock outside the town hall tells me it’s just past one in the morning. I’m even more curious about Ryder’s plans. The most probable explanation is he’s meeting another girl, but then why would he agree to go to the treehouse with me? He could have taken me straight home.

Ryder James is an endless mystery to me. I’m used to people doing exactly what I expect them to. He hardly ever does.

The truck loiters at the final stop sign before Fernwood turns residential.

“No idea where you live,” Ryder states.

Call me childish, but I feel a flash of victory he spoke first. “Stay straight for two blocks, then turn left. Last house on the right.”

Ryder follows my directions silently, and I try to see my neighborhood through his eyes. I’m not embarrassed of the large houses with sprawling lawns, but I do eye the lawn jockey the Scotts ordered from Italy and the vintage Land Rover the Taylors only drive once a year a little more critically than I ever have before. I imagine Ryder is judging a lot more than just those two extravagant purchases, but he doesn’t say anything as he stops outside the last house on the right.

I’m still mad—hurt—but I also have manners. Unlike some people. I abandoned any attempts to act like Ryder doesn’t affect me far too soon, but there’s no time like the present to revitalize them. Especially while I’m trapped in a cab with the one person most important to convince: him.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say breezily. Nonchalantly. Easily. Like I break up with my boyfriend and get rides home from a guy who just rejected my advances all the damn time. At least, that’s the tone I’m striving for.

Nothing in response. We’re back to imitating elementary schoolers, clearly.

I stay put in my spot on the high road, literally biting my tongue to keep some of the things I’d like to say to him at bay. I pull the door handle, steeling myself for the horrible squeal. Except the door doesn’t budge. I keep grabbing it, using my left palm to push outward in a desperate attempt to utilize my limited arm strength to escape.

I huff and shove and fiddle.

Still stuck.

I better have some good karma coming my way to counteract the events of this evening. I exhale loudly and then inhale deeply, trying to pull in some patience with the oxygen.

Finally, I turn to Ryder. Like a true gentleman, he’s silently sitting and watching me struggle.

“The door won’t open.” I state the obvious.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have slammed it shut,” is his thoughtful response.

“Maybe you should get a newer truck,” I snap back. It’s a cheap shot, especially as we sit outside the multi-million-dollar house I call home. I’m sure this is all he could afford. I didn’t have to buy my own car.

Ryder doesn’t call me out on the insensitivity. He leans over, providing me a perfect view of the clenched muscles in his jaw. His forearm brushes mine, and goosebumps erupt on my bare skin. Thankfully, I’m pretty certain Ryder is too focused on jiggling the door handle to notice my reaction to his touch.

The scent of cedar and mint and clean laundry washes over me as he presses even closer to my side of the cab, and apparently anger is some sort of turn-on for me.

I’m far from happy with Ryder right now but having him this close has me just as aroused as when he was on top of me twenty minutes ago.

The door swings open, and the cringe-worthy creak that accompanies it is suddenly the sweetest sound it the world. A gust of night air washes away Ryder’s scent as he moves back behind the wheel.

I leap out of the cab like someone just set the cheap fabric seat on fire.