Come Break My Heart Again by C.W. Farnsworth

Chapter Six

My parents aren’t the type to put on a show for others. They’re just as uptight and discerning during a typical Saturday breakfast as they are at an exclusive gala. Their poise is predictable. They’re not putting on an act for any of the four families we're hosting tonight.

I am.

Hosting a Sunday night family dinner for a few of Fernwood’s other top-tier residents is a tradition. It’s far outlasted my relationship with Liam, but it doesn’t feel that way. Tonight is the first time I’m attending the monthly dinner since he very publicly cheated on me, and I’m pretty sure the awkwardness at the “kids table” is not just in my imagination.

Neither my father nor my mother was happy to hear about my split with Liam. The Hathaways are some of my parents’ oldest friends. Liam’s father works with mine. Beyond those entanglements, Liam is exactly the type of guy they want me to end up with. But even my parents aren’t oblivious to the fact high school relationships rarely last long beyond graduation—if that. I didn’t tell them he cheated on me, but the yearning glances my mother is sending our way may require me to. Especially since she chose to seat us right next to each other.

Thankfully Paige and her parents are in attendance tonight as well. My best friend keeps the conversation lively and free from complete silence. I still grit my teeth when Liam’s arm brushes mine for the I’ve-lost-count-how-many-th time.

Salad plates are finally cleared for the first course, and I risk a glance at the grandfather clock that’s the centerpiece of the dining room. Not even eight. Past dinners have lasted until ten. At least.

“Homecoming planning going all right?” Liam asks me.

“Yup.” I keep my response short.

“You managed to get the country club?”

“Uh-huh.” I didn’t think Liam was actually paying attention when I’d tell him about student council complications. At the time, I was annoyed he wasn’t. Now, I’m annoyed he was.

“Have you heard back from any schools?”

“Applications aren’t even due yet, Liam.” I point out.

“We could still end up at the same place…” he cajoles.

“Go to college wherever you’d like. Won’t make a difference to me. We’re done, Liam.” I inject as much finality as one can into a whisper.

“I know I messed up, okay? The thing with Danielle was stupid. We lost again, and my dad—”

“I don’t care, Liam. Honestly, we were over before you cheated.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things hadn’t been good between us for a while. We were never the type of couple that lasts.”

“We were exactly that type of couple,” Liam refutes. “We still can be.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Why not?” he challenges.

“Because I don’t want to be, okay?”

“This about trailer trash?”

I look over at him for the first time, shocked he’s bringing up Ryder. “What? No.”

Liam scoffs. “Like I didn’t see you two together at the pond.”

“He helped me get on a tire swing. I don’t see what that has to do with our break-up.”

“He lives in a trailer, Elle.”

“I know where he lives,” I snap. “Maybe I’m not as shallow as you think.”

Surprise and horror mingle in his expression. “Wait. You’re not actually…”

“Elle? Could I get your help in the kitchen for a minute, please?”

I’m not sure what my mother could possibly need help with, especially considering the fact she’s had no involvement in any aspect of preparing this dinner beyond picking the menu and paying the catering staff, but I don’t say that. I seize the chance to put some distance between me and Liam.

“Sure.” I stand and follow my mother into the kitchen.

She whirls on me as soon as we’re out of sight from the dining room. “What on earth is going on between you and Liam at the table? It looked like you were arguing. I thought you said you two are still friends.”

“We were,” I stress. “He won’t stop badgering me about getting back together.”

Delight replaces dismay. “Liam wants to get back together?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“Eleanor, you should…”

“We are not getting back together,” I state emphatically. “He cheated on me, Mom.”

There’s a flash of understanding, but it edges away into acceptance. “People make mistakes, Eleanor. It’s a fact of life.”

I’m horrified by her blasé response. “Not all mistakes should be forgiven.”

“Liam’s a good person, Elle. Sometimes things just happen…”

“Not sure how one just happens to end up in bed with another girl,” I retort. My mother is normally a moral epicenter. Her resignation regarding this topic makes me wonder about things I’ve never considered before, and never wanted to. Like whether she’s speaking from personal experience. “And what are you basing the fact he’s a good person on? His family’s net worth?”

“Eleanor! That’s quite enough. The Hathaways are some of our closest friends.”

“Because they’re rich, right?”

“I know you’re upset, but that’s absolutely no excuse for this sort of behavior. You haven’t acted like this since you were a child.”

If my mother’s hoping that reminder will correct my behavior, she’s dead wrong. “Then it’s about time I have a relapse, don’t you think?”

“Eleanor Josephine Clarke! I don’t know what…”

For the first time ever, I walk out of the room while my mother is still speaking, ducking through the doorway that leads to the front foyer.

She follows. “Eleanor!” my mother hisses. “We have guests… we’re eating… what are you doing?” She’s discombobulated. Disbelieving. This isn’t how Eleanor Clarke is supposed to act.

Right now, I don’t care. I need to get out of this house. Away from the stifling weight of predictability.

“I’m going out.” I grab my keys from the glass bowl on the entryway table. “Tell everyone I’m sick. Burned myself baking dessert. Whatever you want.”

I head out the front door before she can say another word. Not that she seemed capable of it. Pretty sure I just shocked my mother into silence. I can’t seem to care.

Betty is boxed in between two cars, but I manage to maneuver out between them. Then, I’m faced with the dilemma of how to spend my newfound freedom. This was the furthest thing from a planned outing. I just start driving. I take a left. Two rights. Get on the highway. Get off. The lack of direction is gratifying. It’s also terrifying. I’m a planner. I follow a schedule. Always know what I’m supposed to do and when to do it. Aimlessly driving around doesn’t fit with any of that.

I’m halfway to Boston—to do what, I don’t know—when I turn off the highway and head back toward Fernwood. I take the back roads, entering the town limits on the opposite edge of town where I live.

A tired, rusty sign hangs just off the paved street, and I pull over impulsively, parking right beneath the sign reading Bob’s Garage. I climb out of my car just as a middle-aged man appears from behind one of the piles of car scraps I’m surrounded by. I squint to try and see his features in the light cast by the massive building I’m assuming is the garage. I’ve never seen him before.

“Can I help you, miss? Car trouble?” he asks me, in a gruff, weathered tone.

“No, the car’s fine. I’m here to see Ryder James. Is he here?” I reply.

The man studies me for a minute, shoving the brim of his ratty ball cap upward so he can rub his forehead with a grease-smeared hand. Light blue eyes flick over me, the car to my left, the empty road to my right.

“Bay six,” he finally says. “Last one.”

“Thank you,” I reply earnestly, moving past him and walking toward the garage. One end of the structure looks like a storefront, with glass windows and a door that reads OFFICE. The rest of the building is separated by massive metal sliding doors, each with a number painted on it stretching upward several feet.

By process of elimination, I quickly surmise three and six are the two doors open at the moment. Errant stones scatter as I stride across the pavement. I peek inside three as I pass it. The glaring lights are an assault to my eyes after the dark evening. There’s a shiny silver car raised on some sort of structure, but no person in sight.

I keep walking.

Four, five, six.

I slow my steps when I reach the open garage door, then stop entirely when I spot Ryder. I lean against the edge of the opening, surveying him. He’s bending over the front end of the car, tinkering with something beneath the open hood. Wearing a white undershirt that doesn’t do anything to hide the movement of his muscles as they shift and tense while he works.

This section is just as well-lit as bay three was, and I look away from Ryder to peer at shelves holding a wide array of items. Orange plastic bottles, metal spray cans, stained rags, disposable gloves, clear containers, drills, and a lot of twisted metal I’d guess are car parts but can’t even attempt to name. A radio croons in the background, spilling out lyrics to a leisurely country song that seems out of place under harsh artificial lights.

Ryder turns to grab a wrench off the tray parked beside him, and my stealthy perusal is over.

Wary, surprised eyes meet mine. “What are you doing here, Elle?”

I shrug. “No idea,” I reply honestly.

He studies me. “I’m working.”

“I won’t bother you.” I take a few steps forward. Tentative ones, under Ryder’s watchful gaze. He doesn’t seem mad I’m here, but he’s definitely not happy about it. I make a show of glancing around the space I already scanned. “This is… cool.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“I mean it. I don’t know anything about cars.”

“I know. You drive a convertible.”

“What does that mean?” I cross my arms.

“We don’t live in the south. Or California.”

“Well aware.” I take a seat in the swivel chair to his right, making myself comfortable.

Ryder’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting.” I give him a saccharine smile.

“Is there something wrong with your convertible? Did you crash it?”

“I didn’t crash my convertible.” I roll my eyes. “My impractical car works perfectly fine, thank you very much. That’s not the reason why I’m here.”

“That’s usually the only reason people visit the mechanic,” he replies.

I don’t say anything, just start fiddling with the radio until I come across “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

“This song makes me wish I had brown eyes,” I inform Ryder.

His lips quirk. “Yours are fine.”

“Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “You used to be less stingy with compliments.”

He eyes me, visibly cautious about my reference to our shared past. “I used to be a lot of things.”

“Like…” I prompt.

“Stupid things.”

“And I fall into that category?”

Ryder breaks my gaze, rattling some wrenches together and then turning to work on the car again. “You should go.”

“I walked out of my parents’ dinner party. Not exactly eager to head back home.”

“How come?”

“Uh—they’ll be pissed?”

There’s a flash of a grin. “No—why did you walk out?”

“My mom was telling me to get back together with Liam.”

“Hmmm,” Ryder hums. But for some reason I get the feeling he’s not as indifferent as he sounds.

“I’m not going to,” I say unnecessarily.

The only response is clinking metal as he continues to work on the car. “Hiding out isn’t very mature,” he finally replies.

“Neither is fantasizing about pushing someone into a body of water,” I retort.

Ryder grunts. “No one except for employees are supposed to be in the garage.”

“Do you want me to beg for you to let me stay, or something? Because I will.”

“Why did you come here, Elle?”

“You mentioned a garage to your brother. I figured it had to be this place.”

“You came here because you thought I would be.”

It’s a statement, not a question. I answer it anyway. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Why?” he repeats, giving up any pretense of working on the car. Guess I lied when I said I wouldn’t bother him. He returns the wrench to the tray and wipes his hands with a rag as he studies me, waiting for a response.

“It’s been weird ever since you came back. I’m different. You’re different. But we don’t feel different. I feel like it hasn’t been two years since the last time I saw you. Like I should still be meeting you at the treehouse after school or smiling at you in the halls. So… I left my parents’ party, drove around for a while, and then ended up here. Because I wanted to see you.”

Ryder’s silent as he drops the rag back on the tray. Mad? Annoyed? Surprised? All of the above, probably.

The song changes. Opening strains of Sixpence None the Richer’s “Kiss Me” float between us. I’ve heard this song dozens of times before, yet I suddenly know every time I hear it for the rest of my life I’ll think of this exact moment.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Elle.”

“You could listen to the song,” I suggest.

That gets his attention. Green eyes snap to mine. A glimmer of humor twitches on his lips. Then, shockingly, he straightens. Approaches me.

I freeze. It was a joke. A deflection from my honesty. Not an opportunity I expected him to take advantage of.

But he does. He hauls me to my feet and presses me against a red metal chest of drawers. And kisses me.

Desperately.

Urgently.

His eagerness makes me feel less like a girl chasing the boy she can’t have. Less like a girl chasing the boy who doesn’t want her.

The memory of our kiss in the treehouse was tarnished by the events that followed, but it didn’t affect my recollection of what it feels like to kiss Ryder James. I’m expecting it all this time: the heat, the excitement, the sensation of being aware of everything and nothing all at once.

“Hey, Ry, we’re headed—”

Ryder pulls back abruptly, but not before his friend Tommy gets an eyeful of what we were just doing, if his raised eyebrows are any indication.

“Oh. Hello again, Elle,” Tommy says, as a smile starts to unfurl across his face.

I risk a glance at Ryder. Impressively impassive.

“Hi, Tommy.”

“Mike and I are headed to Danielle’s,” Tommy tells Ryder. “You staying here?”

There’s a pause. A long one. I look over at Ryder, and he’s already looking at me.

“Yeah,” he replies finally. “I’m staying here.”

“Oh-kay. Sorry for interrupting.” Tommy winks, then disappears.

The radio’s changed again, now playing Oasis’s “Wonderwall.” Ryder flicks it off, then shuts the hood of the car he was working on.

“Let’s go.”

“Thought you just told Tommy you were staying?”

“He was my ride.”

“Does that mean you’re willing to be seen in a convertible?”

Ryder scoffs. “Not planning on anyone seeing anything.”

He starts toward the door, and I follow, watching as he flicks off all the lights and then hits a button that causes the heavy metal door to slide down into place with a clang. I stare at the number six for a moment before realizing Ryder has already started walking. I follow him on the same route I traversed solo earlier. All the doors are closed now, the office dark and silent.

“Do you normally work this late?” I ask.

“If there’s work to be done,” Ryder replies, heading straight toward my car. It stands out like a shiny red apple in a sea of rusty scrap metal. He veers for the driver’s side, and I raise both eyebrows.

“You’ve insulted my car multiple times, yet you think I’m going to let you drive it?”

“Yup.”

“Well, I’m not,” I inform him.

“Wanna bet?” He grins, and my heart sets off at a gallop.

“Bet what?” I manage.

“You tell me.”

“I bet you won’t tell me what you said to Tommy about me.”

“You’re perfectly imperfect.”

“What?”

“That’s what I told Tommy. Keys.”

His tone is brusque. Business-like. Matter of fact. It catches me off guard. I expected him to waver or hedge around a half-assed response.

I pull my car keys out of my pocket and toss them to Ryder. He settles in the driver’s seat, and I climb into the passenger side of my convertible for the first time.

Perfectly imperfect. I wish I hadn’t asked him. Wish I’d kept wondering if he said I was hot or exasperating. Or that Tommy was teasing, and he really had simply said nice. Anything but those two words worming their way inside me with a warmth similar to that of a candle cocooned from the wind. Everyone else in Fernwood thinks I’m perfect. Ryder thinks I’m imperfectly so. I know which perception I prefer.

Ryder turns the car back onto the road, and I steal glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye as he drives along, timing the glances to correlate with the streetlights we pass that illuminate his features. None of the confusion I’m grappling with is evident on his face.

Is he clear on where we stand? Or does he just not care?

He takes the turn that leads to the trailer park, and I swallow a sigh. I was hoping he’d drive to the field.

The trailer park doesn’t look quite as wretched this trip. Nightfall blankets the rougher edges. The darkness hides overgrown yards and missing stairs. Lit windows are all that shine through the absolute black that cloaks everything else, appearing more cozy than crestfallen.

Ryder parks my car next to his truck and turns off the ignition.

“Can I come in?” I blurt, before he has the chance to say anything.

There’s a pause. There aren’t any lights on in his trailer, so I can’t see the barest hint of his face. Then, “Sure.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and open my door, unwilling to give him a chance to change his mind. Ryder does the same, and I follow him up to the front door. He unlocks it and flicks on a lamp, illuminating a small, compact kitchen. Used dishes litter the counter. An open box of cereal sits on the table nestled in the corner. Floral wallpaper decorates the walls. The trailer is empty. Silent. Barely visible in the light cast by the solitary lamp.

“No one’s home?” I ask.

“Nope. My room’s down here.” Ryder starts down the short hallway, turning on more lights as he goes, and I follow him. His entire room is smaller than my bathroom. The cramped space is barely large enough for the twin bed, chest of drawers, and wooden desk that fills the space. The walls are bare, painted a shade of off-white that’s begun to veer toward yellow in spots.

I study the stack of books on his desk, run my fingers along the top of his drawers, and then climb onto his bed. Springs creak in protest. I tuck my feet under my thighs, sitting cross-legged.

Ryder leans against the dresser, studying me. I lay down slowly on the navy comforter, holding his gaze the whole time. My hair spills off the raised bump of the pillow in a waterfall of brunette strands.

He just keeps looking at me. I bite my bottom lip, staring back.

Electricity snaps and crackles in the tiny space.

“This isn’t what I had in mind.”

I scoff. “Well aware.” Ryder’s been consistent in his lack of interest in continuing our physical relationship. I’d think he was totally indifferent, if not for his lapse in the garage earlier.

“I only said you could come in because I was worried you’d beg to.”

“Oh, really?” I shift on the bed, well aware the movement is pulling the material of my dress higher. “So, you don’t want me to beg anymore? For anything?”

“Elle…”

“What, Ryder? We’ve had sex before.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So… you’re good? Had your fill freshman year?”

Ryder huffs out a laugh. “Elle. Be serious.”

“I am, Ryder.”

He shoves away from the drawers, advancing on me. I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. When he nears the bed, which only takes a couple steps, I wind them around him, pulling him closer to me.

“We’re a bad idea, Elle,” he tells me. But he doesn’t resist my hold.

“Why?” I slip my hands under the hem of his shirt, marveling over the hot, firm skin that meets my touch. I skim one finger across the indentations of his stomach, and Ryder sucks in a sharp breath.

“Because if we do this…” I yank on his shorts, and he swears. “I’m not going to be your fucking rebound, Elle.”

I freeze. “What?”

“You heard me. You just broke up with Hathaway.”

“Liam doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

Ryder scoffs.

“I mean it. I want you. You, Ryder. I wanted you freshman year. I want you now.”

“For sex?”

“For anything. Everything.” He’s looking at me, so I see the flash of uncertainty cross his handsome features.

“Aren’t you going to Homecoming with Robert Newsome?”

“What? Where did you hear that?”

“Where do you think? The whole school has nothing better to do except gossip about you, apparently.” There’s a bite to the words. Rumors about me bother him. Seeing as he consistently ignores me at school, I’m surprised.

“Well, I told him no.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not the guy I want to go with.” I don’t spell it out, but I don’t need to. Ryder James may be a lot of things, but he’s far from an idiot. He may be the most perceptive person I’ve ever met, actually.

Ryder leans forward, forcing me to fall back on the bed again. “We’re a bad idea,” he repeats.

“Why?” I challenge.

“You’re going to end up with a guy nothing like me.”

“If you never ask me out? Yeah, probably.”

“Elle…” I arch my neck up and kiss him. He slips his tongue in my mouth, and it emboldens me. I let my hands drift upwards, pulling the cotton material of his t-shirt along. “Elle,” he says again, but this time it’s desperate. Yearning.

I let my hands drop. “I need you to want this, too.”

Ryder huffs. “You think I don’t want this?” His hands slide up, and then I’m no longer wearing a dress.

“I don’t know what you want,” I reply honestly.

His hand slides under my back, and then my bra disappears. “Then you haven’t been paying very close attention,” Ryder tells me.

“You haven’t been particularly clear,” I retort. He sends more mixed signals than a malfunctioning stoplight.

“This clear enough for you?” He kisses me. Heat and hunger race through me as I grasp his thick brown locks in an attempt to bind us together. I’m so overwhelmed I don’t even care he got the last word in. I pull his shirt up and over, using my feet to push his shorts down simultaneously. I used to do the same thing in the treehouse, and based on the way Ryder’s eyes flare, he remembers.

“Elle.” He groans my name as he pulls my underwear down. I bite his bottom lip in response. Hard.

He pulls back. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He leans over the side of the bed and procures a familiar foil packet. I hold his gaze as he sheaths himself with a condom.

And… this is the moment when a hive of nerves decides to start buzzing around me.

Ryder’s looking at me, and I can tell he sees it.

“I’m nervous,” I whisper. “How stupid is that?”

“Not stupid. Elle, we don’t have to—”

“I’m not nervous because I don’t want to,” I tell him.

He rolls so he’s above me. “I thought about this when I was gone. How much I wanted to do this with you again.”

“You did?” I breathe. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged I so much as crossed his mind during his time in Florida. I grasp onto the tidbit like a beggar. Despite the position we’re in, that admission is what gives me some reassurance I might actually mean something to him.

“Yeah, I did,” Ryder replies.

The head of his cock hits my opening, and I inhale sharply. He starts to ease inside me, and I arch my back. We were kids fumbling around before. The purposeful way Ryder is sliding inside me feels very adult. Super intimate. He’s studying me closely, and there’s no doubt who I’m doing this with. Who’s inside me right now.

A few more strokes, and I wrap my legs around his waist. Green eyes bear into mine, and I’m having sex with Ryder James.

“I thought about this while you were gone, too,” I admit to him.

His movements quicken, sending heat skittering through me with each thrust. It’s both familiar and fresh. We’ve done this before, and it feels like we have. It also feels new, though. Novel. I had a crush on Ryder before. I looked forward to our treehouse meet-ups. I relished the thrill of having such a delicious, forbidden secret.

But it never felt this overwhelming before. So consuming. I never craved his presence the way I do now. I also kept our association entirely separate from the rest of my life. I no longer feel any desire to do so.

The warmth builds to a breaking point, and I experience a powerful flash of euphoria. That’s also new.

Ryder catches the surprise and pleasure on my face.

“Yeah, I’ve learned a few things,” he tells me. Teasingly.

“Good for you.” I don’t match his tone. My words are dry. Annoyed.

I assumed Ryder slept with other people during his two-year absence, but I didn’t need—want—confirmation of that fact. Especially since I didn’t, and thanks to Liam’s big mouth and my pool-side slip, I’m pretty sure Ryder already knows that.

Thanks to my perpetual inability to filter my thoughts around him, he now also knows his admission bothers me. I watch regret replace the roguish grin he paired his words with.

“El—”

“It’s fine,” I snap, making it worse.

I wiggle away so we’re no longer touching but remain on the bed. Even annoyed and hurt, I’m not yet ready to leave his presence.

Ryder lies down beside me, letting a couple inches of comforter separate our bodies. I stare up at his ceiling, following the cracks that crisscross the ceiling. We’re both silent. I don’t know what to say. Apparently, Ryder doesn’t either. He must not have mentioned prior hook-ups during any of his other more recent ones. Or if he did, they didn’t react like possessive girlfriends.

“Do you want to go to Homecoming with me?”

I’m taken aback by the question, but I respond differently than I would under any other circumstances.

“Are you going to talk about your past hook-ups during it?”

I give up on staring at the ceiling, and glance over at him. He’s fighting a grin that disappears when he sees I’m looking at him. “No. That wasn’t what—I just meant…” He gives up on an explanation. “No,” he reaffirms. “I’m not going to.”

“Okay. Then, yes, I’ll go to Homecoming with you.”

“Okay,” he confirms.

There’s a crash down the hall, and Ryder sits up, pulling on his shorts and shirt. “Stay here,” he tells me, sliding off the bed and heading toward the door.

I pull my dress back on and creep after him.

Voices sound from the kitchen. I reach the end of the hallway but remain in the shadowed doorway. Ryder’s mother is sprawled against the kitchen counter. It seems to be all that’s holding her upright. She’s wearing an outfit similar to the one I saw her in last time, except this time her tank top is ripped, one strap flopping around as she struggles to stay upright. There’s a black mark on her right arm that bears the tell-tale pattern of fingerprints. And she’s clearly under the influence of something, swaying as she grips the laminated material.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Mom?” Ryder asks angrily. “Who was it this time?”

Ryder’s mother makes an unintelligible sound, and he heaves out an exasperated, enervated sigh. He slings her left arm over his shoulder and turns toward the hallway before I have a chance to slink back into the shadows. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, just resigned.

“Go home, Elle.” The words aren’t unkind, but they’re final.

I nod once, heading out the door conveniently situated to my left and down the stairs to the stretch of dirt peppered with clumps of grass. I make it to my car, and then stall. I don’t want to leave yet. Don’t want to depart from Ryder. Don’t want to arrive at home.

So, I take a seat on the hood of my convertible, propping my feet atop the front fender and resting my chin in my cupped hands. I know enough about Ryder to be certain he’s not the type of person who appreciates pity, but I’m swamped with sympathy. With the realization his home life is a lot more complicated than I realized. Than he shared.

“You’re back.”

I glance to the right, and Ryder’s younger brother is standing there.

“Uh—yeah,” I reply awkwardly. Since I’m currently sitting outside of his trailer like a stalker. “I was, um, hanging out—talking with Ryder, and your mother, uh, came home. So Ryder thought—uh, thought I should head out.” Possibly the most inarticulate sentence I’ve ever uttered, but I’m incredibly uncomfortable. Not only do I not want this kid to realize I just had sex with his older brother, I’m entirely unsure on how to broach the topic of his mother’s current state.

“Oh.” Something in that word tells me Ryder’s little brother has surmised the latter truth already. I glance over at him, and he’s wearing a tired, forlorn expression that looks out of place on his young face.

“I’m Elle, by the way.”

“Christopher.” The joking, mischievous persona from our last encounter is entirely absent. “I should head in. Help Ryder.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay,” I reply quickly.

Christopher starts trudging toward the door, then spins back around. There’s a glimmer of mirth in his expression now. “He really likes you.”

Perfectly imperfect.

“How do you know?”

He shrugs with the indifference of a middle schooler, reminding me he’s probably not the ideal demographic to be looking to for romantic advice. “Just do.”

“I really like him,” I admit.

“Well, duh.” Christopher laughs. “You’re sitting out here.”

“Right.” Nothing like getting dressed down by a preteen.

“See ya.” He heads for the door again and doesn’t turn around this time.

“See ya,” I repeat, watching as he disappears inside.

Still, I stay in place on the hood of my car, staring into nothingness. Until I’m startled for a second time.

“Elle Clarke. Surprised you know this place exists.”

I look over my shoulder to see Ryder’s friend Tommy approaching me, hands in his pockets.

“There’s no one in town who doesn’t know this place exists. Most of them just haven’t been here,” I reply.

He stops next to me. “But you are.”

“Observant,” I compliment.

Tommy chuckles. “Arriving?”

“Leaving. Ryder’s mom came home.”

“Ah,” Tommy’s expression sobers.

“Is she like that… often?” I try to ask tactfully.

“Ry doesn’t talk about it much. Surprised he even brought you over if he knew she was out.”

“I sort of forced him to,” I admit.

Tommy grins, his good humor restored. “Ryder doesn’t do shit he doesn’t want to do. Not for girls, at least.”

We’re both distracted by the trailer front door opening and closing. Ryder appears. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. Christopher must have mentioned I’m out here. He seems more taken aback to see Tommy next to me.

“Hey, man,” Tommy calls out.

“Hey,” Ryder replies, not looking at me. “What’s up?”

“Danielle’s was lame without you,” Tommy replies. “Thought I’d see how your night went. Didn’t realize it would still be underway.”

He smirks, and Ryder’s glance slides to me, then back to Tommy.

“Could you check on Chris?” he requests. “I’ll be right in.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tommy nods. “Later, Elle.”

“Bye, Tommy,” I reply.

Ryder doesn’t speak until Tommy’s inside the trailer. “You’re still here.”

“Yup.” I slide off the hood of my car so I’m standing in front of him. “Is your mom okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” he replies.

“That happens… a lot?”

“She started using after my dad went to prison. Every few months she’ll sober up for a bit, but otherwise… yes.”

“Is there anything I can—”

“No.” His tone is short, then softens. “No. There’s nothing.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll go, then.”

I start to turn, but he stops me, tugging me back using the hem of my dress.

His face is barely visible in the glow from the trailer’s lights, but I can see the indecision inscribed in the features. “Elle. We’re a bad idea because of me. Not you. Okay?”

“I don’t think we’re a bad idea,” I tell him, and his jaw tenses. “I think we’re an idea you should give a chance.”

Then, I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. Softly. Gently. It’s a stark contrast to our desperate motions earlier. It’s a common peck. Expected. The type of kiss you give someone you know you’ll kiss again.

Ryder kisses me back, and I experience a surge of satisfaction. I pull back before he can.

“I’ve got to go. My parents are probably…” I let my voice trail off. I don’t think even incensed would quite cover the vexation waiting for me at home. Leaving our monthly dinner party in the midst of it is bound to cause a stir. My parents don’t deal well with stirring. They don’t perpetuate gossip, and they most certainly don’t appreciate being the topic of it.

I step away from him, and head for the driver’s seat. I open the door.

“I’ll see you at school?”

“Yeah.” He finally speaks. “You will.”

I’m tempted to ask if he’ll still be ignoring me, but I don’t. Ryder and I are tenuous. But more than that, I’m sick of being the one to instigate and encourage. I want Ryder to be clear. To care. But I can’t make him do either of those things. He has to decide them for himself.

I nod once before I climb inside my convertible. The engine roars to life, headlights bathing the shadowed scene I’ve been studying ever since I left the trailer in brilliant light. Ryder hasn’t moved. He watches me as I reverse. I hold his gaze for a moment before I start driving down the road, heading back for the part of town where I’m supposed to belong.

Wondering why it feels like that part is now behind me.