In the Stillness

CHAPTER 31



“Oh, what the hell was either one of us thinking?” I swirl through Tosha’s apartment, cleaning, while I scream at her through the phone.

“So call him and cancel.” She sounds as if this is some sort of meeting I can reschedule and not a reconciliation of my past.

“I don’t have his number, and he doesn’t have mine . . .”

“Thanks for giving him my address, by the way.” I can tell she’s kidding, but I retort.

“Thanks for telling me he called you every day for a month after I left school.”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought,” I continue, “anyway . . . ugh!”

“Have you talked to Eric today?” She skillfully avoids ‘fessing up.

“No,” I sigh, “since he came here yesterday I’ll probably have to talk to him by tomorrow. We’ve got to figure out a plan of action for when the boys come back. I talked to them this morning and, thankfully, they and my parents don’t seem to have any idea, which is good. That means Eric hasn’t blabbed.”

A slow knock on the door interrupts my verbal flailing.

“Shit, Tosh, he’s here. I’ll call you later,” I whisper.

“Okay,” she whispers back sarcastically before hanging up.

“Just a sec,” I shout to the door as I race to the bathroom.

With a quick run of a brush through my hair and a dab of lip gloss, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’ve washed and dried Ryker’s clothes that I drove home in and changed into a long black skirt and blue spaghetti-strapped tank. It’s about three-trillion degrees outside and feels worse inside my head. He’s already seen the marks on my arm anyway, so I’m not going to bother trying to find a cute way to cover them up.

You can do this.

“Hey.” I smile as I open the door to find Ryker in sneakers, cargo khaki shorts, and a grey UMass shirt.”

Figures.

He steps over the threshold, and I can tell he’s feeling as unsure about how to greet me as I am about him. I mean, we kissed a minute after first meeting—what are we supposed to do after not seeing each other for a decade? Making a decision for both of us, I walk for the kitchen. He follows.

“You look better than you did this morning. How do you feel?”

“Good, thanks. I slept most of the day, actually. Want something to drink? Beer? Wine?”

“Water’s good.” Ryker shrugs and seats himself at the kitchen table.

“I ordered pizza, I hope that’s okay.”

“Sounds great.”

I fill up a glass for myself from the faucet, half-wishing it was spouting vodka rather than water. Ryker watches my every movement as I work my way to the table and sit down. My skin tingles every place his eyes touch. When I can actually hear a clock ticking, I know we’ve been too quiet for too long. I clear my throat, and he starts speaking.

“So, the cutting, Natalie . . .”

“Ugh . . .” I rub my hand over my face, stopping it over my eyes for a good three seconds before facing Ryker again, who remains unmoved and staring at me. Or through me. “What about it . . .”

Suddenly I’m fidgety, looking to the ground and shaking my knee like an addict with a bag of coke placed in front of them, and being expected to write a report about it without tearing the bag open. He says nothing. I just have to start at the beginning.

“They day you left, Ryker . . .” I close my eyes for a second, and he interrupts.

“Jesus, then?”

“No, no . . . just listen. Ry, the day you left was the absolute worst day of my life up until that point.” My voice catches a little as I fight off ancient tears. “I’ve never been so scared . . .”

“Me either,” he says in blunt honesty.

For the next several minutes I tell Ryker about how it was the day he left, my first time cutting at that party, and about most of the other times after. When I say I tell Ryker, I mean I tell the space on the table between us. I can’t watch his face as I talk about what was going on with me while he was off doing more important things.

“So it wasn’t all the time?” He shakes his head in question. “I’m sorry if I’m prying, but I’m just trying to . . .”

“I know, it’s okay. No, it wasn’t all the time. God,” I sigh, “I guess the best way to explain it up to that point is it was kind of like binge drinking. When I needed a release from it all. I missed you so bad I didn’t know what to do with myself. But it wasn’t all the time. Not till you came home . . .”

Ryker goes pale, and for the first time since he sat down, shifts a little in his chair.

“How ‘bout that beer now?” I chuckle nervously and stand.

His voice is firm. “I’m fine.”

“Wait,” I pause as I pull the wine bottle out of the fridge for myself, “do you drink at all?”

“Well, yeah.You saw me at The Harp, right? I don’t go there for the water. I just don’t want to drink right now.” Ryker leans back a bit in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Gracefully, there’s a knock at the door. I put the wine back in the fridge, un-poured.

“Oh, good, the pizza.” Picking up my wallet on the way, I race to the door for cheese-y relief.

I drop my wallet the second I open the door to find Eric standing there.

Shit.

Shit.

“What?” I act as bored as possible despite the stampede in my stomach.

He looks even worse than yesterday. Which serves him completely right. I think those are the same jeans. It’s definitely the same shirt, and his shower status is questionable.

“You didn’t come home last night.” His voice his hoarse and distant. I’ve never heard him sound anything but sure before.

“It’s not my home, Eric.” I note from the corner of my eye that Ryker doesn’t move.

Oh, now the pizza guy decides to show.

I hand him the money, say thanks, and resume staring at Eric.

“Come on, Nat . . .”

“Seriously, Eric, what’s wrong with you? Why do you insist on calling me Nat when I tell you not to. Every single time. You can’t honor that simple request, it’s no wonder you had such trouble with our marriage vows.” Turning, I shut the door and walk for the kitchen.

Time sends a warning chill through me before it freezes. Eric’s caught the door with his foot and is walking toward me. I hear his feet stop as he reaches the kitchen and, undoubtedly, sees Ryker. Though, I haven’t turned back around yet.

Straightening my shoulders, I take a prayerful deep breath as I turn to find Eric and Ryker looking between each other and me. As far as I know, Eric’s only seen Ryker once before—and that’s only if he caught a good look at him at my graduation seven years ago. He’s never seen any of my pictures of Ryker; so unless he employed Google, this could very well be the reason he’s looking quite confused.

This can’t possibly end well . . .

“Eric, this is Ryker Manning. Ryker, this is Eric Johns—”

Eric cuts me off. “Are you f*cking serious?”

I feign indifference with a shrug. “Yes, that’s his name—”

“Oh, I know his name, Natalie.” He’s not even looking at Ryker, “I know his name because it’s the only name you’ve been mumbling in your sleep for weeks, and the only name you screamed out in bloody murder when I had to wake you up from that nightmare the other day.”

Ryker’s eyes shoot to me as Eric reveals more than I planned on Ryker ever knowing. With a hard swallow, I look to the floor for a second to regain some sense of reality. Eric tangles a hand through his greasy hair before turning to Ryker, who appears fairly unfazed.

“How long have you been f*cking my wife?”

“Eric!” I lunge toward the table, watching Ryker carefully stand.

I’ve never compared them before in my head. Ryker had been out of my life for a couple of years before I met Eric. Eric’s slightly taller than me, probably 6’1”, but Ryker at 6’5” is towering over him. I don’t know if Ryker notices Eric’s slight back-step as he looks up at him, but I do.

“I’m not sleeping with Natalie.” His confidence calms my nerves.

“Ryker, you don’t have to explain yourself. This is absurd. Eric, get the hell out of here.” I gesture toward the door.

“Prove to me you’re not sleeping with him, Natalie.” He shrugs in the arrogant manner that makes my stomach churn.

Jesus Christ, he’s drunk. I’ve only seen Eric drunk a few times, but it’s the only time he’s more arrogant than he usually is. He’s not wasted, or I would have smelled it, but he’s certainly not sober.

“I can’t prove it, you know that. I can tell you I haven’t seen him for almost ten years and we just ran into each other at Atkins last week. And, I wouldn’t know, but a week isn’t really enough time to strike up an affair, is it? This is your area of expertise, so, enlighten me.”

Eric and Ryker stare at me with the same look of uneasiness.

“Okay,” Eric continues as he walks toward the living room, “then explain to me why this box has his name on it. I saw it yesterday, Natalie.” He picks up the box of war letters and I nearly black out from anxiety.

“Don’t f*cking touch that!” I run toward him and reach for the box, but in a second he has the lid off and has his hands all over them.

The letters. My letters. From Ryker. It’s like watching a f*cking car accident in slow motion to see Eric touching them. I know Ryker’s still behind me, but I can’t look away. He probably has no idea I’ve kept them.

Eric picks one out and starts reading it. Aloud. “Dear Nat,” with a chuckle, he pauses, “well, that certainly explains a lot, doesn’t it? Anyway, dear Nat, the last few weeks have been complete torture without you . . .” Eric continues reading with a mocking tone that pinches my eardrums.

“Stop!” Making contact with the letter, I try to pull it away when I hear it. A rip. Eric stares at me dumfounded, fear rising in his eyes as he stands with a piece of the letter. A wail deafens me from the inside before it comes out of my mouth. “Get oooooout!” I’ve never screamed so loud or for so long in my life, and I’m blindly pushing and punching Eric toward the door.

“When’d you start cutting yourself, Nat? Right after this letter? Or the one after that? When did that f*cking prick get inside your head and f*ck you up?” Eric’s yelling and barely acknowledging that I’m striking him at what feels like thirty times a second.

“You’re a goddamn bastard, Eric, and you always have been,” I’m panting in anger and tears, “get the f*ck out of this apartment and my life!”

“Yeah? And you’re a f*cking head-case—”

Ryker fills the space beside me, putting his hand on my shoulder and addressing Eric. “All right, you guys, it’s too loud, and I’m sure neither one of you wants the cops to come.” I don’t miss that his hand is shaking slightly against my skin. “I think it’s best for you to go.” The authority in Ryker’s voice wipes the smug grin from Eric’s unshaven face.

He eyes me in disbelief, as if he’s just come upon the scene, then lets out a childish breath. “Fine.” He throws the piece of the letter he’d been holding back into the apartment and marches sloppily down the stairs.

Salty anger fills my eyes as I pick up the shredded pieces of the letter and walk to the kitchen, searching drawers like a crazy person for tape.

“Nat . . .” Ryker closes the door and walks toward me. “Natalie,” he repeats as he molds his hand to my lower back.

Sniffing and sobbing, I find the tape and start piecing it back together with sweaty and trembling hands.

“I f*cking loved you, you know . . .” Slamming my hand on the counter, my skin starts to itch. I’ve never wanted to cut more than I do in this very moment.

“I know,” he whispers.

“I f*cking loved you, Ryker!” Turning around, all air leaves my lungs as I watch a tear leave the corner of his eye and stroll down his cheek.

“I know you did, Natalie.” As the tear reaches his jaw, he shrugs his shoulder toward his cheek and erases the tear with his shirt.

I can’t hold back anymore. Leaning forward, I grab fistfuls of his shirt and sob uncontrollably into the cotton that smells so much like the Ryker I remember that I almost pass out. He hesitates for a moment before wrapping his solid arms around my shoulders and squeezing me, tight.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into my hair, and I think he starts crying, too.