Ryker gets up and walks to the fridge, grabs two beers, and sits back down, handing me one.
“Thanks,” I laugh. “Anyway, yeah . . . just imagine for a moment, if you will, the look on my mother’s face.” He laughs a little, and so do I. “I wanted an abortion. Immediately.”
Ryker picks at his beer label then looks at me. “You did?”
“I did. It wasn’t really even a thought to do anything else. Eric lost his shit, though. Not in the way you witnessed this evening . . . just . . .” I swallow hard.
“It’s okay, Nat.”
“Max and Oliver are their names. They’ll be five next month and are starting kindergarten in the fall.” After a few seconds of silence, I move on. “I was going to leave him, before the affair . . . Tosha has told me forever that I could stay here.”
Ryker sets his beer on the coffee table. “She doesn’t like him?”
“No. Never really has. Thinks he’s pretentious.” That makes Ryker laugh.
I spend the next few minutes telling Ryker about Eric’s borderline insistence that we get married before the babies were born, and my concession for everyone’s sake but my own. He looks extra uncomfortable during the discussion about me leaving my Ph.D. program, because he’s a human being and knows how hard it was for me to do that.
“I honestly could probably move on from the affair, if that was all it was. That’s a lie,” I admit in the next breath. “Anyway, my resentment and pure contempt for him and everything he represents runs so deep, there’s just no recovering. The affair just . . .”
“Compounds it,” Ryker finishes, looking down at the table.
“Yeah. And with Ollie going deaf, I—”
“What?”
“Oh,” I sigh, “I didn’t get there yet, I guess. He has a degenerative nerve thing that’s going to make him deaf, slowly. We found out about that like two weeks ago.”
“Shit, Nat . . . I’m so sorry.” Ryker holds out his hand and I tuck mine into his. After a quick squeeze, we separate them.
I explain to Ryker all I know about Oliver’s condition and our plans for him to go to the Clarke School.
“Anyway, to actually answer your question from a few hours ago, I started cutting again a few weeks ago. I was just in this pressure cooker. I thought about the first time I’d cut, then started thinking about you for the first time in a long time . . . and everything with Eric . . .” Needing to change the subject, I shift and look at him in the eyes. “So, why’d you stay in Wyoming for so long?”
Ryker lets out a huge breath, puffing out both his cheeks. “Well, I did well for a while. I made it through probation and through seeing you at your graduation without any major fuck-ups.” He squirms a little and moves to put his elbows on his thighs. “Then, I slipped back into painkillers.” My heart hurts as I watch his face pinch at the memory. “The alcohol hadn’t really ever stopped, I just got good at controlling it when I needed to. I’d been working at an adventure camp that my sister started when she got back from Africa, and couldn’t drink while the kids were there. But I made sure to make up for it during the down times.”
“Did you get arrested again?” I ask, praying for a “no.”
“No, luckily. It got really bad, though, Nat. I lost a shitload of weight, slept or drank whenever I wasn’t working. I’m fuckin’ lucky I didn’t kill myself or someone else.” He picks at his thumbnail as he talks.
“Wait, back up a minute. Did you ever even try to reenlist after your drunk driving arrest?”
He laughs sarcastically. “I was fucked up, Nat, not stupid. Somehow I pulled it together to leave well enough alone. My discharge status was fine, I don’t know if I could have screwed it up by causing a scene, but that’s all I would have accomplished—a scene. I struggled with that the most, after the arrest. I felt like I’d let Luke down.”
Here it is, the first time we’re talking about Lucas.
“You know that’s not true.” I rub my hand on his knee for a second before pulling it away.
“I know that now.” His gorgeous blue eyes travel somewhere else, somewhere I’m not sure I’m ready to go. “Anyway,” he continues, “my mom found out about the pills and gave me an ultimatum. She said she’d kick me out if I didn’t go to rehab. And, Wyoming’s not really a place you want to wander around alone. Outside of the Park, it’s an incredibly depressing place with nothing going on.”
“So you went to rehab?”
“Yep. Outpatient. I got to deal with all kinds of fun things, like guilt, anger, my PTSD . . .”
“Ah, yes,” sighing, I kick my heels up and rest them on the coffee table, “good ‘ole PTSD.” It’s incredibly absurd that we’re talking about PTSD like it’s a great-uncle we haven’t seen in a while, but . . . whatever.
“I’m sorry, Natalie—”