I sank to the bathroom floor with a bottle of Merlot Mission polish and smeared some on my unsteady hands.
Ryan. It couldn’t go on this way. I clung to his hand, clung to him, because I was scared. But it wasn’t fair; I couldn’t keep pretending to feel more than I did. And I wasn’t the only one pretending; he knew we didn’t work. The question was: Which of us was brave enough to say it? My lungs and heart clenched: more good-byes. I bent over, bracing my hands on my knees, and tried to take deep, slow breaths. All I accomplished was convulsive coughs.
Blowing on my nails caused another coughing fit—I needed to calm down. I gulped air and stood up. Too fast. The room spun and I steadied myself on the towel rack.
I yanked my dress from the closet, spilling memories from the shopping trip I’d had with Mom. Finding a formal dress that covered a port wasn’t easy. Mom had vetoed anything in black or white—saying both colors made me look “washed out and sickly.” I’d bitten back a laugh and let her choose. She’d settled on a mint one-shouldered dress. It was important to her, so despite the amount of fluff and tulle in the skirt, I’d agreed.
I tugged it on and zipped it up. Stuck a rhinestone clip on my wig, painted on some makeup, and headed downstairs, pausing a moment on the landing to clench and unclench my hands until my pulse calmed.
“Hey, beautiful.” Ryan greeted me with a kiss. I frowned at the scent on his breath and the flush in his cheeks; turned away from a second beer-flavored kiss. Mom was too busy with the requisite oohing and aahing to notice.
She waved a thermometer at me, but I shook her off with unveiled annoyance. “I’m not messing up my makeup. I’m fine. We need to go.”
“Just a few photos.” I forced smiles through the dizziness of camera flashes.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
Mom frowned. “He’s been on the phone for an hour. I knocked a few minutes ago to tell him you were almost ready, and he snapped at me that he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Dad did?” I’d never heard him yell at Mom. Ever.
“I know!” She seemed less upset than surprised. “I’m sorry, kitten. I know he wanted to see you—it’s got to be a very important phone call. Maybe it’s that doctor in Boston he’s been trying to get in touch with? I don’t want you to be late; I’ll just show him the pictures when he gets off the phone. Have fun, you two.”
Then she was shooing us out the door, and all my worries about his odd behavior were forgotten as I inhaled outside air. It had gotten colder in the last few hours. There was a feeling of snow in the air, and it burned like icy fire when I breathed.
Chapter 46
“Aren’t I driving?” Ryan asked when I stopped at my car and opened the door.
“Are you kidding? You’ve been drinking—I can’t believe you drove here. Get in the car.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Let me just grab my bag—we’re still staying over at Chris’s, right?”
I ignored his question and the accompanying raised-eyebrow grin, waiting until he’d shut his door to demand, “What were you thinking?”
“You look great.” Ryan reached over and touched my knee, trying to slide his hand across the endless tulle until I swatted him.
“Thanks.” There wasn’t any enthusiasm in the word. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”
“I like your dress. You look hot. Sometimes I forget …” His words and caresses bypassed playful and seductive and escalated to turmoil. He sighed and pulled his hands back into his lap.
I turned into the Scoops parking lot. It was closed for the season, the picnic benches coated with a lace of frost and the neon ice cream cone turned off. “What’s going on?”
“Do we have to do this now?” he asked, not looking at me. “Can’t we just go to the dance and the party and not do this?” Instead of waiting for my answer, he got out of the car.
I followed. The icy air of the parking lot sawed at my lungs, providing some clarity but cutting into my breathing. I choked my way from the car to the picnic bench.
“You okay?” Ryan asked, his concern shooting through multiple levels as my inability to catch my breath continued.
“Fine,” I gasped. “It’ll pass.” I dabbed my eyes and shrugged farther into my coat, taking slow, shallow breaths until the choking stopped.
We sat on the bench closest to the building. Ryan wasn’t filling the silence or trying to overpower my raspy breaths with compliments and reassurances. Not a good sign.
“Ryan? Talk to me.”
“I can’t do this anymore.” His head was in his hands. His voice was shaking.
“Do what?” Although I knew, and knew I couldn’t do it either.
“This isn’t what I thought. I’m scared shitless all the time. What if Mia gets a cold? What if I kiss her and get her sick? Can I touch her without bruising her? What if you don’t get better?”
He turned toward me, his eyes wet and face crumpled. “I shouldn’t say that—I shouldn’t even think it, but it’s all I think about. Mia, I love you, but I can’t handle the idea of—I can’t handle that.” He dropped his head into his palms.