She groans in frustration. “This is unbelievable, you know that?”
“I do. Bye.”
I watch Ryker pour the cream into his coffee and tuck the container back into its spot on the door of the fridge. He doesn’t ask me if I want any, because he remembers—I drink my coffee black.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, raising his mug a little.
“Well, thank you for letting me sleep it off here. Sorry about that. You should know I don’t usually do—”
“I can tell,” he chuckles, “no one sets out to drink a pitcher of margaritas. Are you hungry?”
“Coffee first, then food.” I lean my back against his counter. An island with a thick butcher’s block on top of it separates us.
“Of course. It’s wicked nice out, want to sit on the porch?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
Naturally, there’s a porch swing. I balance myself on it, and Ryker leans his shoulder against the pillar opposite me. I think better of asking him to sit next to me. This is all too much as it is. The awkward silence is already churning my stomach.
Ryker sets his mug on the railing and puts his hands in his pockets as he rolls his shoulders back once. He smells like freshly-cut grass. It’s refreshing. “Look, Nat . . . does it bother you that I call you ‘Nat’?”
“Of course not.” It never has . . . not from him.
“I spent most of the night thinking about what you said . . . about ruining my life.”
Any thoughts I had about eating breakfast fly out the window as I watch him struggle to find the right words.
“We don’t have to talk about this right now, Ryker.”
He looks to his left and talks to the fields as the sun highlights his face. “No. We do. I can’t believe you’ve spent the last nine years thinking you ruined my life. It wasn’t like that, Natalie.”
“How was it, then?” This coffee isn’t strong enough.
“Okay, well, of course I spent some time being mad at you. But, mostly I was scared. No one would tell me where you were, I couldn’t get anything out of Tosha . . .”
“You talked to Tosha?”
Ryker finally looks at me and gives his head a quick shake. “I called her every day for like a month.”
“She never told me . . .”
“I’m lucky she didn’t call the police.” His eyebrows shoot up in relief. “She finally told me you weren’t coming back to school till the next year because your parents were making you go to therapy.”
I nod. “They did.”
“Was it for the cutting?”
“Mmhmm.” I stare into my coffee, begging it to suck me into its swirling vortex.
“But you’re still doing it?” He sounds a mix of annoyed and concerned.
“Not still,” I whisper. “I hadn’t done it since before that night . . . but a few weeks ago . . . never mind, we’ll get to that, keep going.” I want nothing more than to avoid talking about cutting with Ryker.
“Things got really bad for me, Nat. Part of the probation was getting a mental health eval. . . which I failed spectacularly. I had to go to the sessions, though, or I’d be in violation of probation. I just kind of went through the motions. I had my calendar marked for May, when my probation would be over. I could stop counseling, and maybe reenlist, though I knew it would be a long shot.” He stops and rolls his head back and to the side like he’s cracking his neck.
“So you were going to counseling . . .” I prompt.
“Yeah, but I was still drinking like a fish and popping painkillers whenever I could get my hands on them. I got really good at hiding it . . .”
“I know a little something about that. So, what happened in May when your probation was over?”
Ryker snorts. “I didn’t make it that far. The U.S. invaded Iraq in March 2003.” He states this like it should explain everything.
“Okay . . .” I shake my head to show him it doesn’t.
“I knew it was coming. I watched the news like everyone else, but I totally lost my shit when it happened. And, I knew I was going to have to wait at least another two months before attempting to reenlist. Since I wasn’t actively engaging with my therapist, but was actively engaging in drinking myself under the table, I buckled.” With a heavy sigh, he continues, “One night I destroyed my bedroom, got in