Two Steps Back
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N - This is a follow-up piece to 'One Step Forward' - but if you haven't read it, I don't think that the back-story is absolutely necessary in order to understand this fic. Similar to 'One Step Forward,' this story will be five (longer) parts and all in first person, but focuses mainly on Ryan's thoughts.
Kirsten - Ryan
-The Hangover-
I slam the phone down in frustration, immediately resting my head in my hands as I sort through the plethora of information and direction with which my father had just bombarded me. I almost regret canceling those meetings, because it sounds like he's going to use it against me for at least the next year, and I can be sure that if there are any issues at all with this new development, this 'personal day' will be at the center of his problem identification. It's a guilt trip that's all too familiar in dealings with my father.
It makes me wonder if he would have reacted same the way if I had told him that it was Seth who was sick, resulting in my absence from the office. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I know that Dad has done anything but welcome Ryan into the family with open arms. I assume that he acts the way he does to indirectly harass Sandy, but his indifference is undoubtedly detected by Ryan. Just what the kid needs, another reason to question his place in this family.
The clock chimes its hourly declaration, and I glance at my watch to note that it's already eleven o'clock. That repugnant phone call lasted over an hour - no wonder I have a headache. I turn around and reach into the cupboard behind me, grabbing two mugs and filling them with the fresh, piping hot coffee. The aroma alone eases the tension that has gripped my overwhelmed brain. After adding the appropriate quantity of cream to each of the mugs, I clutch the large handles and make my way out to the poolhouse.
I'm actually surprised that Ryan's still asleep. I can't ever recall a time when he needed assistance waking up before school - a rare feat for any teenager - so the fact that he's slept the majority of the previous twenty-four hours away, seems distinctly out of character. He obviously needed the rest.
I awkwardly open the poolhouse door, paying close attention to the mug that's tucked between my arm and stomach, the liquid dancing perilously close to the lip. I wince as some of the steaming fluid leaps onto my hand, forcing me to quickly rearrange my grip as I shuffle into the darkened room. I blink a few times, encouraging my eyes to adjust to the significantly dimmer setting.
Looking around, it's clear that this is definitely not a teenager's room; the bland colors and generic furniture lack character and there's absolutely no personal touch from Ryan. In fact, I don't think he's added anything to the décor since he arrived. I wouldn't object to painting the walls and adding a splash of color through the drapes - which I've notice have been let down, blocking out most of the external light. Ryan didn't always draw the curtains, and I just assumed that when he did, it was his subtle plea for privacy. I somehow don't think that he would ever ask to be left alone - it's almost as if he feels it isn't in his list of rights.
Maybe if he picks out everything that comprises of this room, it would encourage him to express more of himself, even if it is just through posters or something equally representative of one's personal choice. Perhaps later on, I'll take another stab at conferencing with Ryan about the redecorating.
I walk over to the edge of the bed, Ryan's body a mere lump under the disheveled sheets and covers. Lying flat on his stomach with his head tilting left, his position renders me unable to see his face. His shallow, rhythmic breathing would indicate that he is still caught deep in his sleep.
I place my mug on the nightstand, lowering myself onto the bed and reaching forward with my free hand, gently squeezing his left shoulder.
Immediately upon making contact, Ryan's entire body seizes, flipping around onto his back - his left arm forcefully knocking the steaming container of coffee from my hands, spilling its contents all over the bed and himself. He violently scrambles backwards until he's sitting upright, his back pressed hard against the barrier of the headboard behind him. The empty mug connects harshly with the wood floor, producing a hollow sound that echoes off the walls that surround us. His eyes are wide with fear, staring straight ahead - having yet to register on anything in particular. I realize that I am holding my hands up in front of me, as if claiming my innocence. His heavy breathing is evident by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He blinks a couple times as if trying to focus on my form, the sheer panic in his eyes is slowly replaced by a look of extraordinary guilt. His mouth opens, but closes again, the lingering terror apparently preventing the words from coming to him.
I find myself left equally speechless as I lower my hands from their defensive pose.
"I'm so…," he starts, his voice shaky and unconfident.
"No, Ryan, I'm…"
"I didn't mean to… I'm sorry I made a mess. I don't know why…"
"Don't apologize. I shouldn't have snuck up on you. You should go…," I gesture to his t-shirt that is soaked through with the boiling coffee.
He nods and stutters on his response, "Um… yeah. I'll just go change. Here let me…," he reaches for the sheets that are also soiled by the dark liquid, but I stop him.
"I'll take care of this, Ryan. You go clean up."
He pauses, avoiding my eyes. Dropping the handful of linens, he shuffles to the other side of the bed and begins to make his way to the bathroom. After I hear the soft click of the door being locked, I move to rip the sheets off the bed, balling them into my arms before rushing from the room - my mind spinning as I try to make sense of the events that just took place.
***********************
I fumble with the lock on the door and immediately start tearing at my soaking wet t-shirt - letting the damp, stained garment slap onto the cold, ceramic floor. I lean my forearms on the ledge of the sink and dip my head. Allowing the structure to support the full weight of my upper body, I attempt to regulate my breathing and suppress the panic that has blood surging through my veins at a rapid pace.
What the hell just happened there? I try to make sense of the whole ordeal, but my mind is still foggy and unfocused. My vague memory consists of the horrified look on Kirsten's face. She looked absolutely mortified. What have I done?
I lift my eyes from the bare sink, distracted by my reflection which shows angry red marks streaking across my chest - the coffee having left its mark. I reach for the faucet handles, turning the water on and absently splashing the cooling liquid over my face. Letting out a deep, shuddered exhalation, and I am relieved to realize that my chest is finally releasing its death grip on my heart.
A sharp pain vibrates through my skull, and I am reminded of the headache and nausea that are once again, making their presence known. I grimace, noting that I feel tremendously hungover, and reach for the bottle of Advil that is kept in the medicine cabinet above the sink.
I really freaked her out. I could see it; she was scared of me. I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened - before I did something that they would find downright disturbing. I really feel like I've accomplished a lot this morning - I've managed to spill coffee all over the expensive linens on the bed that they've given me to sleep in, obtain multiple burns on my chest, and make Kirsten feel extremely awkward in her own home. It has been quite the morning already.
Downing the pills with a handful of tap water, I turn and make my way out of the bathroom. I've got to make this better - or at least, fix what I've broken. I toss on a clean, dry t-shirt and slide my feet into my slippers. After taking another deep breath and grabbing the stray mug from the floor beside my bed, I make my way over to the house. It's time to face the music.
Kirsten abruptly stops shuffling through the scattered pages on the counter when I step through the door.
"I'm sorry about the mess…," I start, placing the mug gently in the sink, but she interrupts my apology immediately.
"No, Ryan, that's no problem. I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to startle you like that."
I want to say it's okay, but nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, it has created this whole new level of discomfort to add to the already immense awkwardness that exists between us. Neither of us speak or move for torturously long seconds.
"You didn't have to stay home," I break the drawn out silence, but mentally chastise myself for sounding critical in my tone. This woman must want to run as far away from me as possible. I'm on a roll.
"I know," she replies quietly, pausing for a second before changing the subject, "You must be famished. Do you want some breakfast?"
"Actually, I'm not that hungry."
I look up in time to see her face fall into a discouraged frown. I pretend not to notice, immediately fixing my eyes on the granite counter.
"How are you feeling today?"
I shrug, "Alright."
She doesn't press me any further on the matter. Shortly after, I hear her soft footsteps as she quietly leaves the kitchen, and it would appear as though I've managed to drive her out of a room in her own house too. I'm batting a thousand.
**************
I make my way to the laundry room to switch the sheets over from the washer to the dryer. As I fumble with the controls, I realize that I haven't got a clue how to use the new machinery. I suppose they aren't 'new', seeing as how they were purchased last year, but I've never encountered a situation that has required me to do an 'emergency' load on Rosa's day off. I can't help but laugh at myself; when did I become one of these people?
Once I've successfully activated the dryer, I sigh heavily, still trying to grasp exactly what went wrong this morning. Last night, he seemed so unguarded - definitely the most comfortable he has ever been in my presence. But this morning, he was absolutely terrified… I terrified him. It was like I electrocuted him with my touch.
Wiping my damp hands on my jeans, I wander back towards the kitchen. I stop in the entrance, my eyes fixed on Ryan. His head is buried in his hands, and he simply looks young, weak and fragile - as he had the night before.
Maybe I pushed this whole 'bridging the gap' thing too far, too fast. I know that it's going to take time, but I didn't think that something as simple and unobtrusive as my touch would alarm him to the extent that it did. He looks so lost, hurt, tired, sick and simply uncomfortable. I've pushed him further into his own protective shell, and made him feel extremely awkward in the place that he's supposed to call home - the place that's supposed to be his comfort zone.
As I watch him stare hard at the counter, I yearn for that sensation of knowing - the confidence that sweeps through my body when I know, without a doubt, what I have to do to make it all better. I wait - and wait.
Nothing.
A shrill ring causes me to jump apprehensively.
I beeline to the phone, almost relieved to occupy my mind with the frivolous matters of work. I'll try to deal with Ryan again later. Maybe then I'll have conquered this parenting hangover.
TBC. Thanks so much for reading. Any feedback would be appreciated.
