A really appreciate those of your who are reviewing. It makes it kind of hard to hold out on the chapters. So here's the next installment. Thoughts and comments are very much appreciated. Enjoy.

A Week Before Cohen

Chapter Four

Ryan gratefully accepted Theresa's invitation to have lunch at her place. Not only was he starving—unable to remember the last time he had actually eaten—but he was desperate for a shower, and after a quick glimpse behind the moldy shower curtain in his brother's apartment, he vowed not to set foot into the filthy tub for as long as he had to suffer through his new rooming situation. Plus, he didn't even have a towel, and he was not about to adopt Trey's method of using a dirty old t-shirt to dry off.

Trey had grudgingly agreed to give Ryan a lift to the auto shop, which left him only a couple short miles from Theresa's. Though the walk wasn't long or strenuous, and his headache was finally starting to recede into a dull ache rather than debilitating throbbing, he started to struggle a bit during the last few blocks—forcing him to slow his pace. The sun was soaking into his black t-shirt, and by the time he reached Theresa's doorstep, he felt like he was carrying twenty-pound weights on each of his feet. His clothes were clinging to his sweaty skin and the desire for a shower suddenly trumped all ideas of food.

He didn't bother knocking; Eva was at work.

"Hey!" he called out in the direction of the kitchen. He heard the sound of a chair scraping across the floor—footsteps trailing behind him. He pulled his shirt over his head before he was fully in the bathroom.

"That bad, huh?" Theresa laughed at him from down the hallway.

Ryan dropped his shirt onto the floor and reached over to turn on the faucet in the tub, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the water to warm up. "You have no idea," he replied with a short laugh. He glanced over his shoulder where Theresa hung onto the doorframe, watching him in amusement. "It's so fucking hot in—" He cut off when he saw the smile drain from Theresa's face.

He stepped back from the tub and squinted at her in confusion. "What's wrong?"

Her arms dropped to her sides and she bit her bottom lip. She stepped forward slowly, reaching out and gently grazing his side. "Jesus, Ryan…."

He followed her hand in the large bathroom mirror behind him—eyes focused on the fingers tracing the outside of a large purple bruise on his lower back.

Ryan was just as fascinated. He hadn't really been able to take a good look at himself since that night, but it would appear as though AJ was a strong supporter of the phrase "kick 'em when they're down."

He had nothing to say. His entire body ached last night; it's not like he was purposefully trying to hide anything from Theresa, but he could tell she thought otherwise.

Pity.

He hated the word. He hated what it stood for.

In Ryan's experience, pity changed people. Made them think differently.

Like it did with Eva.

Ryan didn't need Theresa thinking differently. She knew—she understood—what he needed. Things to go back to normal.

She had seen a lot over the years they'd known each other—many times she'd brought out the frozen vegetables to ease swelling and dabbed his cuts with rubbing alcohol—but there was something different about the way she was looking at the bruise and gently touching every purple cell with the soft tips of her fingers.

When she finally looked up at him, meeting his gaze in the mirror, he shook his head violently.

No. He didn't want it. Any of it. Even if he didn't know what it really was.

She spoke anyway. "It's not right, you know…?"

The mirror was starting to cloud, condensation thick in the air of the small bathroom.

The purple bruise got fuzzy, and finally disappeared.

He turned and looked directly into Theresa's wide, watery eyes. "Yeah, well…." He shook his head again, slowly this time, and redirected his gaze to the squeaky-clean tub with the crack in the bottom. "What is right?"

She didn't answer. Because she didn't know, he realized. They'd never really known what was right—not with their fathers and their brothers and the lives they've lead and watched. Just how could they define "right" when everything around them was wrong?

Ryan slipped out of his jeans and boxers and climbed into the shower. He wasn't sure how long Theresa stood in the bathroom, but when he got out, there was a large heart on the mirror with the letters R and T in the middle. But underneath that, in very small letters, the word "right" was whispered quietly.

Lunch was rushed, and the way Theresa kept refilling his glass and pressing him to finish his sandwich, made his head spin a little bit. When he was washing the plates, he caught a glimpse at the clock on the microwave.

3:45

Eva would be home soon. And Theresa didn't want him around.

He understood. As much ashe appreciated and respected Theresa's mother, he didn't want to have to explain himself. He didn't want to have to walk around the pity. So far, no one from child services had tracked him down, and with his still slightly-swollen eye, he didn't want to push his luck. It was still too fresh.

He kissed Theresa quickly and jogged down the few steps.

"Wait!" she called out to him just before he reached the corner. He turned around as she ran up and held out her hand. "Trey's probably…somewhere else. So take this. Just for the bus ride. I don't want you walking all the way back and…" She hesitated and took a deep breath, "It's just that my mom's car…."

"Yeah." Ryan nodded understandably, and took the change in his palm. "No, that's great. Thanks."

He watched her run back into the house and waited until the door was fully shut before he lit a cigarette and let his eyes drift to the house next door. It would have been convenient to just walk in and shower and grab everything he needed while he was there, but it was Tuesday. And Tuesday's—AJ's day off—were notoriously bad.

He took another drag off the smoke and turned the corner, heading for the nearest bus stop.

It took Ryan over an hour and a half to get home, and while he normally would have regretted it, seeing as how he probably could have walked it in about 50 minutes tops, he was starting to feel a little woozy from the combination of the heat and his headache, and the short walk he had to make back to the apartment almost made him want to just crash out on the infested sofa.

He was halfway up the stairwell when a familiar shrill stopped him in his tracks. It was hard to tell what was being said, but he took the remaining steps two at a time and walked quickly down the hallway to the open apartment door.

"What the fuck, Trey? You put this fucking hole in my name?" she screamed, waving a piece of paper around dramatically.

Ryan winced and stepped back. He couldn't see Trey, but Ryan imagined he was doing the same. Their mom could reach the highest decibels when she was raving uncontrollably.

She laughed and threw the paper to the ground. "I can't even pay my own fucking lease, what makes you think I can handle your defaulting payments? Huh?"

Ryan was sure he could hear the loose wooden frame rattling long after she'd finished yelling. She was just…so loud. All the time.

"Relax. I'll get the money!"

Ryan stepped to the side so he could fully see inside the apartment. Trey was lounging on the couch, pressed back against the cushions, a grimace on his face. Dawn liked to be heard.

"Why are you always dumping this fucking shit on me, Trey? Huh? Answer me that?"

"They wouldn't lease to me unless I was 21!" he spat back. "Fuck!" he screamed, getting up and pacing in front of the sofa. He rubbed his hands over his hair like he did when he was trying to refrain from punching someone. Ryan was more than familiar with that little idiosyncrasy.

Trey looked back at his mom, and for a second, Ryan saw Trey's eyes flicker over to him, but there mustn't have been much thought there because no acknowledgment was made.

"In three fucking days, I can change it over to my name anyway! Shit! Why d'you have to fucking freak out like this all the fucking time!" Trey spun around and stomped his foot. Just as quickly, he turned back and pointed at his mom, his eyes wide. Wild.

"This is why I fucking left. I can't take this shit anymore!" He kicked the couch and stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard that it bounced back open.

"FUCK!" It slammed again, and it stuck this time.

Ryan was nearly bowled over when his mom spun and bolted out the door. She stopped suddenly—obviously surprised.

"Ryan!" she shouted, like she'd just seen a ghost. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ryan squinted in confusion, his tired brain working on overdrive, then it struck him.

She didn't even know.

She hadn't even noticed.

"I've been living here, mom!" he yelled back. He swallowed quickly and willed his voice not to crack. She didn't care; why should he?

She shook her head, disbelief and anger creasing her forehead. A snarl of a smile crossed her face and she bitterly shouted, "Oh yeah, that'll last long. You moving out too, huh? Well, it's not going to last long if you don't PAY THE FUCKING RENT!" She turned around to yell the last part into the apartment.

"Nice fucking family, I got…," she grumbled, storming past Ryan and into the hallway.

He waited until he no longer heard the rapid click of heals on cement before walking into the apartment and closing the door behind him.

With all the bitterness and disgust that had just been exchanged in the room, Ryan felt a sudden rage boiling inside of him. He gulped the air quickly through his nostrils and open and closed his fists at his sides. There was a strange prick at the back of his eyes. It wasn't that he was going to cry—he didn't cry—it was just that there were a lot of times when things weren't right, but only a few times when things were really wrong.

And that—what he had just witnessed, what had just happened—, Ryan was sure, was most definitely wrong.

TBC.