So as of this chapter, I'm all caught up with the LJ postings. From now on, I'll post simultaneously.
A Week Before Cohen
Chapter Six
Ryan never really understood the term "blinding headache" until around noon that day.
He awoke with blurry vision and a horrible ache behind his eyes that made him want to hide from sun and light all day in a dark room. Though nothing was said, Trey must have noticed because he found the pills Ryan had stopped taking days ago, and brought him a glass of tepid water. Ryan didn't care that it smelled like chlorine-scented sewage, he just swallowed and breathed through his mouth until he was sure the taste was gone.
But then Trey and Arturo left to go do…whatever it was they did, and Ryan tried to lie perfectly still on the sofa of death, willing his head to remain in one whole piece.
After at least an hour of listening to his own breathing, the phone rang. Ryan grimaced, but rolled over and swung his legs off the side of the sofa. He was relieved to find that he was able to stand and the pain remained bearable, if not receding.
He shuffled over to the counter and picked up the receiver.
He immediately cleared his throat and stood up straight when the professional-sounding voice asked for him by name.
He hoped he wasn't slurring his words. He wasn't sure what was in those pills, but whatever it was made his thought process a little hazy. "Uh, yes, this is Ryan."
He would have been genuinely exited to get a job interview so quickly if he didn't feel like his brain was disintegrating. But maybe that worked in his favor—he was certain he didn't sound overanxious when he arranged a time to meet.
He thanked the lady and hung up the phone. Leaning on the counter, he rubbed a hand over his face. He felt sick. Sick enough to want to lie on the sofa for the rest of the day. And that just couldn't be right. But a job interview was a job interview. And he needed the money.
He found an unopened box of Wheat Thins in the cupboard and grabbed a handful. Maybe if he put something in his stomach, he'd feel better.
It wasn't such a long walk, really—about the halfway point between Trey and Theresa's. Ryan didn't know the grocery store well; his mom shopped at a smaller, local store that carried limited but affordable essentials.
This place, Ryan noticed the day before when he handed over his résumé with little to no expectations, was a little nicer.
The front doors opened automatically. The floors were shiny and reflected the fluorescent lights above, and he could tell from the smell, they sold fresh fish. This was definitely taking it up a notch.
He walked toward the back, like the lady on the phone had directed, and scanned the wall until he spotted the door that said "staff only." Before he could knock, the door swung open, and a well-dressed, older lady with thick-rimmed glasses immediately held out her hand.
"Hello. You must be Ryan."
Ryan nodded, swallowed and then shook her hand firmly. "Nice to meet you," he said, frustrated by the audible waver in his own voice. He just needed to get through this, prove he could stock a few shelves, then he could crawl into a hole and feel sorry for himself until the sun went down.
"I'm Rachel. Please, come in." She lead the way past a ceiling-high pile of cardboard boxes to a small room at the back, her high heals clicking loudly against the cement floor. She held the door open for him and gestured to a chair against the wall. "Have a seat."
Ryan obeyed and slowly lowered himself into the chair.
He looked around nervously. The office was essentially empty. There was a desk, a chair, a couple lamps, but no windows or artwork decorated the stark, white walls.
"It's humble, but it works."
Startled by the comment, Ryan looked at the lady with wide eyes, about to explain himself, but she smiled dismissively and continued.
"So, Ryan," she said, lifting a piece of paper off her desk which he assumed to be his résumé. "You've worked construction?"
The words vibrated in his ears, but he understood enough to nod politely. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure she could hear it. He blinked several times when his eyes started burning—like smoke was being blown in his face. He reached up to rub it away, but that only made everything more blurry.
"Any experience in a grocery store at all?" she asked.
"Uh…no," he said shortly, sucking in a deep breath of air and letting it out as slowly as he could possibly manage. But his eyes were burning painfully now—this time the colors came along for the ride—and suddenly Ryan was sure that something had to give.
He placed his elbows on the arm rests and leaned forward, letting his chin rest against his chest. It wasn't just a problem anymore, it was a visible problem, and he grimaced at the urgency in the Rachel lady's voice.
"Ryan, are you okay?"
"Yeah," he whispered automatically, but he kept staring at his pants—his green pants. He was almost positive they were blue this morning.
"Do you need some water or something?"
Get out.
The message was clear. Loud. Urgent. His body was fleeing and it was his brain's responsibility to provide some sort of explanation before it was too late.
"I'm sorry," he said sharply, standing and moving for the door.
He walked swiftly, covering the ground with long, purposeful strides, past the cardboard boxes, out the "staff only" door, and heading for the light of the day behind the three, large, square glass storefront windows.
He knew there was only one, but he couldn't deny what he saw. He aimed for the middle. It seemed like the safest option.
He apologized in passing to some poor lady he ran into by the meat counter.
Get out.
Behind him, he could hear the rushed click of heels on the shiny ceramic floor. But it stopped when the doors separated in front of him, allowing him to barge out onto the sidewalk.
He staggered around the corner, leaned against the wall with one arm, and threw up onto the black asphalt of the parking lot.
His eyes were burning so badly, he wasn't sure he'd ever see any other color but red. Sweat rolled down his back, face, arms. He was overheating, choking, burning.
He heard himself gasp, his lungs pulling in as much air as they could, shuddering in relief as he exhaled. His arm shook violently, and finally gave away. He rested his forehead against the cool brick of the side of the grocery store, breathing, blinking, sweating.
He stayed still until he could breathe without a hitch.
Finally he rolled around until his back was against the wall, tentatively opening his eyes to the fire. Fortunately, the burn was gone and even though things weren't a whole lot clearer, the grass was green and the brick was red, and that, Ryan decided, was at least something.
He pushed himself forward and spat onto the ground, regretting turning down the lady's offer of water.
He was almost positive she wasn't going to offer him anything else.
The church bells burst out into their lunchtime song, the sound of kids laughing and screaming as they fled the school into the playground carried down the street.
Ryan was struggling--the last block seemed to go by in slow motion. But he was close. The song told him he was close; his vision wasn't reliable. He was blinded by the pain that manipulated his brain and tossed his stomach.
He almost fell on his face, forgetting about the lone step at the end of Theresa's walkway. He wasn't too concerned; he'd tripped over it many times before when his vision was at its best.
When he reached the flight of stairs leading to the front door, he allowed his eyelids to close out any visual stimulus that was somehow taking away his balance. He slid his hand up along the wrought iron railing as he climbed the steps one at a time.
He felt a rush of air in his face and heard the familiar squeak of the screen door.
"Ryan!"
He turned away from her voice, placing both hands on the railing and squeezing his fingers around it tightly as he leaned over.
The door shut again with another loud squeak, and Ryan could hear the pounding of running feet from within the house. When there was another squeak, four hands—one on each of his shoulders and elbows—pulled him inside.
He blindly allowed the hands to see for him, and then sat when he was told to, trusting there was something to sit on.
Sure enough, a soft cushiony sofa met his grateful body. He let his head drop heavily, too tired from fighting to prop himself up.
Hands with a purpose touched him sporadically. One on his forehead, one on his shoulder, another pushing him prone onto the sofa, a couple lifting his feet.
He draped his arm across his eyes and fought another wave of nausea. Never had it been this bad. Never had AJ ever made him this sick. Never had he felt he couldn't handle it alone.
"Drink."
Something cold brushed his lips; another hand pushed the back of his head upright. He let out a sharp gasp and pushed the hand away.
The cold object was removed.
"How long has he been like this?" The voice was angry
He hadn't been thinking. It was Saturday. Eva was home. But it was like he was programmed to return here when things where spinning out of control. He hoped Eva would understand. He hoped she'd realize how badly he needed things to go back to normal.
"He was fine! I swear, ma! I saw him, like, two days ago."
"Theresa," Eva spat, "lower your voice."
Theresa continued in a more subdued, but equally emotional plea. "I'm serious. We had lunch. He was fine. He was going to look for a job…."
Ryan finally felt his muscles relaxing, the lack of movement doing wonders for his head.
Water splashed in a sink. Ryan heard Eva sigh from behind him. "Is he still with Trey?"
There was no answer, but Theresa must have nodded because it appeased Eva. "As long as he's with his brother. I worried when Trey moved out…."
A hand brushed through Ryan's hair. He didn't react. He'd know that touch anywhere.
"C'mon, let him rest."
The cool hand trailed down his hot cheek and then disappeared. Two sets of footsteps faded into nothing.
TBC
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