Thanks for the great support for the last chapter. I really appreciate every single one of you who took the time to leave your thoughtful comments. Thanks so much. Transition chapter here. It all comes apart in the next installment. Apart, or together? Well, that's your call.
A Week Before Cohen
Chapter Seven
"I want you to eat all of this." Eva slapped down a large spoonful of mashed potatoes on Ryan's plate.
He stared at the food uneasily, then looked up across the table with pleading eyes.
Theresa bit down on her fork, obviously suppressing a smile and diverting her eyes.
Her mother was a force to be reckon with, and even though Ryan felt like eating about as much as he felt like taking another slap to the head, he wasn't about to argue with Eva. Not tonight.
Not ever, really.
She was a nice, kind lady for the most part, who treating Ryan better than his own family ever had, but she wasn't one to take well to argument. Or, maybe, Ryan considered, she took to it too well. Regardless, he knew he didn't stand a chance.
So he kept his objections at bay, lifted his fork and picked at the corner of his mashed potatoes, eyeing the food skeptically as he raised it to his mouth.
He chewed for an inordinate amount of time—even though there was nothing worth chewing—, swallowed, and then nervously stared at his plate for a few seconds, waiting for an instant revolt from below. Fortunately, all was quiet.
He couldn't deny that he was feeling better. His headache had abated to the point where he had the ability to think clearly, his vision was no longer foggy, and he was fairly certain he wasn't going to fall over when he stood on his own two feet. But Theresa's place tended to do that to him. Maybe it was the air, he wasn't sure, but whenever he fell asleep in this house, he always seemed to awake in a better state.
He ate slowly—cautiously—, carefully avoiding shocking his system. He was grateful his plate only contained mild food; his hosts thoughtfully spared him from the spicy meat skewers he'd normally been known to salivate over. Finally, when his plate was as close to empty as it was going to get on this afternoon, considering the circumstances, he set down his fork and sat back in his chair with a sigh.
Eva rose and gathered the plates. Upon the second trip, and after an admonishing glare, Theresa joined her mother in clearing the table.
As Eva reached over to take Ryan's plate, she paused, analyzing the remaining contents. "I suppose that will have to do," she said softly into his ear, and Ryan could hear the smile in her voice. A warm hand squeezed his shoulder as he quietly thanked her for the meal.
Eva filled the sink with steaming water, then dried her hands and left the room. Ryan moved over to the stool by the counter; Theresa stood on the other side, elbow-deep in the soapy water, scrubbing at the dishes in the sink. She would reach up every few seconds to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears.
He folded his arms on the counter and rested his chin on his forearm. His eyelids were extremely heavy despite the few hours of sleep, and he was already starting to dread the walk back to Trey's. It would be so much easier just to go home.
"Maybe you should stay here tonight," Theresa huffed as she tried to blow the hair off her face.
When Ryan still hadn't answered after a few seconds, she turned to face him, raising her eyebrows to solicit a response.
He buried his head into the crook of his elbow, looking off to the corner, away from her gaze. He tried to blink away the dull pain behind his eyes, but eventually gave up, closing them completely. "I don't think that's such a good idea," he mumbled into his arm.
He listened as a plate was rinsed and stacked into the drying rack before Theresa spoke again. "Well, I can ask Ma if I can drive you to Trey's…."
He managed to shake his head just slightly, even though he wasn't sure whether she was looking at him. "I was thinking," he started quietly, changing sides so that his left cheek was resting on his arm and his eyes could meet Theresa's, "that maybe I would just crash at home tonight."
She reacted so quickly, Ryan jumped in surprise. "No." She exaggerated the word so that there was no mistaking her stance. "No way."
Ryan squinted and jerked his head back to look at her upright, fully distracted from any pain the sudden movement might have caused. "What?"
"No," she said sternly, continuing to scrub at a dish.
"Theresa," he spat, exasperated, "I have to go home eventually!"
She dropped the plate she was working on into the soapy water, stepping away from the sink. "You know what, Ryan?" She clenched her jaw angrily, crossing her wet, gloved hands across her chest. "It's kind of hard for me to ignore the fact that you're not safe there when you keep showing up here, barely able to stand, or talk, or eat," she yelled, pointing to the dirty pots she had yet to tackle. "I can't just let you go back there so that all this can happen again! D'you know how hard it is to stand by idly and just pretend it isn't happening?"
Ryan felt the muscle in his cheek twitch, his breaths coming faster now—shorter. He needed to keep his anger in check—keep it quiet. The last think he needed was Eva joining in on this intervention. He spoke slowly, so that there would be no mistaking his seriousness. "I don't need you to save me."
"Yeah?" She pulled off the yellow rubber gloves, suds and water splashing into the air as she slammed them onto the counter. "Then why is it you always come here?"
She leaned forward over the counter, their noses only inches apart. Her eyes were round and glassy, and Ryan could recognize the emotion. She meant it. "Why do you always come here when you realize you can't make it on your own?"
Before Ryan even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet, forcing the stool to jut out behind him. "Because I didn't think I'd have to," he muttered, moving for the end of the counter toward his exit.
Theresa moved with him, her voice continually rising. "And you don't, Ryan! But you can't keep expecting us to help you if you won't even help yourself!"
"You know what?" he growled, stopping suddenly and gripping onto the counter until he could feel the rough bottom cutting into his fingers. "I don't need your help."
She leaned back, like he'd just hit her with all his might, and he almost held up his hands to declare his innocence.
"You don't need my help?" She blinked several times quickly, almost laughing, as if he couldn't have said anything more ridiculous if he'd claimed the sky was green.
He just shook his head, brushing her off and heading for the door. From the corner of his eye, he saw Eva hovering in the doorway of her bedroom, watching from a distance.
"If you really mean it," Theresa called out loudly from behind him, "then you better not bother coming back."
There were no footsteps following him as he kicked open the screen door and jogged down the steps of the porch. Adrenaline and anger fueled a second-wind that, up until a few seconds ago, Ryan would have never believed he had in him. Suddenly, the walk back to Trey's was not only feasible, but welcomed. He needed the opportunity to blow off steam.
As he stormed down the sidewalk, he patted his jeans with his palms until he felt the square outline of his smokes in his right, rear pocket. He pulled out the worn package, and grimaced when he saw there were only four left. Four, he was aware, would barely get him home tonight—would barely take the edge off.
But it was his own fault. He knew that. He knew that, eventually, he'd be too bruised, too sore, too beaten, for Theresa and Eva to turn a blind eye. He knew that there would be a time when the damage would be severe enough to cause worry that would outlast the physical evidence. He knew that it was all too easy—too simple a situation as it stood. He knew that they knew too much, and that one day, it would all catch up with him.
He inhaled deeply off the cigarette and bowed his head as he plowed toward the setting sun.
That day had come.
Again, all thoughts and comments are very much appreciated. Thanks very much for taking the time to read.