The first time Ryan went on a date, he tried hard to pretend it was nothing special, but nobody believed him. He couldn't even convince himself.
Simply getting dressed reminded him how different this evening might be.
Normally, when he went to see Theresa, Ryan would simply wash his face and bolt out the front door, finger-combing his hair while he crossed the yard. Now, he stood in his stuffy bedroom, one palm pressed against the dresser, debating. Everything in the top drawer belonged to Trey, and Ryan could still hear his voice warning grimly, "You keep your fucking hands out of my stuff, LB, or I will so beat your ass. Bad enough I got to share a room with you."
But Trey was gone.
And whatever he had left behind . . . he didn't care about it anymore, did he?
So, Ryan thought, why exactly should he?
His fingers strummed the tarnished handle. He paused for a moment, chewing his lip, before he tugged abruptly, trying to wrench the drawer open. It stuck, half off the track, and he had to wiggle it several times before it slid free. Suddenly released, the whole drawer leaped at him like some angered animal fleeing its cage, and Ryan fell back, barely able to catch it before it fell out of the dresser entirely.
Even his brother's furniture wanted to escape this house.
Gingerly, Ryan steadied the drawer. Then he took a deep breath and reached inside. He wondered if it was wrong, going through Trey's discarded clothes, trying to find something to wear. Of course, even if it wasn't almost like stealing, it was still kind of a joke. Everything his brother owned was bound to be too big, and it wasn't as if Ryan was likely to find anything appropriate anyway. But he was desperate. His own wardrobe consisted of t-shirts for when it was hot and sweatshirts to wear on cool or rainy days.
That was pretty much it.
Supposedly his school had a dress code, but nobody really enforced it. Ryan owned one light-blue button-down shirt that had hung in his locker all year, emergency stock just in case some new teacher—there seemed to be a revolving door of new teachers—naïvely insisted on the rules for a day or two. The last time he had worn it the shoulder seams strained, reassuring Ryan that at least he was growing somewhere. But even if it fit perfectly, no way would he wear that tired school shirt to a party. Bad enough that he'd have to wear his cheap black dress code pants and shoes.
He pulled a crumpled grey sweater from Trey's drawer and shook it out, frowning dubiously. Ryan wasn't quite sure what was considered suitable dress for a Quinceanera, but he was pretty sure that a pullover—especially one with a rusty bloodstain near the fraying hem—didn't qualify. Sighing, he folded the sweater and put it back, patting it into place, when his hand touched something buried beneath.
Not cloth.
Plastic. Stuffed with something else.
There was only one thing it could be.
Peering over his shoulder to confirm that the door was closed, Ryan removed the baggie. He stared at it with incredulous eyes. Trey had left his stash? Trey would never leave this. Not unless . . . Ryan smiled, swinging the container between his fingers . . . not unless his brother planned to come home.
And if he did--when he did—he'd expect to find his weed exactly where he left it.
Ryan allowed himself one quick, furtive, sniff. Then he reached up, ready to tuck the baggie back into its hiding place when he heard a slam and the muffled thud of footsteps approaching. Immediately he plunged the container into his pocket, keeping his hand stuck inside as a precaution. His breath suddenly erratic, he dragged a chair over to wedge under the knob, but before he could get it in place, the door rattled open.
And Trey sauntered in.
"Hey, Ry," he said, like an audible shrug. As though he had just stepped outside for a quick cigarette, he flopped unceremoniously onto Ryan's bed, tossing a wrinkled shopping bag to one side,and flinging a forearm over his eyes.
"Trey?" Ryan stammered. Automatically he released the chair he was holding, letting it teeter before it rocked to a stop.
His brother's voice crawled through the thick folds of a yawn. "Shit, of course Trey. Did I fucking change into somebody else in four days? Or did you finally become the stupid Atwood brother?"
Ryan flushed. Something insidious stirred inside him, something that lodged in his throat so that he couldn't quite breathe. It didn't make sense. Before Trey had slouched into the room, the mere prospect of his return was enough to fill Ryan with heady anticipation. Now his brother was back, and Ryan couldn't muster a smile.
He couldn't even make himself say hello.
Maybe in those four days, Trey really had become somebody else. Or maybe Ryan had. Just the sight of his brother sprawled obliviously—greasy hair smearing the pillow, shoes and scabbed elbows flaking onto the sheets—filled Ryan with unexpected rage. The feeling startled and scared him.
Empowered him too.
Ryan's eyes narrowed. The defiled bed belonged to him. Trey's own was one short step away, spotless and empty, but he'd chosen to collapse on Ryan's instead, heedless of the filth that would remain after he left.
Because of course, he'd leave.
He'd go back . . . wherever. And it would be Ryan's job to clean up after him.
"What are you doing here, Trey?" Ryan demanded. Inside his pocket, his fingers tightened into a fist, nails imprinting themselves into his palm.
Trey rolled his arm down just enough to squint indifferently before he shielded his eyes again.
Resentment curdled the edges of Ryan's voice. "What are you doing?" he repeated. "You're on my bed, Trey. Get off."
"Well, hot damn, listen to little brother. I'm gone less than a week and he thinks he can fucking tell me what to do." Trey sounded bored. He addressed his comments to a water stain on the ceiling, then hitched himself up so he was leaning against the headboard, hands clasped casually behind his head. "For someone who acted like a shitass baby because he didn't want his big brother to leave, you don't seem very happy to have me back, Ry."
"You're not back," Ryan muttered. "You're just here. Right?" He hurled the last word as an accusation—a swipe of nails across Trey's unconcerned face—but despite his best efforts, an echo, thin and wistful, reminded both of them who Ryan was, who he wanted Trey to be.
Through the open window floated the drone of a tape abandoned somewhere, its song long over, filling the air with static.
Trey rolled over, rummaging aimlessly through the single drawer of the rickety nightstand. "Where the hell is the candy I left here, Ry?" he asked, although he didn't sound like he cared.
Ryan's derisive glare raked over his brother. "I ate it," he said defiantly. He chewed the inside of his cheek and added with caustic emphasis, "Want me to pay you for it?"
"Shit, no" Trey snorted. "Who gives a fuck about a couple of stale candy bars? Why are you such a prick today anyway, Ry?" His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "Mom gone off the edge? Or is it that asshole Marcus? Did she let him put his hands on you? Swear to God, if he has--"
"He hasn't, all right?" Ryan snapped.
"No? Then what's with the cut over your eye?"
Involuntarily, Ryan touched the curtain of bangs that he thought covered his three-day-old bruise. "It's nothing," he mumbled. "And I can take care of myself anyway. I'm not a baby."
Trey scratched his eyebrow, watching as Ryan moved to the dresser, back rigid. With one hand he straightened a pile of school books, lining up the edges, while the other, still stuffed tight in his pocket, pulsed convulsively. "Hell, Ry." An unfamiliar note threaded through Trey's voice, like a grudging apology. "I never said you were a baby."
Ryan shot a look of blue scorn over his shoulder. "Never?"
"Well, not today anyway," Trey amended. Abruptly, he launched himself off the bed. He landed on Ryan's shoulders with one arm looped around his neck, half-hugging, half-choking. "Little brother's a man now, right? Got himself a hot date."
"What?" Ryan protested, writhing under his brother's weight. "No, I don't." Pivoting, he jabbed his elbow upward and wrestled out of Trey's grasp, shoving him hard against the dresser. He planted his feet, panting slightly, ready for the inevitable countrattack.
It didn't come.
"Nice move, LB," Trey drawled admiringly. He massaged his jaw. "Forgot I taught you that."
"You didn't," Ryan gritted.
Trey screwed up his mouth, concentrating. "No? Well then, shit, maybe you can teach me." He grinned, relaxing against the bed, arms draped wide to each side. Without turning, he groped for the bag he'd tossed down when he came in. "Brought you something," he announced, flipping the package to Ryan who caught it instinctively.
"What is it?"
"Fuck, it's a dinosaur, whaddya think? Open the damn bag, little brother."
Ryan bit his bottom lip, hooded eyes still focused on Trey, and dug inside the bag. Warily, he drew out a shirt, its sleeves spilling over his hand like a waterfall. Ryan blinked at the silky fabric and then at Trey. A dozen questions crowded his mouth, but he swallowed them all.
"Had to guess your size, although, shit, it's not like you've grown in the past year or anything. You might have to roll up the sleeves, but hey, it's a look, right?" Trey smirked and reached over to cuff Ryan playfully on the cheek. "Gonna be stylin' at the party tonight, little brother. But hell, don't fucking thank me or anything."
"Thanks, Trey," Ryan murmured obediently. He stood for a moment, watching the cloth's changeable color play in the light, dusky blue and then black and then a quick wink of silver. "Thanks," he said again, and his smile wavered between guilt and gratitude. "It's great."
Trey shrugged. "Should be. Best money can't buy, bro." He lifted his chin, eyes challenging, but Ryan just nodded.
Of course it was stolen. No way Trey could afford to buy a shirt like that. But still. He got it for Ryan. Trey had thought about him.
And it was the thought that counted, wasn't it?
"I wasn't sure you'd even remember . . . about the party, I mean," Ryan admitted. He smoothed the shirt on top of the dresser, palms pressing its creases flat, and added awkwardly, "Sorry. For, you know, being an ass when you came in."
"Yeah?" Trey swatted Ryan's thigh. "You've been an ass about three million other times too. Gonna apologize for them?"
"Lemme see." Ryan cocked his head, considering. "No," he decided, completely deadpan.
Trey laughed, aimed an imaginary gun and pulled the trigger. "Smartass little bitch. That's three million and one." He shifted over, making room on the floor next to him. Ryan hesitated just for a moment and then dropped down, his knee bumping his brother's companionably.
"So Ry, Turo says Theresa is real excited about your date," Trey reported. "The Atwood rep's riding on you now. Don't fuck it up—you know, when you do fuck."
Ryan hunched one shoulder self-consciously. "Come on, Trey, I told you, it's not like that with us. This . . . it's not even really a date. You know, Theresa and me, we just . . . do stuff together."
"Yeah," Trey agreed, leering. "So now you'll do different stuff." He elbowed Ryan's ribs and plunged a finger into his loosely curled fist.
"Trey! Jeez, I'm not gonna . . ." Ryan protested automatically but he couldn't summon any true indignation. Trey's taunts were too familiar, and he'd missed them too much. A grudging smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"What?" Trey widened his eyes innocently. "Worried you won't be man enough for your girl, LB?"
"I am not," Ryan growled.
Trey stretched out his legs, glancing at Ryan appraisingly. "Not what?" he mocked. "Not worried? Or not man enough?"
Ryan darted back a glare of mock-fury, but it dissolved at the sound of tires crunching the gravel driveway. "Shit," he breathed, scrambling up to peer out the window. "Mom is home, Trey. Are you . . .?"
Trey was on his feet before Ryan could finish the question. "Gotta jet, little brother. Listen, I'll catch you at the party, okay?"
He sidled to the open window and swung one leg over the sill, but Ryan caught the hem of his t-shirt, stopping him.
"Trey, wait. I've got . . . something of yours." He took a deep breath and pulled the baggie from his pocket, bracing himself as he held it out.
Trey's face hardened. "Fuck," he scowled. "I sure as hell didn't hide that in your jeans, LB."
"I found it by accident. When I was looking for something to wear," Ryan explained, trying not to sound guilty. "Then when I heard you coming . . . I thought it might be Mom. Or, you know, Marcus. I just stuck it in my pocket so they wouldn't see. I didn't use any, I swear."
Trey snatched the baggie, eyes scrutinizing his brother's face. Then he sighed. "Later," he muttered and climbed out the window.
Later.
Ryan wasn't sure what that word was supposed to mean. A promise? A threat?
Another goodbye?
Sighing, he straightened his disheveled bed, removing all traces of Trey, as Dawn called unsteadily from the living room, "Ry? Hey, babe? You in there?" Her knock was just the accidental scrape of her rings as she grabbed the doorknob and let herself in, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.
"Mom!" Ryan protested. "Don't do that, okay?"
"Don't do what?" Dawn demanded, face creased in confusion.
"Just . . . come in like that. It's my room, Mom."
Dawn jabbed a finger out in warning. "Yeah? Well, it's my goddamn house, Ryan. You watch . . . watch it, kiddo." She slumped against the doorframe, fumbling vainly with her lighter. "Shit," she breathed, holding it out. "Baby, would you . . .?"
Wordlessly, Ryan took the lighter and clicked it on, moving just close enough for his mother to dip her cigarette toward the flame. She inhaled, tipping her head back, while her shaky hand untangled his bangs.
"Huh," she said, squinting at the bruise over his eyes. "Well, that don't look so bad." Ryan squirmed under her touch and she added defensively, "Marcus said he was sorry. It was a goddamn accident, Ry."
He nodded a weary surrender. "Yeah, Mom, I know . . . Look, did you want something? 'Cause I gotta get ready."
Dawn shrugged. "Just wanted to see you, baby," she claimed. "You know, I get lonely sometimes, with you always hidin' in here."
"I'm sorry," Ryan said automatically. "But you have Marcus, right?"
"Yeah, I don't know. Maybe," Dawn demurred. "He's a little . . . mad at me right now." She resumed fussing with Ryan's hair, and then stopped, blinking at him. "Ready?" she asked belatedly. "Get ready for what, kiddo?"
Eyes fixed on the cracked linoleum, his expression impassive, Ryan recited, "The party. With Theresa. I told you, Mom."
"Oh yeah," Dawn murmured vaguely. She sucked in a lungful of smoke and rubbed the back of her neck, frowning. "That Theresa though. I don't know, Ry. I think she's trouble."
Ryan's head snapped up in disbelief. "Trouble?" he objected. "Mom, that's just . . ." He caught himself and finished softly, "Theresa's my friend, that's all."
"Sure, that's what she says. Just . . . be careful. Oh shit, Ry." Dawn stumbled toward him, and Ryan instinctively started to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. Canting his head up, she dropped a sloppy kiss that seeped down the side of his face. "I'm countin' on you, okay? Hell, after your dad and your brother . . ." Her fingers locked on Ryan's chin and she rested her forehead against his. "This is it, you know?" she demanded fiercely. "I am never gonna have any more than I got right now. Come on, baby, please. I gotta have one thing good in my life. Just one thing . . ."
Her breath was sweet and sour, and Ryan's flesh flamed as if it were branding him. "Mom," he whispered.
Dawn's arms dropped suddenly, limply. "Just one. Goddamn. Good thing," she repeated. "I deserve that, don't I?" She licked her fingers and scrubbed the lipstick stain she'd left like another bruise on Ryan's cheek. Her mouth twisted into a distorted smile. "You won't let me down, will you, baby?"
Ryan's gaze fled to the open window, and then back to his mother's expectant face. Her eyes, wistful and unnaturally bright, dragged the words out of him.
"No, Mom," he promised, and hoped that would be enough.
He didn't know what else he could possibly say.
TBC
