Chapter title: I Want To Know Your Plans.
Summary: And it scares her that she's getting herself sick over Ryan Howard.
Author's Note: Chapter title taken from a Say Anything song. Enjoy.
His lawyer called her. He'd be in jail until the second week of September. He had been sentenced 200 hours of community service.
"There's something else," the man had said, because two months in prison wasn't enough to make her ache. "Howard asked me to request you don't come to visit."
She had nearly thrown her phone.
"He's a stubborn bastard," the lawyer told her. "Lots of pride, that kid."
"Yeah. I know."
She sits on the fire escape. She wears his tee shirt and smokes his cigarettes because goddammit, she misses him.
She misses him sitting at the bottom of the stairs, clicking away with that stupid camera. If she was wearing a dress, he'd try to get a picture underneath it.
It always made her laugh.
Now she's trying not to cry.
And it scares her that she's getting herself sick over Ryan Howard.
For once, she doesn't know what her future is. It's always that way with Ryan. She never knows what she's going to do the next day with him. He's always everywhere. And she happily trails along after him.
Jim had been a safe bet.
Fuck, Ryan was in jail. And she was alone in his apartment.
She could call Jim. They could get married.
She's pretty sure Ryan never wants to get married.
She's also pretty sure she wants Ryan. She wants the unknown and the mystery and the surprises.
She wants him. Just him.
She's clutching the railing, vomiting onto the sidewalk below. The twist in her stomach loosens.
After three cigarettes, she goes inside, smelling like smoke. Smelling like him.
She tries to curl up on the bed to sleep, but she smells his shampoo on the pillows.
The futon's uncomfortable, but she stays there. For fifteen minutes. Until she finds one of his raggedy tee shirts underneath it.
She sleeps in the bathtub for three hours before smoking more cigarettes on the kitchen floor, a notebook and pen in lap.
She writes 'Dear Ryan' neatly on top of the page.
Her eyes stare blankly at his name.
She says his name.
Fuck, the apartment is so empty. Her voice manages to echo. Maybe it's just in her head.
Either way.
She writes their names together.
Pam Howard.
She feels like she's in high school. No. Elementary school.
If she stays, she'll always be Pam Beesley. She knows this.
It doesn't hurt as much as it should. She'd have something so much more then a name. She'd have him.
Shit. She wants him.
She smokes another cigarette. Scribbles between the lines of the notebook. She's drunk on sleep. So she tells him that.
"I hate you, a little bit. I've never smoked so many cigarettes in my life. The bad things are your fault. The good things are your fault. Everything's your fault, and you aren't even here. I really wish you were here."
She stretches out across the floor, not caring about crumbs or germs. The cigarette hangs from her mouth.
She thinks of one of the pictures she took of him, smoking in bed.
"Ryan, you messed up my plans."
Her hair's a mess. She needs to shave. Her nail polish is peeling. She loves it when he shaves, and Jesus, she could play with his curls all day. He always falls asleep when she does.
"I really adore you for it. That probably doesn't make sense."
Her fingers smell like tobacco. She remembers the first time she held his hand, when he took her to the river. She loves how cold they are, how neat his nails are. She loves how they move over her skin and manage to smooth over all her nerves. How they trace the freckles on her face and draw circles on her back in the morning.
"But you don't make sense. And lately I don't make sense. So us together shouldn't make sense."
She remembers his eyes. She remembers the drawing she did of them. She remembers the exact shades of blue she used. His eyes always calm her down.
"And it kind of doesn't. Maybe I like that, though. I still like you. I like you a lot. Do you still like me?"
She goes through two more cigarettes.
"I'm almost done with your cigarettes. I'll buy you some more when you get home."
She hates the word jail. She scratches it out.
"Hey, the Indians/Yankee game is on tomorrow. I'll send you the score. Kind of odd we live in New York but root for Cleveland."
Her fingers are tired.
"Life's so odd."
She misses him.
"I miss you."
She wants him home.
"Come home soon."
She loves him.
"Love, Pam."
She leaves the notebook on the floor and she pushes herself up, her knees feeling weak.
It's four in the morning.
She makes an omelet that doesn't compare to his and eats it on the fire escape.
This is her first night without him nearby.
This is her summer in the city.