Page 22 of Only the Small Bones
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said resolutely, and not for the first, or even the hundredth time. “You were never the one to blame.”
She nodded, clearing the emotion from her throat before taking the dish towel from me. She continued where I’d left off with wiping down the counter.
“Why didn’t you jump in when Xavier was saying all those things to Ryan?”
“You didn’t ask me here in an official capacity. It wasn’t my job to mediate. And because sometimes it takes a little disruption to move things forward. You weren’t going to be the driving force. You’re too close to this. You always have been.” She shrugged. “All in all, Xavier didn’t say or ask anything harmful.”
I had nothing to fight back with. “What should I do?”
Finishing up, she tossed the towel into the sink and rested her hip against the counter. “Do you want my professional, or personal opinion?”
“Depends. How much will your professional opinion cost me?”
She grinned. “For you it’s free of charge.” She sighed, both of us sobering. “I accidentally bumped into him while we were cooking earlier. I had to count him down from a panic attack, William.”
“He doesn’t like physical contact. I don’t want to push him.”
“All that’s understandable, but it’s time to set boundaries and encourage healthy compromises. Heneedsto talk to someone equipped to handle what he may have gone through.”
“He doesn’t speak,” I reminded her.
“Talking isn’t only defined by sound.”
“I’ll need to consult Merriam-Webster before agreeing to that statement.”
She placed a hand on her hip, unimpressed by my obtuseness. “There are other ways to communicate, and you have some of the best therapists in varying practices on payroll at Safe Haven. Boundaries and healthy compromises,” she repeated, and I nodded.
“Out of curiosity, what would your personal opinion have been?”
“The same,” she said simply, grabbing her blazer off the back of the stool. I would have laughed under different circumstances. “Come on, walk me out.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? Traffic out of the city is brutal at this time.” My gaze lingered on Ryan’s closed bedroom door as we made our way out of the apartment.
“I can’t. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’d rather wake up knowing I only have a short walk to the office versus the almost one-hour drive in rush hour traffic from here. I’ll text you when I make it home, baby.” She kissed my cheek before the elevator doors closed.
I made my way up to the music studio, then poured myself a stiff drink at the bar cart in the corner. I spent a couple of hours there fine-tuning a few cues I’d needed to work on for weeks but hadn’t. Now that Ryan and Xavier had been introduced, I didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t come over to finish work on this project. I could let him in from this level, avoiding Ryan all together, if need be. He didn’t seem to like Xavier, but he didn’t seem to like me much either, so there was that.
Figuring I’d given him enough alone time, I rubbed my tired eyes, refilled my drink and made my way downstairs. The moonlight guided my way through the darkened apartment, and I stopped short at finding Ryan’s door open.
Stepping in, I whispered his name. No answer. The tangible emptiness in the room told me checking the bathroom and closet would’ve been pointless. It was the same palpable emptiness I felt whenever we were more than a dozen feet apart.
Closing in on his bed, I glanced hesitantly over my shoulder into the hallway. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his glare if I was caught. Running a hand over the carved wooden footboard and grabbing hold of one of the posts, I scanned the room he’d made his own.
His pajamas were neatly folded on the nightstand, ready for when he returned for bed. I opened one of the drawers, my breath stuttering at the familiar strips of cotton inside. Setting my drink down, I picked them up and ran them through my fingers. Sorrow filled me. Did he still use these to chain himself at night? Or had he just forgotten they were in there? I wanted to strike a match and watch them burn, but it wasn’t my place to. Not when doing so might have done more harm than good.
“He needs to talk to someone equipped to handle what he may have gone through.”
Dropping them back into the drawer, I closed it.
The library would be the only other room he’d be in. He didn’t ever hang out in the living room, and only spent time in the kitchen to eat. As expected, I found him on the window bench, a book in his hand and several in his lap. His brows were furrowed in what looked like equal parts concentration and frustration.
He knew how to read and write, if only at around a first or second grade level. Fluency, speed, spelling, good penmanship, and comprehending complicated text was where he struggled—from what I could tell by observing him, and from the notes we’d exchanged.
I’d downloaded a phonics tutor app on my phone for him. It would allow him to type words in from the various books he seemed to take interest in. The virtual assistant would then give the proper enunciation and definition. I hadn’t told him about it yet, though. I didn’t think he’d want my help. Or maybe because I wanted to be the one to personally teach him, if he’d let me.
He looked up from his book, the dark circles under his eyes adding color to his normally pale skin.
“You’re tired,” I said, an unintentional bite to my words. I hated seeing him sad or angry or scared. And apparently, I hatedseeing him tired too. “You should get some rest.” I’d softened my tone. “The books will be here tomorrow.”
