Page 25 of Only the Small Bones
The cool morning air ruffled his hair as we jogged along the West Side. Not my usual route, but foot traffic tended to be lighter, with mostly other runners occupying the pathway at this time of morning.
Cars whizzed by along the highway, but it seemed to be the people that concerned Ryan most. He couldn’t relax until he’d confirmed, with enough glances over his shoulder, that whoever had jogged past us was no longer in view.
I kept our pace light, and within ten minutes he was panting loud enough to wake the dead. We walked briskly the rest of the way to the pier, making it there in time to see the sun make its way above the horizon. I hung back as Ryan eased toward the railing.
The moment matched his sketch, and my heart constricted when he reached his trembling hand toward the sunshine like he wanted to grab hold of it. He held his position as rush hour struck, blind to the students and working people zipping past to get to their destinations.
It was as if the darkness had cleared from his vision, and now he only had eyes for the light.
We went our separate ways to shower and change when we got home, then I made us protein shakes—under his watchful eye. I tossed the package of waffles onto the counter when he looked at the freezer meaningfully.
“I guess your love for Eggo’s trumps your love for my mother’s chicken, huh? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Opening the refrigerator next, I noticed three of the containers my mother stuffed with food were gone. “I take that back,” I murmured. He must have binged them in the middle of the night. His appetite had returned in full force.
I heated up her leftovers for myself. I couldn’t stomach another waffle or bagel. We ate in silence, as always. Everything with Ryan was done in silence, causing me to fixate on him, to obsess over his non-verbal signals.
“I was thinking,” I began, going for light and casual even though my nerves were on edge. “Maybe I could help you with your reading and writing. If you want.” I ripped a paper towel from the holder, wiping my mouth and fingers. Ryan glowered at me.
“I mean, you don’t have to—”
He shoved his stool back, nearly knocking it over in his urgency to get away from me. I bit out a curse, pushing my plate aside and dropping my head into my palms.
I’d lost count of the seconds passed after reaching fifty, a semblance of stillness calming the overactivity in my head. Something hitting the island startled me. My eyes popped open on Michael Ende’sThe Neverending Story.
Ryan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, averting his gaze.
“This was my favorite book as a kid,” I said, gliding my hand over the tattered cover. “It started my love affair with reading.” Caught up in my nostalgia, I’d forgotten the number one rule.
Never say the wrong thing.
Breathing past the panic, I scanned his face for a sign that what I’d said meant something to him. I picked up on his indecision as his fingers twitched toward the book. I held on to it tighter.
“I’ve been wanting to read it again,” I said, hoping he’d still want me to read it to him. I opened it to the first page, deciding to jump right in before he had a chance to disappear. He retreated from the kitchen before I could.
Instead of storming to his room, he went over to the couch and stood there waiting.
I scrambled to my feet and followed, sitting in the middle while he stared down at me. Ignoring his stunning, terror filled eyes, I started reading, my tone welcoming, my excitement hidden.
By chapter two he’d settled onto the edge of the couch, more than two arm lengths away. By chapter five he’d reclined onto the pillows, and by chapter eight he was close enough to lean over and point to words he didn’t know the meaning of.
I took my time, enunciating everything because I wanted him to understand, but also because I didn’t want the moment to end.
Before I knew it, the sun was setting and my mouth had gone dry from the length of time I’d spent reading aloud. Ryanslept curled up on his side, less than two feet away from me. I slipped the book onto the coffee table, then did the same with the notepad he’d gotten to fill with words and their definitions. I’d helped him write some down to save time.
Covering him with the throw, I watched him sleep for an unhealthy amount of time before closing myself into the music studio. I picked up the instrument I’d been avoiding for weeks. The instrument that had saved my life. The one I played in homage to someone special. Because of my hours just spent with Ryan, Bastien, Falkor and Atreyu… I was suddenly in the mood to play again. In the mood to remember why I’d begun playing to begin with.
Ryan woke up the next morning too sore to get out of bed. He felt good enough to go for a jog the following morning, and was less sore than the first time after that. After a week we were able to sprinkle in a few thirty-second sprints. By the second week we had a well-oiled routine. We ran, he ate waffles while I ordered in, I read to him, and he wrote for a couple of hours before disappearing for his sacred alone time.
Having finished breakfast after our recent run, I cleaned up while he ventured to the library for a new book. We finishedThe Lord of the Fliesyesterday. Ryan shared my love for the classics, he’d also reignited my love of reading. I’d returned to the tradition of keeping a book on my nightstand, and staying up way too late before drifting off with the open book still in my hand. I hadn’t done that in a few years. Life had gotten too busy.
He returned this time withWhere the Red Fern Grows. An idea hit me then.
“How about we switch things up and watch the movie version? It’s pretty old, but I’m sure it’s streaming somewhere.” I closed the dishwasher as he thought about it. Didn’t take himlong to nudge the book he’d placed on the counter. His way of saying he’d rather not make any changes to the new system he’d come to depend on now.
“Let’s give it a try,” I encouraged. “I’ll put the subtitles on, that way you can see the words as they speak them. It could help in a way listening to me read them can’t.” I wasn’t sure about that, but it sounded good, and I needed to get him closer to the end goal.
“It’s time to set boundaries and encourage healthy compromises. He needs to talk to someone equipped to handle what he may have gone through.”
