Page 16 of The Way We Are

My chest puffs high when Savannah nods without hesitation. She knows I'd never put her in danger. She also knows I don’t need to compensate for insecurity with violence. If what Savannah said about Axel is true, he wasn't the only one acting out because of intimidation tonight. I was just as foolish as him. But there's one difference. I'm not intimidated by Axel. I'm frightened as fuck by the girl sitting across from me.

Five years and she's still on my mind every night.

Five years and one sideways glance still has my stomach twisted up in knots.

Five years and I’d still forgive her in an instant if she broke my heart again tomorrow.

Five extremely long, tiring years and I still want her to be mine.

After clearing the tears from her eyes with a quick wipe of her hand, Savannah cranks open her driver's side door. I'm tempted to demand she wait for me to escort her out of her car as a real man should, but I once again keep my mouth shut. Those rights don't belong to me. Not yet. Soon.I hope.

Ignoring the buzz of mosquitos’ humming around our heads, we walk up the cracked sidewalk of my house in silence. With the flicker of the TV coming through the lace curtains of my living room, I’m confident we are safe from prying eyes. My dad is as deaf as he is ignorant. When he's watching football, our entire neighborhood hears it—abusive rants and all.

Savannah’s climb up the three stairs on my front porch stops when I curl my hand around hers. “This way,” I advise, nudging my head to the old side gate hanging by its hinges. “What I want to show you is out back.”

A flare blazes through Savannah’s eyes before she nods her head. It isn’t a scared flare; it's one of excitement. I don’t know if she is excited because I am holding her hand or because of my declaration, but I keep my hand curled around hers nonetheless.

When we stop at the old maple tree where we shared our last kiss, the dimly lit sky can’t hide the heat on Savannah’s cheeks. They are as red as the rope bracelet twisted around my wrist.Perhaps our last kiss wasn’t as unforgettable as I thought?

“You go first,” I offer, gripping the frayed wooden ladder of our childhood treehouse.

Nodding, Savannah drags her sweaty hands down the denim covering her backside before curling them around the rope. Just like earlier tonight, I demand my eyes look away from the scrumptious portions of her butt cheeks peeking out the hem of her shorts. They once again refuse to comply. Even the tenseness of our exchange can’t alter the facts. Savannah has a mighty fine ass.

After throwing open the trap door of the treehouse, Savannah crawls inside on her hands and knees before pivoting around to secure a firm grip on the top rung of the ladder. A blistering smile spreads across my face, pleased she remembers our safety routine, performed a minimum once a day for years prior to our time apart.

I always made Savannah climb first so if she were to fall, I could catch her. Wanting her own safety strategies implemented, Savannah started holding the top rung every time it was my turn to scale the warped wood. We climbed up to this tree house for over ten years, and not once did either of us fall, but our routine never altered.

It wasn’t worry encouraging our safety protocol; it was our way of showing how much we cared for each other.

Well, that’s how I understood it.

Though my heart is racing a million miles an hour, I begin climbing the ladder. Out of the hundred ways I envisioned for us to reconnect, tonight’s event never entered the equation. Fighting Savannah’s douchebag boyfriend in an underground fight run by his mobster uncle wasn’t far off the mark—minus the mobster underground fight ring part. But I never thought I’d see her in our old stomping grounds again. Savannah put just as much blood, sweat and tears into this tree house as I did, so it belongs to her as much as me.

With the treehouse only being ten feet off the ground, it doesn't take me long to join Savannah inside. It's amazing how massive something seems when you're only six. I thought I was on top of the world at the time, but its flat roof doesn't even extend past the second floor of my house.

It was probably more who I was hanging with than the actual height that made it so impressive. This was my crew's favorite hangout spot back in the day. My group only had one female member. Savannah.

“Careful,” I warn when she tiptoes across the dusty space, cautious of the weak wood squeaking under her feet.

After yanking open the floral curtains her mom sewed for our clubhouse, she spins around to face me. The moonlight creeping in the porthole reveals the same happiness that always shone on her face when she entered this domain. It also exposes how dilapidated our treehouse has become the past five years.

I've only stepped foot in this space five times the past five years; my focus was never on restorations. I was fixated on one thing and one thing only—the box I shoved Savannah's gift in when her dad turned me away from her thirteenth birthday party. I buried it away from the world as I did my confusion—too young to understand and too stupid to ask questions.

Savannah’s small height allows her to stand in the middle of our club house. I’m not so lucky. Confusion isn’t the only thing that’s grown the past five years—so has my head.

Keeping my chin pinned to my chest, I make my way to the box I slid across the floor at 6 AM this morning. Because the wood slats are covered in years of dust, it doesn’t take a genius to realize which direction it went. A dark line of wood outlines my way, showcasing the box’s location like a strip of beacons lighting up a runway. My hand rattles when I gather the box, fearful I’m moments away from being exposed as a heartsick idiot.

My worry doesn't linger for long, only long enough for me to remember my objective in bringing Savannah here. This isn't about a five-year-long declaration of puppy-love. It's proving that not all men are like Axel, Col, or even me.

I'm not perfect. I've made plenty of mistakes as I made the short trip from adolescence to adulthood. But being man enough to admit I'm not perfect is a step in the right direction.Isn’t it?

Savannah's glistening eyes fall to the box when I hold it out for her. Years of sitting in unfavorable conditions means it's battered and worn, but the images I glued onto the lid are still distinguishable.

Savannah was only a baby when River Phoenix died, but I'm confident some of the tears she shed that day were for him. She was obsessed with him during our childhood—so much so, Friday night was known as River Phoenix night in her household.

A gorgeous giggle spills from Savannah’s lips when she spots the sickening montage of photos I created of them together. Five years ago, I thought setting aside my jealousy was a sweet, kindhearted thing to do. Now it just seems downright creepy.

“Oh, Ryan,” Savannah murmurs breathlessly, pushing my worries of looking like a pansy out the window. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”

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