Page 31 of The Way We Are

Much to my friends’ disgust, I refused to leave the park until I finished engraving my name underneath Savannah’s—I may have even added a corny heart as well.What?I was thirteen and dealing with more hormones than I had ever handled.

I never intended for Savannah to see my design, and in all honesty, I didn’t know she knew it existed.

A red light flicking on the alarm clock gains my attention. My heart skips a beat when the time switches to 4:56 PM, leaving me only four minutes to travel over three miles.

Although it's utterly ridiculous to pretend Savannah is still waiting for me, I'm galloping down the stairs without a second thought. I didn't get her letter years ago, but I received it today. That alone is enough incentive to keep my legs moving.

My brisk charge across the living room stops when I notice flowers strewn across the stained carpet. The vase they were in when I arrived home an hour ago is crunching under my mother's feet as she frantically cleans up the shattered glass before anyone notices it.

I scan the room, noting my father's keys and jacket are no longer spread across the entranceway table where he dumps them after every shift. Sensing my presence, my mom's eyes lift to mine. The sucker punch Savannah's letter caused my stomach turns into a full-blown strike when I spot a dark bruise circling her right eye.

“Ma... why didn’t you call out? I can’t protect you if I don’t know he’s hurting you.”

When she lowers her head, hiding her tear-stained face from my view, I push off my feet to pad closer to her.

“Let me see,” I request, carefully placing my hand under her chin to lift her lowered head.

“It’s nothing, Ryan. I’m fine,” she assures me, her tone as low as my heart is sitting. “I tripped on the rug and knocked over the vase. You know me, always a klutz.”

“Then how did you bruise your eye?” I glance into a pair of icy blue eyes that are identical to mine in every way. Hers are just wearier than mine.

My mom’s eyes flicker as her foggy brain struggles to remember which excuse she gave me last time he hit her. "That's the same bruise from last week. When I fell and headbutted the chair. Remember? I...umm...tripped over the new rug in the dining room."

I know she's lying—I hate that she is lying—but I’m not going to call her out as a liar. She’s barely holding it together as she is. She doesn’t need more devastation added to her plate.

“Sit down and let me clean it up for you.”

I help her into the dining room, being extra careful not to touch the marks on her arms he caused by grabbing her to strengthen his hit.

“Do you need pain relief? A glass of water?”A gun?

Mom licks her parched lips before shaking her head. Even though she said no, I head into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water before setting to work on cleaning up the shattered vase I gave her for her fortieth birthday last year.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” my mom asks as her tear-filled eyes glance at the pink roses scattered across the floor. “He knows pink is my favorite color. That’s why he bought them for me.” She fiddles with her engagement ring, aligning the tiny diamond until it sits in the middle of her finger. “I should have just said thank you for his kindness. He wouldn’t have brought them if we couldn’t afford them, so I shouldn’t have bothered him with my worries.”

She continues defending him until I’ve cleared away the evidence of his assault.

She continues defending him until I've helped her prepare him a three-course meal.

She continues defending him until he arrives home four hours later reeking of another lady’s perfume and a cheap bottle of whiskey.

She will continue defending him until the day he kills her.

11

Ryan

“A penny for your thoughts.”

I lift my eyes from my clenched fists to where the singsong voice is coming from. The torment plaguing me the past several hours eases when I spot Savannah climbing in my bedroom window. I’m so shocked to witness her do something she hasn’t done in years, I can’t manage to help her. I don’t even blink for fear she will disappear. I’ve imagined this exact visual so many times the past five years, I’m certain I am dreaming.

The grunt she releases when she lands on the floor with a thud leaves no doubt I’m not dreaming. “Thanks for the help, Ryan,” she mocks with a giggle, standing to her feet.

Smiling to assure me there's no malice in her words, she runs her hands down her body, ridding her clothing of the ivy leaves gathered during her climb. My eyes follow her hands’ path, taking in her outfit: a pair of tiny denim shorts and a green spaghetti-strapped top. With the wind being a little nippy, a white jacket has joined the ensemble I’ve seen her wear a minimum two to three times this week alone.

After dumping a handful of leaves out my window, Savannah closes it before joining me on my single bed. The cuffs of her shorts ride up high on her thighs when she braces her back on the headboard. She cocks her legs so her cheek can rest on her knees. She peers at me with shining eyes, her face void of the anguish mine is carrying.

“What happened?” she asks, intuiting there's a reason for the extra crinkle between my dark brows. Even though she’s curious, she respects I’m not a fan of deep and meaningfuls.

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