Page 32 of The Way We Are

"Same as always." My short reply can't hide the anger in my voice.

Over five hours have passed since I discovered my dad had once again hit my mom, but my fury hasn't weakened in the slightest. If anything, it has grown. Every time I peered at my mom tonight, all I saw was Savannah.

Savannah was confident last week she’d never let anyone hurt her, but so was my mom at her age. For every excuse my mom gave for my dad’s rough handling, the more violent his attacks became. At first, it was a slap across the cheek, then it grew to two. Within a couple of years, it went from open hands to closed fists. If the violence continues escalating at that rate, there will only be one outcome: someone will be dead. I hope it's my father, but I know it will most likely be my mother.

That’s why I walked away tonight. If had to watch his lipstick-smeared mouth kiss her for a second longer, I would have killed him. My dad says he loves my mom. I don’t believe a word he speaks. He doesn’t even have the decency to wipe another woman’s lipstick off his mouth before kissing the mother of his children. If that doesn’t show how little he respects her, I don’t know what will. He makes me sick.He makes me fucking mad.

“I hate him,” I grind out through clenched teeth before I can stop my words. “I wish he were dead.”

Savannah takes my fury in stride, having heard it all before. This isn’t the first time she’s worn the brunt of the anger I should be directing at him. She heard it a minimum once a month the year before she left.

“Can we get her help? Take her somewhere? Bring someone here?” Savannah asks the same questions she did the last time she comforted me.

We were barely kids when my dad beat my mom so bad she spent a week in the hospital, but we were forced to pick up the pieces like we were adults. I want to say reaching adulthood made this easier for me, but that would be a lie. I’m just as confused now as I was back then.

“She won’t listen, Savannah. She never listens. I tried... God, did I try. I practically fell to my knees and pleaded, but she didn’t hear a word I spoke.”

The ice immobilizing my heart thaws when Savannah curls her arm around my torso. She doesn't say anything; she just offers me quiet comfort, understanding no amount of words will change my predicament.

I've had counselors come and see my mom when dad is at work. I've left pamphlets for domestic violence support groups in inconspicuous places around our house. I even went as far as buying an illegal firearm as a form of protection for her. But nothing I do changes anything. He continues abusing her, and she keeps making excuses for him.

“It won’t end. No matter how hard she strives to please him, nothing she does will ever be good enough for him. He’s going to kill her, Savannah. He won’t stop until she's dead.”

Throwing my head back, my eyes snap shut, praying the moisture pricking them doesn’t fall. The last thing my faltering ego needs is Savannah seeing me as a pussy. How can I promise to keep her safe mere hours after she witnesses me crying? I can’t, so I won’t.

Any worries of crying like a pansy are lost when the warmth of a body curls around mine. After banding her arms around my back and her thighs around my hips, Savannah dips her head under my chin.

“He won’t kill her, Ryan, because you won’t let that happen,” she murmurs into my chest, her words stuttering like my heart. “You protect the people you love, even when they stupidly believe they don’t need it.”

She’s not only referring to my mother. She is also talking about herself.

My heart thudding against her ear must be deafening, but she doesn’t complain. She just continues holding me tightly, wordlessly coercing me off the ledge I’m standing on.

And that's how we stay until the sun peeks over the horizon.

12

Ryan

Ignoring the thump of my skull begging for more hours of sleep, my eyes slowly flutter open. It takes me a few moments scanning my room to gather my bases. It isn't the effect of minimal sleep that has my mind in a fog; it's the strands of honey hair tickling my bare chest. I know whose smooth beige legs are twisted around mine and whose warm breath is fanning the hairs on my chest. I’d just rather not recall why Savannah is using my body as her pillow.

Just like when we were kids, Savannah knew I needed her last night. It's like she has a sixth sense that activates the instant my life circles the drain. It didn’t matter if it was an argument with one of my friends or an event like last night, every time without fail, she’d crawl through my window and coerce me off the ledge.

This is selfish of me to say, but I didn’t realize how much I relied on her until she was no longer sneaking into my room in the middle of the night. I had become so accustomed to her promise that everything would be alright, I lost the ability to handle my emotions on my own.

I think that's where most of my resentment came from the past five years. I pretended I was just angry that Savannah cut ties with her old life to favor new friends, but in reality, it was more than that. I wasn’t annoyed that she lived in a pretty house and drove to school in fancy cars worth thousands of dollars. I was resentful she wasn’t there when I needed her.

Only now, while glancing down at her shiny locks glistening in the early morning sun do I realize I don’tneedher to work through my turmoil. But Iwanther standing by my side. Those are two entirely different things.

Savoring a rare moment of peace, I weave my fingers through Savannah’s hair. The morning wood I wake with every day swells to an uncomfortable thickness when she moans softly into my chest. I peer down at her beautiful face, worried the heavy thud of my heart has awoken her. It hasn’t. Her eyes remain closed, and her lips are still slightly ajar.

When my finger drifts across the little groove imbedded in her cheek, her arms tighten around my torso. She barely moves, but her minor adjustment causes her knee to scrape my crotch—my very hard and erect crotch.

“Savannah...” I growl in warning when I feel her lips curving against my chest. “If you keep laughing every time I get a boner, I’m gonna get a complex.”

“I’m not laughing,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from just waking up. “I’m smiling. That’s completely different.”

“It better be a good smile,” I warn.

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