Page 36 of The Way We Are

If only she could see the damage their volatile relationship is doing to me and my brother. Maybe then she would leave him? Perhaps then she’d be released from his spell, and, in turn, free us from the burden of turning out like him?

My father abuses my mother because his father abused his. I plan to break that cycle, but every time my mother makes excuses for his behavior it becomes harder and harder. Not for me. For my brother. I can see he's as drained as I am; he just hides it with a cocky attitude and a fly in and out existence. He turns up on the good days, then disappears on the bad. Even when he's here, he isn’t truly here. That's the benefit of being the youngest; he knows I’ll be here to pick up the pieces, even when the fragments have shards of my heart scattered amongst them.

My eyes snap back to Regina when she asks, “Is your father abusing your mother?” Her tone is confident, revealing she already knows my answer.

I want to say yes—I want to scream yes—but the last time I did that, my mom spent a week in the hospital. Regina has trusting eyes, but there's an extremely limited number of people I trust. The men and women who work with my father are not on my list.

My dad's partner has hidden his love of the bottle for nearly as many years as he has pretended he can't see the bruises on my mom's face. That makes him just as responsible as my dad in my eyes. He is supposed to protect and serve, not turn a blind eye.

“We’re not all like them, Ryan,” Regina says in a hurry since she has spotted my mom heading our way. “I’m trying to remove men like your father from my department, not encourage more in.”

My mom sets down Regina’s glass so fast, water splashes over the rim, splotching the paperwork Regina was in the process of filling in. My mom inhales a quick breath as her eyes missile to my dad, panicked about his reaction to her ruining “official police documentation.”

She's saved from his madness when Regina pushes back from the table with force, sending the wooden legs of her chair scraping against the ground. "Goddammit! I'm so clumsy." She turns her eyes to my mom, who is staring at her in shock. "I'm so sorry I ruined your beautiful table. This is why my daddy stopped taking me out. I’m always knocking stuff over."

She cleans up the water with a wad of napkins resting on the table, taking the blame for the spill. For the first time in years, I begin to wonder if all my father’s colleagues are as corrupt as him. Maybe some can be trusted.

Snubbing the bile burning my throat, I shout, “Yes!”

When every pair of eyes in the room lock on me, my brain scrambles for an excuse for my shouted response.

“I can get you a new glass of water,” I mumble in a hurry.

Regina nods, pleased by my quick thinking. “Thank you, Ryan. That will beveryhelpful.”

I store her business card in my wallet thirty minutes later, hoping I didn’t make a fatal mistake.

14

Ryan

“Don’t you dare...” The remainder of Savannah’s scold is given without words.

When I wink at her, her lips twist before her hands spread across her tiny waist. "I swear to god, Ryan, I won't talk to you for a week."

“I’ve had worst,” I jest, whizzing the garden hose across her practically bare thighs.

She squeals while bolting to the other side of a soapy car, her flip-flops squeaking with every step. "The car, Ryan! You're supposed to be washing the car!"

“I’d rather wash you. You’re looking a little dirty.”

Chris's catcall two cars over encourages my pursuit of hosing Savannah down. She needs to cool off. She's been on fire all afternoon, her attitude as red-hot as the tiny scrap of material she calls a bikini top.

Chris, Brax, and I are spending our Saturday afternoon helping Savannah’s cheerleading squad with their annual charity carwash. Usually, we watch the spectacle from afar, but when Savannah pleaded into my eyes this morning after spending the night in my bed, who was I to say no?

Even though her late-night visit wasn’t spawned by an incident like we had two weeks ago, I would have said yes even if it were. We’ve grown close the past two weeks, close enough to determine I’m incapable of saying no to her.

I'm also not an idiot. The view is ten times more enticing up-close and personal. I don't know how many times I've adjusted myself the past three hours. It's often enough Savannah stopped grinning over an hour ago, but not enough to look like I have crabs.

“Don’t,” Savannah warns again, holding a bubble-loaded sponge in front of her body.

The closer I get to her, the higher she raises the sponge. I approach her without fear, the fire in her eyes too playful to ignore.

“Ohhh...now you’re going down,” I warn when she pegs the sponge at my head, her aim perfect.

She isn’t even halfway around the man’s car we are washing when I catch her in my arms, my hold so firm her feet lift from the ground. She kicks her legs out wildly when a torrent of water floods her hair and cheeks before gliding down her chest that's heaving with laughter.

Savannah's girly giggles are infectious, spreading through her friends looking on with amusement. They even get in on the action of soaking her, and in the process, me.

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