Page 54 of The Way We Are

Chris shrugs. “What? That guy is a waste of oxygen. Ryan would do the world a favor if he got rid of him.”

I nod, agreeing with Chris's assumption. The world would be shit-tons better without men like Axel and my father living in it, but it isn't my place to weed out the bad guys. I spent most of my childhood protecting my mother, only to have her throw me under the bus when law enforcement became involved. I'm tired of fighting for people who don't want to be saved. I want to be selfish for a few years, then when my little nest egg runs out, I'll go back to pretending I give a shit about anyone but me.

Damn. Did that sound as self-righteous to you as it did to me?

“If you can look me straight in the eyes and tell me therealreason you don’t want to go to this party, we will turn around and go home,” Brax negotiates, his tone more mature than his eighteen years. “But if you can’t—because you want to keep the promise you made to me weeks ago about trying things my way—then we are gonna rock this party like it’s our last night of school—”

“Because it is!” he and Chris shout in sync, their loud voices startling Amelia and her friends waiting for us a few spaces up.

“It’s one night, Ry.One.Nothing significant happens in a night, so let all the shit go and have some fun,” Brax suggests, his tone half-pleading and half-gameshow-host showy. “If anyone in this town deserves to burn off some chest hairs with piss-weak scotch and bitter beer, it is you, my brother. Forget everything and everyone and have some fun with your boys. It’s our last night together; don’t let Sir Dickweed ruin it for you.”

He stares into my eyes, begging for me to let go of the reins for once in my life, to pretend I am an eighteen-year-old boy enjoying his final day of school, to trust him enough to know he’d never steer me in the wrong direction. He stares into my eyes, allowing them to express the words he will never say out loud:it’s time to let her go.

“Yes?” Brax double-checks when he spots the faint nod of my head. “We’re going?”

“Why not?” I reply, scrubbing my knuckles over his scalp to mess up his recently trimmed hair. “It’s one night. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

24

Ryan

“Hey.”

My eyes lift from the water crashing onto the rocks of Bronte's Peak to the voice that caused more of a shiver to my spine than the nippy winds rolling in from the coastline. Savannah's knee-length skirt rides high on her slim thighs when she straddles the safety barrier on the cliff’s edge to join me on the other side.

“What are you doing out here, Ryan?”

I take a swig on the bottle of beer in my hand, hoping it will clear the cotton from my mouth before replying, “I’m waiting for Amelia to come back from the bathroom.”

Savannah smiles, knowing bathroom means the scrub on the edge of the cliff. There are no public restroom facilities within five miles of Bronte's Peak. The planning commission had hoped a lack of washrooms would lower the chance of this lookout becoming a hook-up spot for local teens.

They were way off the mark.

From the day the manmade marvel was blasted into the rock edge of Bronte's Peak, it has been a favorite destination for teens after sunset. The lack of street lighting and the fact it's far from prying eyes makes it an ideal location for hookups. I'm not an overly social kind of guy, and even I've been here a handful of times the past few years.

“I saw you arrive with Amelia. She’s a nice girl. I’m happy for you,” Savannah says, gliding her hand down the skin on my arm.

"Thanks," I reply before chugging down the remainder of my beer, praying she’ll get the hint I'm not in the mood for conversation.

I spotted Savannah the instant I arrived a little over two hours ago, but with Amelia glued to my side, I’ve successfully avoided the silent interrogation her eyes have been issuing me all night. It’s quite funny, actually. To an outsider, Savannah portrays the ideal girlfriend. She sits inhislap and gushes overhisriddled-with-lies stories likeheis a king, laughing at the exact moment she is supposed to.

Only those closest to her know it's all an act. They see the faint roll of her eyes for every liehespills. They notice the way her skin gets clammy whenheshows heraffection, and they perceive that every timeheshifts his eyes away from her, she locks hers with mine.

Even those who don't know Savannah couldn't miss my last confession.

Although Amelia will never admit it, I am confident Savannah's constant glancing my way is the reason she has asked on three separate occasions if I am ready to leave. For every sneaky glimpse she caught, her eagerness to leave grew more rampant. She isn’t the only one hoping for an early night. Forcing my body to ignore Savannah’s attention is as difficult as pretending I like Axel—im-fucking-possible.

The only reason we haven't left is because neither of our friends are ready to end their night just yet. Although I could call a cab, I’ve already spent a lot to ensure Amelia has a perfect night, and I don’t want to spend any more than necessary. With my final shift at Bob's last night, the money I amassed fighting needs to last me until I secure another job. I can't burn through it, no matter how desperate I am to get away from Savannah and the tricks she's been playing on me the past five years.

"What do you want, Savannah?" I ask, confident she's only talking to me because low-hanging shrubs are hiding us from prying eyes.

Her teeth graze her bottom lip before she answers, “I just wanted to say hello.” She steps closer to me, engulfing me with her rose scent. “I’ve missed you, Ryan.” Her voice is so low, I barely hear her last confession.

Not willing to let her little comment slip by without notice, I ask, “You miss me?”

I almost laugh when she nods her head. “You don’t miss me, Savannah. You miss the idea of me.”

When she peers at me, confused, unaccustomed to the malice in my tone, I clarify, "You like the conflict my attention causes. You crave the thrill of being the center of attention." Although my words echo ones Brax said last month, I agree with them—for the most part. "I'm the puppet; you're the puppeteer."

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