Some days we cried until we laughed.
Some days we laughed until we cried.
Either way ...
Every day was perfect.
.\.|./.
Crystal Monroe
| in which she lets him into her pants |
Ryan falls asleep after a while, his head resting against the back of the seat and his fingers in mine. I don't pull my hand out of his, liking the clammy warmth that his skin radiates.
I admit, he looks so much younger when he's sleeping like this, his dark hair a stark contrast against his pale skin. The tan that had been on his skin when I first met him has faded, and with it, the last of the reminders of his LA life.
Before he returns to it.
I know it's wrong, that to help me escape from my past, he's forced to take me to his. It worries me, because he's been on edge ever since we left Alaska, and though he would never admit it, I can tell it's not easy for him.
Maybe that's why he needs it so much. Maybe that's why he needs closure like I needed it. Full and painful, in all its tragic glory.
It hurts, the truth does. It hurt me when it was in the shape of Jeremy, leaving bruises on my body. And it will hurt Ryan too, in the form of LA. But that's the thing about the end. It's inevitable, and sometimes, it's mandatory. You can't begin a new story if you don't end the last one.
We reach a gas station, and I dig into my pockets to find some cash. I have nothing, not a single penny.
"My wallet's in the dash," Ryan says, almost startling me.
I look at him to see him peeking at me through half-closed eyes, his head against the back of the seat.
Feeling incredibly small for being so dependent on him, I find his wallet and take out some money to get gas.
"We're almost out of water," Ryan says, glancing over to the backseat to see the stray bags of crisps and empty water bottles.
"I can go get some," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and getting out of the car with Ryan's wallet in my hand.
As the car is refilled, I make my way over to the quick-mart on the side, rubbing my eyes and tapping my hair into a respectable appearance. Somehow, with Ryan, I don't have to worry.
I get water and refill our snack-stash, buy a carton of beer for the road, and pay in cash. By the time I get back with my arms struggling to carry all the things I got in bags, Ryan is about to doze off again.
"And you said you weren't tired," I remind him.
Ryan gives me a sleepy smile, glancing at all the things I got.
"Sorry you're probably bankrupt now," I say quickly, hoping to get Ryan to loosen up again.
I miss his cheerfulness, and ever since he took me to the hospital he's been awfully quiet. the prospect of going to LA and then the almost-fiasco with the bandits seem to have hit him hard.
Ryan finally chuckles, putting a hand in one of the bigger grocery bags. He grabs the carton of beer, already getting out of the car. Before I can say anything, he's walking back to the mart with the carton in his hands.
He returns a few minutes later, carrying a carton of coke instead.
"What was the about?" I ask him as soon as he's back in the car.
"I don't think having beer in the car is a good idea," Ryan admits, yawning and stretching. "With the state of mind I'm in, what if I relapse?"
I stare at him, not knowing whether to consider his words a joke or take them seriously. He smiles, reaching out to touch my cheek.
"I'm not a recovering alcoholic, Crystal," he says. "I'm kidding."
I visibly exhale a sigh of relief, relaxing before I turn the key in the ignition.
"You almost freaked me out, Ryan," I say, turning the car onto the road.
"I wasn't an alcoholic," he says, pausing before he adds on, "but I did drink."
I glance his way, my hands on the wheel. Ryan doesn't look my way as he answered.
"I drank with friends and at parties," he says. "I drank, sometimes too much, to the point that I couldn't make it to school the next day. I drank until I got into fights and broke things. I drank until I felt better. I don't want to do it again."
My eyes meet Ryan's and I see a hint of guilt in them. He regrets what he did and doesn't want to repeat his mistakes. Sign number one of a good person.
I keep driving, and when I get tired, we stop, walking around the country-side after leaving our car parked along the road. Ryan holds my hand as we walk, and I admit, I'm beginning to love his skin against mine. He talks sometimes, mostly listening. And when neither of us feels like talking, we just sit on the hood of the car, listening to the sound of The Skillet blaring out from the speakers.
"I love your taste in music," I say to Ryan when we get back in the car, him in the driver's seat this time.
"I love my taste in girls," he says, winking at me as he winds his fingers through mine again.
He kisses my hand and I can't but smile, rolling my eyes to hide how much I actually like it when he does that.
Our lunch consists of crisps and our dinner is canned corn and canned pineapple -- not together, of course. But as night approaches, I see Ryan shifting in his skin again.
It's strange, watching him transform from the carefree god-like man to a frightened child, one running from shadows and seeking a glimmer of light. His knuckles turn white as his hands grip the wheel, and the stiffness is his shoulders escape my notice.
"We can stop there," I say, pointing at a motel sign blinking in the distance.
Ryan looks almost relieved, exhaling a shaky breath. "You sure you're --"
"I need a bed, Ryan," I lie, saving him the guilt.
He doesn't speak, and I have an idea he isn't fooled. Nonetheless, he pulls into the motel parking lot.
"Stay here and I'll go check it out," he says.
I huff. "Can you be any more patriarchal?" I ask him, scowling. "I can handle myself, okay?"
Instead of mocking me for my clearly out-of-line accusation, Ryan simply smiles.
"I'm sure you can," he says. "But a man's got to do what a man's got to do."
I huff and roll my eyes, ignoring Ryan when he takes my hand and kisses it again before getting out of the car. I know where he's coming from, his worry for me taking precedence over his desire to make me happy. Even as he walks towards the motel entrance, I can see him glancing over his shoulder to make sure I'm safe in the car. I can bet it's killing him to leave me out alone.
Thankfully, the motel doesn't disappoint him too much. Sure, it kind of sucks that the place smells like mothballs, but at least the manager isn't a total douchbag. Ryan even gets us a single room to share.
"Are they short on rooms or something?" I ask him just to get him to lighten up, taking in the small room with it's double-bed and two chairs against one of the walls.
Ryan chuckles, walking over to the window to pull the curtains closed, blocking the view of a non-existent stalker.
"You know you're paranoid, right?" I point out, folding my arms across my chest and sitting at the edge of the bed.
"Says the girl who was almost beaten to death by a psychopath who might still be lurking around," Ryan mumbles.
I hear him anyways, glaring pointedly at him when he turns around to smile innocently my way.
"Face it, you just want to stick to me like glue," I joke.
This time, Ryan rolls his eyes. "Or perhaps get into your pants? You ever think of that?"
I snort loudly, causing Ryan to burst out laughing.
"My pants are too tight for you, Ryan," I say, purposefully misinterpreting his statement when responding. "You'd look like a fool wearing them."
"That's not what I ..." Ryan shakes his head, laughing. "Never mind."
He heads over the bathroom we'll be sharing, carrying his clothes bag along. Ryan is weird that way, as I've come to know. He bathes too often and changes clothes way too many times to be natural. It's a problem, but I'm waiting for the right moment to point it out.
I don't get the chance, because I'm asleep before Ryan comes out of the bathroom and drips cold water on my warm skin when he tries to pull the covers over me. I'm too tired to move or complain, vaguely aware of Ryan slipping under the covers next to me and taking my hand. I don't pull away, way too comfortable to complain.
The next day passes by pretty much like the first, except that the two of us bathe and change before leaving the motel so smell less like sweat and more like ourselves. We even have a full breakfast before getting on the road, which puts me in a better mood and Ryan in less bad shape. Even the circles under his eyes seem to be going away.
"I'm beginning to love road-trips," I say to Ryan, wearing his shades and rolling down the window so that the wind whips through my hair and slaps my face.
"I'm beginning to love --" he stops mid-sentence.
I look his way to raise my eyebrows at him.
"What?" I insist.
Ryan licks his lips, avoiding my gaze.
"What do you love, Ryan?" I ask, taking hold of his arm and shaking it slightly.
"Oh, look, lunch!" he announces loudly, shutting me up.
As he pulls into the parking-lot of the fast-food joint, I let it slide, knowing in the back of my mind that he's trying to shake me off. As for me, I know I'll be asking him about it soon enough.
.\.|./.
A/N: Fill in the blank, guys: Ryan loves _____ ;)
Another update coming tomorrow so I can hope to finish this story before my university resumes. I'll reply to all your comments asap. Just kind of busy this weekend since I have family over. Thank you all for reading <3