Don't Forget Me Tomorrow(64)

I took her in where she still slowly writhed on the bed. Satisfied, but it wasn’t quite enough.

So pretty.

So perfect.

So close and so far out of reach.

I ran the warm cloth between her thighs, making her jolt, before I moved to clean her stomach. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, glancing up at her.

“What are you sorry for, Ryder?”

“That I’m not who I want to be. Not yet. But I promise you, I’m trying to be.”

And I prayed it was enough.





TWENTY-NINE





RYDER





TWENTY YEARS OLD





Sunlight seeped through a slit in the black-out drape that covered the window. Blowing out a strained sigh, Ryder sat up on the side of the bed, scraping a hand over his face like it could wipe away the exhaustion. The bone-deep weight that sat on him like he’d awoken beneath a landslide of boulders.

Erase the night before and the thousand others that had looked just like it. Scramble things up so when he looked in the mirror he was a different person.

But shit couldn’t so easily be scrubbed away, could it?

Couldn’t be rectified or changed.

Glancing at the clock that said it was half past noon, he reached to the nightstand littered with half empty beer bottles, wrappers, a baggie that he’d dusted last night, in search of a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out then rummaged through the mess for a lighter, and he angled his head, lighting it, filling his lungs before he tossed a glance over his shoulder when he heard the dull groan behind him.

He squinted through the bare light at the shape passed out in his bed. Long, blonde hair, a pretty face he couldn’t even recall.

Because it was always a fucking blur even though everything remained the same. Night after night and day after day.

He blew the smoke out into the air, watching the vapor twirl and spin and disappear over his head, evaporating into the nothingness.

How many times he wondered if he would do the same.

Stubbing out the butt, he stood and dragged on his boxers that’d been discarded on the side of his bed. How he even found them in the piles of dirty clothes and the shit strewn on the floor, he didn’t know. In an instant, one of those thoughts infiltrated. A memory that caught him unaware.

His mother standing at his bedroom door with her hip propped on the jamb.

Ryder, it’s a disaster in here. It looks like a tornado hit. And when I mean tornado, I’m talkin’ about you.

It was the kind of memory that pierced him.

A blade driven into his spirit he did his best to numb so he didn’t have to feel.

His mother’s voice firm yet teasing, a soft prodding that echoed at his ear. Touching his mind and gripping his heart in a fist of guilt.

Her voice wouldn’t be soft if she stumbled in on this, that was for damned sure.

She’d be disgusted. Disgusted and ashamed of him.

He couldn’t shake it as he opened his bedroom door and stumbled out into the duplex apartment he called home. The blinds were still closed out in the living room, but it was brighter out there, and he blinked against the intrusion, taking in the remnants of the chaos still scattered about the room. The bodies tangled on the two worn couches and the three people passed out in the middle of the floor.

He wandered into the kitchen and flipped on the light. The counters were covered in empty bottles, trash on the floor, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes that almost made him puke.

But he didn’t worry about any of that. He went to the cannisters that sat on the counter next to the fridge, and he pulled off the lid of the largest one, tossing out the bag of sugar he kept on top, relief flooding him when he found that he had at least enough to keep the thoughts at bay.

Enough to get him through the day.

Enough to make it.

Because he saw the message that was waiting for him on his phone, and he knew it was the one thing that would have truly made his mother hate him.

What made him hate himself.

Dare



You’re on tonight.





Ryder - Twenty-Two Years Old


The bell dinged overhead as he walked through the door to the small bakery on the corner of Manchester and Elm. He’d been strolling down the sidewalk when he’d seen the board sitting out front proclaiming baked goods in a swirly font, but he guessed it was the scent radiating out of the darkened panes of glass that fronted the shop that had stopped him in his tracks.

What had hit him like a thunderclap.

A million memories surged, slamming him from out of nowhere. Good ones, and not the ones that had stacked up like bad omens over the last five years.

He tossed open the door without giving it a second thought and strode inside, then he nearly toppled over when the girl who’d been obstructed behind the glass display case suddenly stood and came into view behind the cash register.

Her eyes went wide at the sight of him, surprise catching her up and parting her lips as he stood there, trapped by the scent of sugar and vanilla that filled the air, a moron who couldn’t speak because he was too busy getting lost in thoughts of the good days.

Back when he’d wander into that small kitchen at Cody’s house. Back when life was simple and right. Before he’d squandered away every good thing in his life.