Indisputable (2 page)

“I’m not doing it for you.”  Climbing into the
passenger seat of his car, I slip on my seatbelt and scoot as close to the
window as possible.  Once he starts the ignition, I add, “And if you touch
me, I’ll kill you.”  He shakes his head and that rumbling laughter rolls
from his mouth again.

“You carrying, Sweetheart?”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.  You’ll have to decide
if you want to find out.”

“Are you always this ornery?” he asks, as we roll
smoothly down the highway. 

I don’t answer.  Honestly, yes.  My normal
demeanor is typically set to bitch.  Growing up the way I had has left me
a bit jaded.  Good people don’t exist in my world.  People don’t do
nice things without expectations of payback.  I have a remarkable ability
to always seek the worst in people, always wait for the other shoe to drop,
wait for them to call their debts.  Mr. Good Samaritan is throwing me off
balance with his kindness and good natured attitude.

I let the silence stretch after his smart-assed
comment, but this guy has piqued my curiosity.  Fidgeting anxiously, the
question tumbles out before my brain is capable of keeping my mouth shut.

“What’s your name?”

“Ryan,” he offers.  No less no more. 
Ryan.  Simple.  Male.  It suits him. 

“Hi, Ryan.” 

“Hi,” he replies, flashing me another easy grin. 
I wonder what that’s like—smiling, feeling happy all the time, extending that
happiness to complete strangers.  Only bitterness twined with hurt dipped
in ugliness runs through my veins.  Staring down at the backs of my hands,
I flex my fingers as if I can actually see the tainted blood. 

“You gonna tell me your name?” he asks without looking
at me. 

“Tatum.”

He’s quiet for several moments before he asks, “You
hungry, Tatum?” 

I shrug noncommittally.  Truthfully, I’m not all
that hungry.  But riding in the car with this Ryan guy, even though we
aren’t talking, has lightened some unmentioned load from my chest.  For
once I don’t feel so lonely. 

And as we drive nearer to town, I feel that load
slowly increasing, as if each minute towards town piles a brick on my
heart. 

“I’m starving,” he continues after I refuse to
speak.  “Before I stopped to help you, I was planning on grabbing a bite
at the diner in town.”   His words pull one heavy brick from the
pile.

“You offering?” I ask quietly, feeling idiotic and
afraid I’m reading him wrong.  From my peripheral, I see another grin
slide across his face. 

 “I am, Sweetheart.”

Settling my nerves with a deep breath, I do something
so out of character for me, I question my sanity.  I fully turn my body to Ryan
and say, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”  I’m grateful I sound more confident than I feel
inside.     

As we drive closer to town, I can’t help but fidget
with the bands I wear on my wrists.  It’s a nervous habit, but I don’t realize
I’m doing it until I see Ryan’s eyes flick down to where I’m caressing the
fabric.  I watch as his mouth forms a tight, hard line, but he doesn’t say
anything.  The darkness in the car obscures his features, but I swear I
see a flash of pity in his eyes. 

Fuck pity.  He doesn’t know the first thing about
me.  I turn my attention back out the passenger window, resting my
forehead against the glass, and think back to when it all began…

I discovered the relief of the blade when I was
fourteen.  I can’t remember how the idea came to me, only that I was
desperate for anything to take away the constant hurt of disappointment, of
being unwanted and unloved.   I nabbed the paring knife from our
kitchen drawer (the only knife that wasn’t dirty since mom hadn’t done dishes
all week) and snuck off into my room.  There wasn’t any fear, only
anxiousness as I shed my shorts and danced the tip across my thigh.  I
didn’t realize what I was doing until it was done. 

My hormonal teenaged mantra carved into my flesh
beneath my hip.  FTW.  Fuck The World.  I smirked when it was
all over.  Seemed fitting considering my life. 

I hid the knife in my closet after that.  Mom
wouldn’t notice it was gone.  Between the booze and the drugs and the
Johns, she didn’t notice anything.  I found myself retreating into the
dark shadows of that four-by-four box whenever the pain was unbearable. 
It became my sanctuary.

Until now. 

Now I’m eighteen and living on my own.  Emancipated
from my mother last year after she OD’d on heroine in our bathroom. 
Ironic, I know. 

But what I do is not about death.  Honestly, I
don’t think it was for her either.  Just too much stupidity.  She
survived but is currently in an inpatient facility fifty miles away.  I’ve
never known my father, but I wasn’t about to search for him at a time when my
whole world had crashed down around me.  Not that he’d want me, but if he
did, he didn’t deserve to be my support.  He didn’t deserve shit from me. 

I would have been placed in foster care, seeing as the
only family I’ve ever had was my mom, but the job I’d held for two years agreed
to bump me to fulltime.  The court determined I could support
myself.  The second I left the courthouse, I jumped into the search for a
new place to live.  The only apartment building in this microscopic town
had a studio available.  The red brick exterior was aging and in desperate
need of a power wash, the lawns brown and uncared for.  The building was
noisy with paper thin walls, sketchy residents with sketchier company. 

It was a tiny piece of shit, but it became mine.
 Only mine.

Now I commence my ritual in the quiet privacy of my
own bathroom, attempting to erase the demons chasing me, exorcising the ones
embedded in my soul.  No one would understand why I do it.  Why I use
a sharp metal edge to keep myself afloat.  So I hide the truth. 
Cover the tracks of my ruined flesh with decorated fabric.  Every time I
catch a glimpse of the wristband, a small smirk ghosts across my lips, a little
thrill in my chest.  My little secret. 

I’m still not sure what Ryan was thinking or what I
saw in his eyes, but if he wants to give me pity, then fuck him.  Pity is
the last thing I need.

Tatum

The rumbling of the engine quiets down to a gentle
purr when Ryan pulls up in front of the all night diner.  This town is so
small it has one of everything.  One church.  One bar.  One
mechanic’s shop-slash-gas station.  One restaurant.  One coffee
shop.  One nursing home.  And one school that houses k-12. 
Anything else is a 20 minute drive out of town. 

Plenty of residents are entirely comfortable making
that commute to have more amenities in their lives.  The majority of us
stay put, myself included.  I embrace the simple life.  I’m too busy
juggling my life so I don’t get evicted, fired, or expelled to spend time at
the theater or the mall.  Not to mention I can’t afford it—the time or the
money.

My stomach shifts with a sudden bout of nerves as Ryan
exits the car.  He steps onto the curb but looks back when I don’t
follow.  I’m stuck stupidly staring after him through the
windshield.  What am I doing here?  I just met this guy, and now I’m
going out for a late night snack.  I don’t do this.  I never do this. 
So why do I want to go inside?  Why do I feel as if I’ll miss something
spectacular if I ask him to bring me home instead?  I feel crazy and
conflicted.  Ryan confuses me and intrigues me, angers me and excites me
all at once.  I like it.  The thrill of doing something out of the
ordinary is intoxicating.  

Slowly, I climb out of Ryan’s car and join him on the
sidewalk. 

“Hi,” I supply when neither of us move nor speak.

“Is that all you know how to say?” he teases, a dimple
creasing his cheek.  Somehow I failed to notice that feature during the
dark car ride, but it’s kind of sexy. 

Under the lamp lighting the entrance, I realize he’s
handsome.  He definitely does not look like a creepy stalker murder. 
And he can’t be much older than I am.  His hair is dark brown and tousled,
falling slightly over his ears and collar.  He has rich, chocolate brown
eyes, and his gaze is warm, regarding me with curiosity and a whole lot of
interest.  As my eyes slide down to assess his mouth, I notice he’s
grinning at me again.

“Uh-what?”

I forgot he asked me something.  I was too busy
ogling over the dimple in his cheek.  Ryan drops his chin to his chest and
shakes his head slowly.  He’s laughing at me and trying to hide it. 
Bastard.

“Nothin’, Sweetheart.  Let’s go inside.” 

Ever the chivalrous gentlemen, Ryan holds the door
open and waits for me to pass through.  I’m beginning to feel
awkward.  I’m not used to this behavior, and I don’t know how to
react.  My natural inclination is to be a smartass but that would be
rude.  Rudeness is something I reserve for familiar company, not some
stranger who saved me from being stranded on a dark, remote highway. 

“Thanks,” I mutter instead, digging deep to locate my
manners. 

I zip passed him, swerve around the empty hostess
station, and slide into the booth in the corner by the kitchen.  The diner
is outdated and in extreme need of some TLC.  Yellowed chandeliers hang
throughout the ceiling, one above every third table.  Faded green and
white wall paper peeks out beneath an array of local sports memorabilia. 
Jerseys from past all-star players, bats with signatures, hockey sticks, team
photos, trophies; all dating back to when my generation’s grandparents were
kids.  Ancient dark green booth tops stand in a half moon shape around the
counter that’s lined with hard metal barstools.  Stained and faded dark
green carpet covers the floors.  Despite the crippling décor, the food is
delicious, encompassing all that is warm belly filling home-style comfort food,
and the owners are the friendliest couple I’ve ever met. 

My assessment takes all of three seconds, and then
Ryan is seating himself into the opposite green padded seat of the booth. 
Grinning at me.   

“Are you always so happy?” 

The words slip from my dry lips before I have time to
assess if I should speak them aloud.  Normally, I can pride myself on a
decent brain-to-mouth filter; however, it’s been malfunctioning in Ryan’s
presence.  His grin falls for half a second before he fixes it back into
place.  I duck my head and suck on my lower lip nervously, hoping he won’t
respond.

“Aren’t you ever happy?”

“No,” I answer flatly.  That was an easy
question.

“No?  You’re never happy just because?  Happy
to be alive?  Being able to wake up each morning doesn’t make you
happy?” 

There’s more he wants to say, but he’s waiting for a
response from me.  So I give him one.  Tipping my head back, I
release the bubble of laughter erupting from deep in my belly.  Tears
trickle down my cheeks as I roar from the hilarity of his question.  Happy
because I exist?  Abso-freakin-lutely not.  I don’t have an obsession
with death.  There isn’t a plan somewhere for how and when I’ll die. 
I’m not suicidal.  But I’m also not even remotely happy for my
existence.  Not unless that existence was a few hundred miles away from
here. 

“That funny, huh?”  The clipped tone of his voice
brings me back from the edge of a manic episode, and I crack open an eyelid to
peek at him.  He’s pretty cute.  Ryan’s leaning back in his booth,
his long masculine fingers fiddling with the roll of silverware while he waits
patiently for me to contain myself.  He looks slightly exasperated except
for the corner of his mouth that’s twitching.  He finds me amusing! 

“Sorry!  I’m sorry.  I just-.”  What
can I possibly say to explain my crazy?  “Are you really happy simply
based on your existence?  I find that hard to believe.  Nobody is
that happy.”

“Sounded pretty stupid, didn’t it?”  Ryan runs his
hand through his thick, dark hair making it stick up quite charmingly.  He
pauses amid a second swipe, freezing as if realizing he’s performing a nervous
habit, and he flattens both palms on the hunter green tabletop.  “I have a
friend who was always trying to get me into a more positive mindset.  She
suggested I work on being happy because I’m alive.  That’s it.  Be
happy because I’m here.  I always thought it was a load of crap.” 
His smile turns thoughtful and somewhat sad.  “I’ve never tried her advice
on anyone else before.  Judging by your reaction, I’d say you feel the
same way as I do.”

I nod carefully.  I try to ignore the way my
stomach contracts at the mention of ‘she’ and force myself not to ask who ‘she’
is to him.  I’m having a friendly meal with a stranger who rescued me from
the side of the road in the middle of the night.  There’s nothing more to
this.  Nothing.  There can’t be.  Even if I had the time to
invest in a relationship, I can’t think of one reason why this guy would want
to go out with me.  So ‘she’ can have him.  She can have him.  I
can’t.

“Is she a psychologist?” Damnit.  “I mean, it
sounds like a load of shrink mumbo jumbo.” 

Ryan opens his mouth to respond when the waitress
appears to take our orders. 

“Hey there, my name is Heather.  What can I start
ya off with to drink?”  Heather is a few years older than me, a blonde
bombshell beauty complete with a soft body and perfect curves.  She’s
round in all the right places.  She’s wearing the standard uniform of
black slacks and a white collared shirt with a hunter green apron folded across
her waist.  She folds her hands and rests them against her cocked hip
while she waits for us to order.

“A water for me,” I reply quickly, keeping my gaze
away from Ryan’s.  Now that my car is junk, I’ll have to repair that
first.  Which means no food or kindle money for the next week.  Why
did I agree to this?  I can’t expect him to pay for me just because he’s a
guy.  Sure, he’s been sweet and chivalrous all night, but that doesn’t
mean he wants to pay for my food, too.  He’s done enough for me
already. 

“I’ll have a Coke,” Ryan says, but I know his eyes
haven’t left me.  I can feel the weight of his stare, my body tingling
with awareness.  The hairs on my arms and neck prickle to attention. 
God, please look away before my embarrassment is evident.  I’m sure my
cheeks look like two hot tomatoes. 

“You two ready to order or do you need a
minute?”  Heather’s voice rides the scale, nearing a crescendo in her
sweet singsong tone.  Girl needs to lay off the caffeine. 

“Are you ready, Tatum?”

“Uh-sure.  I’ll have a side of fries.”

“A side of fries?”  Ryan and Heather repeat
simultaneously.  If my face wasn’t pink before, it sure is flaming
now.  Please, someone take me out.  Send in a heat seeking missile or
a zombie apocalypse.  I’m sure either would be able to find me with the
way my heart is pumping right now.   

“Sorry, can we have a minute?”

My gold nail polish is chipping off.  I really
should get them painted more often, but it takes so much time and between
school, and work, and homework, the last thing I want to do at midnight is
paint my nails.  They look ridiculous with half the color coming off
though, so I start grinding away at the edges using my thumbnail.  Scrape. 
Scrape.  Scrape. 

“Tatum.”

Only two more fingers left on my left hand, then I
need to move onto my right.  Can’t have one hand with polish and one
without.

“Tatum, look at me.”

I scrape harder, almost done with my pinky, but my
thumb slips off my nail and tears into my cuticle.  The skin breaks and a
trail of blood wells up from beneath the sliced skin. 

“Ouch!” 

My skin burns, and I bring my damaged finger to my
mouth to suck the blood from my wound.  Ryan reaches his hand out to stop
me.  My head snaps up to find him seated next to me instead of across from
me where I left him before retreating inside myself.

“What happened?  Are you hurting yourself?” Ryan
swiftly wraps my finger in a napkin from the silverware roll. 

Oh, the irony.  I sigh.  “I scratched my
finger.  You can let go now.” 

He doesn’t let go.

Ryan holds slight pressure on my barely injured finger
while he looks intently into my eyes.  “Why don’t you want to eat
anything?”

His proximity is making it hard to breathe, and his
question makes me want to punch him in the face.  Sucking in a quiet
breath, I hush my inner bitch.  It’s not his fault I’m dirt poor. 

“I’m not hungry,” I try to placate him.

“I call bullshit.”  No such luck.  “Why come
to eat with me if you’re not hungry?”

“Because you look like you tell fascinating stories?”

“Don’t lie to me,” he warns.  “Does it have
anything to do with your newly acquired car repair and the money you’ll be
spending to take care of it?  Because, Sweetheart, I wasn’t joking when I
said I was offering dinner.  Don’t worry about the cost.  It’s my
treat.”

I shake my head sadly, wondering why this stranger had
to drop into my life tonight.  Maybe if this was a year or two from now
I’d be more willing to relax and eat a comfortable meal with Ryan.  “I
can’t accept that.  You’ve been too generous already.”

“Don’t worry about it.  It’s my treat.”

“Seriously, Ryan.  I can’t let you do that—ˮ

“Sweetheart,” he pauses, and I can’t help but look up
at him when he doesn’t continue.  His gaze is strong and confident, and it
holds me steady.  “It’s. My. Treat.  Now, pick something decent to
eat, or I’ll choose for you.”

Whoa. 

My heart drums a rhythm of galloping horses as I pick
up my menu.  Whatever you say, Mr. Bossy.  Whatever you say.

The conversation flows easily in the aftermath of our
intense moment.  Heather returns with a BBQ chicken sandwich for Ryan and
a giant omelet breakfast platter for myself.  We stick to lighter topics,
discussing movies (most of which I haven’t seen), and music (most of which I
haven’t heard).  We skim the topic of books, but as soon as I mention my
uncontrollable obsession with the young adult and romance genres, Ryan shuts
the topic down insisting he’d prefer to keep his balls firmly intact.  I
think some men in this world could seriously benefit from reading a few romance
novels.  I’m not sure yet if Ryan is one of those men, but it couldn’t
hurt. 

We finish our meals and I excuse myself to the
restroom when the check comes.  I know Ryan insisted he’s happy to pay,
but I’m uncomfortable witnessing his generosity. 

After using the toilet, I spend a ridiculous amount of
time washing my hands and staring at myself in the mirror.  My eyes are
tired, my hair is flat, and I look pale.  I pinch my cheeks to add a
little color and tease my hair with my fingertips.  After I’m positive
enough time has passed, I walk out and find Ryan waiting for me by the hostess
stand.

We walk to his car in a slightly uncomfortable
silence.  What happens now?  This is foreign territory for me. 
Besides a fling or two my freshmen year, and Wyatt, I don’t have any experience
outside of teenaged, hormonal, immature guys.  Nowhere near the realm of a
real man like Ryan.  Is he going to kiss me?  Does he even like
me?  I’ve had such a good time that I’ve forgotten I just met him this
evening.  How embarrassing.  Here I am crushing on this stranger, and
he probably thinks he’s just being polite.