A little while later, I head inside to make myself something to eat for lunch. Ryan bought a shit load of food, but I don’t want to touch it without asking, so I stick to what I bought: a pint of ice cream and a bag of chips.
After eating enough so I’m no longer starving, I lie down for a nap, but since I haven’t really done anything, I’m not tired, so instead I just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, allowing my mind to wander. When I can’t take it anymore, I climb out of bed to grab a book I brought. When I open the luggage, a small box catches my eye. I’m not sure why I packed it. Maybe I was afraid if I left it at home, it would feel like I was leaving Ian there as well. I open it up and sift through it—something I haven’t done since I filled it. It’s everything from Ian’s and my time together. Letters he wrote me, pictures of us, his wedding band. One day when I was having a bad moment, I put everything into the box so I wouldn’t have to see it. I told myself out of sight out of mind. Obviously that didn’t work.
Clutching a photo of us laughing and smiling to my chest, the tears fall like a waterfall. My heart aches for Ian, but I’m so tired of hurting, of feeling broken.
My eyes flicker to the fireplace, and for a brief second I consider tossing it all into there. Lighting it on fire, so I’m forced to move forward. But then I come to my senses. I would no doubt regret that and there would be no way of getting any of it back.
So, instead, I put the box back into my luggage and, taking the single photo of us, climb back into bed and cry myself to sleep. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I will try harder to move on.
“I’ll take that.” Ryan comes out of nowhere and plucks the joint I was bringing to my lips out of my fingers, and flicks it toward the sand. “And I’ll replace it with this.” He sets a deliciously-smelling plate of food in front of me. A scrambled egg omelet that looks like it’s mixed with ham, cheese, mushrooms, and peppers, home fries, perfectly cooked, and sliced mixed fruit.
Ryan disappears, then returns, juggling two glasses of orange juice in one hand and a plate of food for himself in the other. I grab the glasses from him and set them on the table.
“Shit, forgot the utensils,” he says, setting his plate down.
He comes back a few seconds later and sits, handing me a fork and knife.
“Wow, a man who can cook. What else can you do?”
“Smoking is not how you deal,” he says, ignoring my joke.
“Oh, that’s right.” My eyes roll upward. “I’ve heard all about your savior complex.” I lean over my plate of food. “But guess what? I don’t need to be saved. What happened to the guy from yesterday who let me deal in peace?”
“I was giving you space. The space stopped when you lit a joint.”
Not wanting to argue, I stand, and Ryan does as well. “Sit and eat.” He gestures toward the food and my stomach, of course, rumbles. His one brow goes up, and I sigh, giving in.
“Fine, but no talk about how to cope or deal or whatever.” I grab my fork, pierce a chunk of melon, and point it at him, while hitting him with a hard stare.
“Fine.” He shrugs nonchalantly, not fazed in the slightest by my glare. “Since we both know you’re not doing either.” He pops a potato into his mouth and chews.
“Excuse me?” I fork a piece of omelet and push it into my mouth. It’s fluffy and flavorful. A loud moan escapes, and Ryan laughs.
“Smoking weed is avoiding, not dealing. Not coping. Avoiding.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, you’re not,” he argues. “Yesterday you did nothing all day but ate shit food and cried, now today, you’re waking up and getting high before the sun is even up.” Okay, so apparently, even though he wasn’t talking, he was paying attention.
“Whatever.” I take another bite of my food, and he chuckles.
“What?” I huff.
“Nothing.” He laughs, shaking his head and taking another bite of his food. I try and fail to ignore how strong his jaw is. Like, how can a jaw be strong? But somehow his is… “You’re acting your age,” he adds, snapping me out of my ogling. “I haven’t been around someone your age in a long time, and I’m the youngest in my family.”
Really? He’s like eight years older than me and he’s acting like he’s my dad’s age. I don’t bother responding to his dig, though, not wanting to bury myself deeper.