A slight smile touches her lips, but she schools her features quickly. “Ryder. What do you want from me?”
Her question is so direct, so simple, I’m taken aback. She’s been through hell; I can hear the anger in her voice, the hurt, and that question sums up her pain. What do I want? Because in her experience, even the person you trust the most wants something from you.
Trying to have a meaningful conversation with Ari is like crossing a minefield. I’m wondering the same thing suddenly; what do I want from her? Why am I putting in this much effort? Could I walk away, right now, and never give her another thought?
It started with a physical connection. An initial attraction. She reminded me of someone whom I cared about. She was some kind of possible redemption. But I no longer see Alyssa when I look at her, and I don’t feel I’ll earn some form of forgiveness through her that I was never able to seek from Alyssa.
Ari represents a new beginning, away from the demons of my past, and I’m a dumbass for just now figuring that out.
I’ve taken too long to respond, though, and she’s sliding off the bed. “I have a lot I need to do. I’ll just see you at the party.” She motions toward the door. I’m being dismissed.
“You told me something that you don’t trust anybody else with, Ari.” She’s standing before me, and I reach out and wrap my large hand around her tiny, delicate wrist, feeling just how fragile she is—how easily broken she could become. “I don’t think shutting me out now is going to be as easy as you think, or want.”
She doesn’t pull away, but I feel her tense under my touch. Her arm goes rigid. Her gaze is cast downward, staring at where we’re connected. This is further than I ever allowed myself to go with anyone. More vulnerable than I’ve ever been with anyone.
I didn’t put myself out there fully with Alyssa. And maybe that has something to do with age, maturity, or lack of confidence. But maybe if I had, I could’ve prevented all the wrong that happened.
“Tell me something about you,” Ari says, her voice low, breaking near the end.
I glance up to find her amber eyes touching my face. “What?”
She pulls away and wraps her arms around herself as she steps back. “I revealed a secret to you, so to keep the playing field level, you need to share one with me.”
Damn. “Level the playing field.”
She nods slowly.
Fair is fair, I’ll give her that. But as I continue to stare into her eyes, wondering how I ever compared her to a girl who ripped me to shreds, a girl who paid dearly for that offense…I’m scared to open my mouth. To even begin.
I’m afraid that once I expose the tiniest piece, the closet door will blow off its hinges and the skeletons will rush out. Decimating our very tentative playing field.
19
Arian
Being near Ryder is like b
eing on acid. Or what I’d imagine being on acid would feel like.
I can’t focus clearly; the walls behind him quiver and bleed around his form, coming in and out of focus. I thought, at first, he was always catching me at my worst times. After skipped meals, when I was lightheaded. During a rigorous exercise, my adrenaline pumping into my system so hard I couldn’t gain composure. But it’s not any of those things. It’s him.
There’s no sense as to why I told Ryder what happened between me and Stephan, how he used me, humiliated me—I didn’t even admit the whole truth to Mel. I allowed people, even those closest to me, to believe I was really popping speed. That it was an extension of my illness. It was easier and less painful than admitting to how dumb I had been. How utterly stupid. For some reason, owning to that was unbearable.
So why him, and why now?
Maybe if he gives me a part of himself in return, then I’ll figure that out. Because I may have been taken in before, and it may have damaged the way I view myself, and people in general—but it also toughened me up. I don’t take what people say at face value anymore. And Ryder has to give me a good enough reason as to why he’s here—what he wants—other than help on a class story.
I thought before that it was as simple as getting into my panties. Which, it’s possible that’s still the case. But most guys don’t work this hard. People are simple; they choose the course of least resistance. There are other girls out there, very willing girls, ready to offer themselves to Ryder.
My honed bullshit detector fires off every time I’m around him. I want to know why.
I want to understand if it’s him—or if it’s me. Am I completely damaged now, unable to ever trust anyone again?
“I hate football.”
I blink. “You hate football,” I deadpan.
He bobs his head. “Yep. All through high school. No, scratch that. I’ve hated it my whole life. In my family, football isn’t just a game; it’s a religion. Sunday game day was our church, and my dad was the preacher.”