by Xavier Neal
“Excuse me,” I interrupt the conversation she's having with the Taye Diggs look alike who has been sweet talking her all night. I'd know. The playful touches. The flirtatious giggles. The innocent looks. All those things once had my name inscribed on them. They always should. Who knows? Maybe they always will.
His bass voice answers, “Can we help you?”
Staving my jealousy that wants to cause a scene, I extend my hand. “Ryder.”
He shakes. “Kevin.”
“I was just wondering if you minded if I stole your date for a dance.” Or forever. I want forever, but one step at a time.
Presley shakes her head slowly. “I don't think that's a good idea.”
Kevin leans forward. “It's just one dance.”
Her eyes twitch to glare at me before looking over her shoulder at him. “Are you sure? I totally respect you. You can definitely say no.”
With a light chuckle he adjusts his jacket and stands. “It's fine babe. I trust you. I'm gonna step outside to get some fresh air. All the club wanna be smoke is suffocating.”
“Will you actually have the limo come around?” Her request makes my heart sink for various reasons. That should've been our limo. She should be sick of this place with me. Sneaking away to have it drive us around town while we get drunk off of each other. “I think I'm ready to go.”
“Sure.” He nods and leans over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Me. I make her happy. You know what doesn't make me happy? Someone trying to replace me. Blaze was...a pathetic joke to keep people from bothering her about us, but this guy...this guy has merit. He has potential. No. He can't. He can't be real.
Kevin strolls away as Presley stands. Reluctantly she takes my hand. I lead the two of us to a spot across the room, far from our dates’ immediate eyes if they unexpectedly return, and far from the judgmental eyes of our peers who would love one last juicy piece of gossip before graduation. Honestly? I don't fucking care anymore.
The D.J. announces the arrival of 'slow jams' along with some less than clever way of announcing shortly after they'll announce king and queen. Neither of us were nominated, so it's not like it affects us. We were king and queen in a different era, in a different way. I want that back. Part of me knows she does too.
Presley wraps her arms around my neck while I slide mine around her waist pulling her closer. Her body tenses, which causes my stomach to clench. I'm not sure if it's from fear or repulsion. The idea that it's both has my body breaking out in a cold sweat.
When her eyes finally stop fumbling around, they land in mine. “Why are you doing this?”
“Dancing? It's Prom, Pres. It's in the brochure.”
She twitches a smile. “Funny.”
“I thought so.”
“I meant why did you ask me to dance?”
“I need to apologize-”
“Don't.” She shakes her head. “Just let it go, Ryder.”
“I can't,” I whisper. “Not just because I did something I never fucking thought I would, and for that, I again, am so fucking sorry, Pres.”
My words make her lips quiver. She looks away.
“I was so wrong for hurting you the way I did. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. I really didn’t know what I was doing. You have to believe me. I was so far gone I didn’t even know anything had happened until I started to call the cops. I-I-I don't even remember coming to your house that night-”
“Which makes it so much worse, Ryder.” Confused I dart my eyebrows. “You were so messed up you can't even remember the things you promised me that night.”
“I made you a promise?”
“You did,” she whimpers. “You promised me, we could go to dinner, we could talk about where we were going to move to and that at the end of the night you'd end things with Bambi. You promised me, you'd come back to me that night. You sent text after text declaring all the love in the world for me.”
Having no recollection of that sinks my shoulders.
“All those words, all those promises...lies. Pure lies.”
“They weren't.”
“They were,” she denies. “You have many addictions, Ryder. We shared the same one for a while.”
My jaw drops. Presley? Drugs?
“We both got caught up pretending to be people we weren't. We thought we did it for the right reasons-”
“We did!”
“At first,” Presley sighs. “At first, yeah. Between our families and friends, it seemed like the right thing to do. Pretend to hate each other until we could find a place to love each other without rules, but at some point Ryder we stopped pretending to be those people and started to actually be them. And honestly? I hate the girl I was pretending to be almost as much as I hate the asshole you've become.”
Hurt by the truth, my grip slips. “I hate the asshole I've become too...”
To my surprise her fingertips tug the hair right above the back of my neck. It's a method she's always used to soothe the pain away. Even now, it still works. “You're not the Ryder I fell in love with.”
I choke back a sob, “But I am...”
“You're not.” She tugs softly again. “Somewhere inside of you, I think he's still there, but he's being silenced by liquor, weed, coke, X, acid, mushrooms, and every other drug you're killing yourself with.”
Closing my eyes I drop my forehead to hers. “I don't want to any more, Pres. Please...please save me.”
There's a light sound I know, but hate. She pulls us together closer. Through soft sobs she pleads, “I can't, Ryder. I want to, so bad, but I can't. The only person who can save you is you.”
“But baby, please,” my own choked voice is now filled with sadness. “You’re the one person I need in my world. You're it for me. I can't lose you.”
“You already have.”
The words open my eyes to see her staring up at me, face stained with much more than tears. Her trembling hand runs down my cheek without another word spoken. Music tempo changes just as Presley backs away from me heading for the exit. The air in my lungs is robbed by the same person who's leaving with so much more than just my heart. She's leaving with my sheer reason for living.
“She left you.” Doc states placing down the pen in his hand.
Twirling around the candy stick, I turn away from the window. “She did.”
“You didn't chase her?”
I shake my head. “I didn't see the point. She had given up on me.”
“Given up on?” Doc questions a little mirth in his voice. “You really believe she gave up on you?”
“What the hell would you call it?”
He folds his arms. “It depends on the angle you view it from, Ryder. She let you go and saved herself. She saved herself from getting caught in the shit storm she could see that lied ahead.”
The fake cigarette flies to my lips while the natural reaction to stifle the guilt rises.
“Blue Dream also knew you had changed. She wasn't wrong when she said you weren't the same person you were when it started. If you had been, you would've went after her at that moment. If you were the guy she fell in love with, you would've put your balls on the table, said fuck it, and kept at it. Fact of the matter is, she lost you long before you lost her.”
Alternating between anguish and awareness, my fingers run through the back of my hair. In that spot she always tugged. The same spot she used as her method of comforting me. For a moment my eyes drift closed. I can practically feel her soft hand pulling. Knowing it's not opens them back up.
“But something you need to accept is she had a point. She couldn't save you. And if she would've stayed, the only thing she would've done was given you an excuse, something to blame the constant need to get high on. Which you did. Post break up you continued to numb the original pain of her leaving, just like the first time you started with that first cigarette. All of that to kill the grief that came from being without her. The lesson you need to address is the fact it's
alright to feel shit.” When I don't respond Doc says to me with a pointed look, “Pain is a necessity to feel. As is sadness. Emotions are not something to be buried six feet under, they are something to be embraced and felt. Emotions Ryder, are verification you are alive. Consider yourself fortunate. Not only for having felt things some people spend an entire lifetime searching for, but because you are indeed still alive. You look around this place and you see the other privileged faces who have survived. The reality is many don't. Many fail. Many die.”
Slowly, I nod. I've seen the statistics. I've seen the reports. I've heard the testimonies of loved ones who were left behind. Those were scare tactics in the less flashy rehab centers. The ones I turned myself in to before I was offered help. The ones that were barely more than a rundown building with food so abhorrent, I had to smoke pot to get my appetite back.
Doc disappears, the dread I was expecting non-existent. I expected his words to assist in the ever long decimation stint I've been on yet instead, I feel slightly relieved. It's an odd emotion to feel. Unsure what to do, afraid if I spend too much time continuing to reflect it will retreat, I walk out of the room and head for the entertainment area. As I arrive at the practically vacant room, I find myself doing something I haven't before.
Flopping down in the middle of the couch, I reach for the remote on the coffee table at the same time a blonde mimics my action. Our hands knock and I immediately surrender.
She flops her hair over her shoulder as she declares, “I will share the content of what we watch, but dibs on the remote.” When I don't answer she turns her flaw free face to me. “Hate to be a bitch, but I am not about to watch another Desperate House Whores of Wherever marathon. Not that I think you're that kinda guy, but I’d rather not take the chance.”
Uncomfortable by her proximity, the speed of her mouth, and the sheer intensiveness of energy, I feel myself prepare to get up. “Okay.”
Instantly she flies a hand to block me from standing. “Whoa. Chill. You can have the remote if it's that big of a deal.”
Gingerly I move her hand. “It's not.”
“Cool.” She turns the flat screen on. “What do you wanna watch?”
“I should go.”
“You should stay,” she counters. Taken back, I lift my eyebrows. “You look like you need a friend.”
“I don't.”
“You do.” After a shrug she introduces herself, “Kara.”
My retreat momentarily ceases. I don't have friends on the outside any more. Couldn't figure out the reason for making friends in here. But Doc had a point. I am alive. I can feel. I am luckier than most. Maybe the only way to become someone better is to start at the smallest turn. This could be that turn or at the very least practice for when it comes.
“Ryder.”
“Cool.” Her green eyes cut back to the T.V. “I am addicted to 90s sitcoms.”
“That's a helluva addiction. I didn't realize you needed to be put in a place like this for that.”
She giggles and nudges me in the side. “Cute.”
Genuinely curious, I ask, “Why 90s sitcoms?”
“They typically had happier and more positive messages.” There's a very short lived pause as she scrolls through Netflix. “Morals of the episodes. They aimed to teach lessons and make you a better person. My parents were shit for that so I had to learn my lessons from people like Mr. Feeny.”
The tug in my chest is an immediate reminder that this happenstance is so much more.
“You cool with some classic Ben Savage?”
Subdued by the continued nostalgia, I simply nod. Maybe I'll never see Presley again. Maybe our love will never find itself together again. Maybe I'll never be given the absolution only she can grant. Regardless of the infinite possibilities waiting ahead, our memories big and small are eternalized. There's an appeasement in that I've been longing for for almost a decade.
Presley
Babies are intoxicating. Their softness. Their sweetness. The innocence that lays in their eyes. There's something magical about a little blank slate human who has yet to be dilapidated. It's revitalizing.
“You are so beautiful,” I coo at Elena Allen, one of the older babies who is about to move to the next classroom. “Yes you are. So sweet. So adorable.”
Elena giggles and swipes her hand at my glasses. I giggle in return and push them back up my face. How could I not want one of these someday? How could anyone not?
“Ms. Morrison,” Dana's voice has me looking up and over at the door where she stands with a family. “The Collins are here for their classroom interview.”
“Hey,” I warmly greet. Handing Elena to Lizzie, who happens to be about to do art with another child, I inform them, “Give me one second.”
Lizzie swiftly grabs her from me and places her down at the small art table. Carefully I make my way over to them, clean my palms with hand sanitizer, and shake Noah's hand first. “Good to you see again, Mr. Collins.”
“Noah,” he promptly corrects.
“You must be Shelly. I'm owner and director, Presley Morrison,” I introduce myself. She wiggles to adjust her daughter to try to shake my hand. Quickly I deny, “It's quite alright. You just hold little Shelby close. I won't take offense whatsoever. Hello gorgeous...”
Shelby makes a happy baby face at me. There's something about six month olds that makes them irresistible. The oversized bow in her platinum blond hair makes it more difficult.
“Well it is a pleasure to meet you,” Shelly gushes. “Your school, your website, your presence is all fantastic. I know there's a wait list, I know it's a long shot, but can I just say I badly want in here?”
Her accent is as gorgeous as she is. If you spliced Heidi Klum and Charlize Theron that would be the intimidating perfection that stands in front of me. Politely I state, “I'm flattered. I work relentlessly to make this school the best place I can for children as well as the families that bring them here. You are aware that this is the classroom, so I'm going to step out and leave you with Miss Lizzie Lumfkin who has been with us since we opened.” I point to the energetic young woman getting ready to paint. “In this room there is also Rachel Hall and Cassidy Demar.” I point to them as well. They do their best to greet in return, but one is at the changing table and the other feeding. “They will all make you feel as welcomed as possible. They'll also answer any questions and any concerns you may have. I'll be just on the other side of the door if you need anything.”
“I'm gonna step out with you,” Noah insists.
“You sure?” My ability to remain professional is impressive. Looking at the happy life him and his wife share reminds me of the one I should've had with his brother. Then again, if we would've never split, if I wouldn't have walked away, I might not have any of this. Sure, in ways all I did was subrogate the large family I wanted with one person for several families with lots of people, but I'm not certain I would prefer the other way of life over this one.
Over the past couple of days I've taken a step back and forced myself to evaluate the pros and cons of how my tragedy with Ryder ended. Of course, Katherine is right. I have lost part of myself, part of my passion and fire, but at the same time I discovered a love for a work I might not have otherwise. I have a success I might've never been bold enough to dream about while I was so wrapped up in him. I like to think letting go of Ryder was purely to save him, but I think subconsciously, I wanted to save what I could of myself too.
“Positive.” Noah nods. “This is Shelly and Shelby's moment.”
“You're so wonderful,” Shelly coos at him.
With a faint smile I usher her in. “You are already wearing the classroom feet covers. It is a strict policy. No shoes. Ever. The covers get washed at the end of every day and there are back up batches in case something goes wrong. I do have a night crew that does laundry and thoroughly cleans the classrooms. Whenever you're ready head straight back.”
“Come on Shelby,” Shelly says to her. “Let's go meet what co
uld be your teachers.”
Noah and I exit through the door. Once on the other side, we have a seat on the bench across from it.
He firmly states, “Shelly loves it here. I imagine Shelby will as well.”
“I hope so.” I fold my hands in my lap. “I think you and your family would make a beautiful addition. We have a child moving onto the next classroom in a couple of weeks and will have an opening.”
Noah nods and sighs, “I want that spot.”