Come Break My Heart Again

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Nice to see you all,” I say as I head for the door.

  Tommy gives me a tight smile. Kat studies me. Danielle doesn’t shift her eyes from the commercial playing on the television screen.

  I head outside, only stopping to unload the heavy bag of dog kibble from my backseat. Guess I should have mentioned I’d brought it before bringing up football. The same stray who was here before watches me set it on the bottom step of the trailer’s stairs. There’s no way Ryder will miss it. I climb into my car, biting my bottom lip to keep the emotion contained. I hate how close to tears I am.

  Ryder’s right, nothing’s changed.

  Our argument just now didn’t reveal anything new.

  It just reinforced it.

  Chapter Nine

  Ryder and I ignore each other for the entirety of the following week. Coach Blake doesn’t say anything else to me about Ryder playing. I guess he’s surmised he sent me on a suicide mission. The collateral damage was a lot more than just his last hope of a win this season, though.

  I’m sure the whole school is gossiping about how I appear to be down one Homecoming date, but Paige is the only person who asks me what happened. A curt “I don’t want to talk about it,” dissuades her quickly.

  It’s another stark contrast to my relationship with Liam. With him, I had friends helping compose texts to send. Planning out my outfits for our first few dates.

  What happened with Ryder feels too raw.

  Too personal.

  Too meaningful.

  My sixth period study hall is halfway over when I rise from my seat in the library and head out into the hallway to use the restroom.

  “Hello, Clarke.” I turn to see Coach Blake striding down the hall, holding a clipboard. A familiar sight. So is the suit he’s wearing. Fernwood may be abysmal at football, but they could probably win a trophy for best-dressed.

  “Hi, Coach Blake,” I reply. “Ready for the game tonight?” I give him a hesitant smile. I don’t normally pay close attention to the football team unless it directly impacts the cheer squad, but I realize I don’t know who is playing quarterback tonight. I’ve shut out any reminders of my argument with Ryder. The news of Liam’s suspension still hasn’t infiltrated the student body, making me wonder how it will be handled tonight.

  “Sure am. Thanks again for talking to James, Clarke.”

  I shift uncomfortably at the reminder. “You’re welcome. Sorry it was a wasted effort.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shoot him a curious glance, only to find he’s giving me a similar look back. “Me asking Ryder to play quarterback? It didn’t go well. More like a catastrophe, really, but—”

  “James agreed to play on Monday.”

  I gape at Coach Blake. “He—he did?”

  “Yup. Could’ve been more gracious about it, but he’s even better than I thought. Kid can talk back all he wants if he keeps throwing rockets.” He shoots me a discerning glance. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

  “I won’t,” I assure him, opting not to include the fact I’m not talking to Ryder about anything these days.

  Coach Blake nods, already continuing down the hall. “See you tonight, Clarke!”

  Right. At the game I’ll be attending. Which Ryder will apparently be playing quarterback in.

  I continue down the hallway, not really registering the rows of lockers I’m walking past. Ryder seemed pretty damn set on not playing football. What changed his mind? What made him decide to play football and not patch things up between us? I didn’t know anything had changed since our last conversation. But he did. He knew that I would see him emerge onto Fernwood’s field with the rest of the team and find out that he had decided to play.

  Ryder James is an endless mystery to me. One I should really give up on, but instead spend the afternoon puzzling over, right up until our second shared class. Except Ryder’s not in gym. He hasn’t been all week, and I’ve spent the same stretch of time trying and failing to convince myself it doesn’t matter to me. Now, I realize he must be practicing, especially when I take note of the fact both Steve and Jeff are missing as well. I can’t recall if they’ve been in class this week.

  There’s only one student whose attendance record I pay that close attention to. Unfortunately.

  We don’t have cheer practice this afternoon on account of the game later, and I don’t have a student council meeting because everything’s already been planned for the dance tomorrow night, so for the first time since the start of senior year I head out the front doors with everyone else whose obligations end at three PM. Despite the freedom stretching before me until the start of the football game, I linger in the parking lot, making chitchat with some of the other cheerleaders. I give up when enough cars depart for me to tell without a doubt that Ryder’s truck is long gone.

  I contemplate heading to the trailer park for a fraction of a second, but quickly dismiss the idea. Not only was my last trip there an unsuccessful one, but despite changing his mind about playing Ryder hasn’t made any attempt to thaw the ice between us this past week. During lunch and the two class periods we share, he’s acted like I don't exist. Not only does it not instill confidence in how amenable he might be to me showing up again, my pride is most definitely bruised. Setting myself up for more rejection is not an appealing prospect.

  So, I head home.

  As soon as I step through the front door, I regret doing so.

  “Eleanor?” my mother calls out.

  “Yes?” I reply, already wary. I’ve been receiving the cool treatment since my departure mid-dinner party. My sense of foreboding grows when I enter the living room to find my father is seated in his usual armchair. Home from work early? Even on a Friday? Terrible sign.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask urgently.

  “Take a seat, Eleanor,” my father instructs.

  I listen, dropping my backpack on the floor and sinking into the soft cushions of the couch.

  “I heard from Lynn Hathaway you’re involved with a boy from the trailer park.” I open my mouth, but it wasn’t a question. My mother keeps talking as though I’m a statue she’s lecturing. “I told her that’s ridiculous. That no daughter of mine would be involved with a resident of that crime-ridden community.” She raises both carefully shaped eyebrows at me, daring me to disagree.

  Given the current state of my relationship with Ryder, I very easily could. They didn’t catch us making out in the front yard, or him sneaking into my bedroom. They’re sharing hearsay, and at this precise moment, I’m not involved with a resident of the trailer park. I should give them the answer they want to hear, and that will be the end of it.

  “Well, I am,” I say instead. My response catches my mother off guard, my father, too. I don’t think either of them actually believed there might be some validity to Liam’s mother’s gossiping. Regardless, I’m sure they expected me to deny it.

  “You—you are?” my mother manages, visibly rattled. My father’s giving Ryder a run for his money on a perfectly inscrutable expression, but I know that’s the equivalent of a shock to him. His profession requires a perfect poker face: for negotiations, for depositions, for partner meetings. Or for learning his daughter is involved with a person he deems just as unsuitable as my mother does.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “His name is Ryder. We’re going to Homecoming together.”

  “Ryder… James?”

  “Yes…” I let a question linger at the end of the affirmation. Now, I’m surprised. My mother likes to pretend the trailer park doesn’t exist, same as most of Fernwood’s residents. I certainly didn’t expect her to know any of its residents by name.

  My mother looks like she’s swallowed an especially bitter lemon rind.

  “Well, we absolutely forbid it,” my father jumps in. “No Clarke is going to associate with someone with that sort of background.”

  “Because he’s not rich?” I scoff.

  “Because he’s a product of his environment. You are not to
so much as speak to him again.”

  I’ve stumbled into a Victorian period drama where women are farmed out to the most eligible bachelor with the largest plot of land.

  “We go to school together, Dad. If you don’t want me to talk to Ryder, maybe you should work a little harder to get the trailer park expelled from town?”

  My father stares at me in disbelief. Not so much because of my words, but the mocking tone I just delivered them in. Most definitely not an approved part of being a Clarke.

  “If you feel as though you can’t avoid the boy at school, then I’m sure Montgrove could be persuaded to take you for the remainder of the school year.”

  Boarding school. That’s how far my parents are willing to take this stand-off.

  “I’ll be eighteen in four months, Dad. You can force me to do whatever you want for now, but there’s an expiration date.”

  My mother’s mouth actually falls open; my father raises both brows. I’m calling their bluff. Shipping me off to boarding school two months into the school year would raise a lot of questions they wouldn’t possibly want to have to answer. That would be especially uncomfortable once I have a say in the matter.

  “What on earth has gotten into you, Eleanor?” my mother questions, sounding aghast. “It was bad enough with Sarah…” All three of us wince at the reminder, but she soldiers ahead. “…but I never would have expected this behavior from you!”

  “What behavior? I met a guy I like—really like—and you’re telling me I can’t talk to him again because he doesn’t come from money? You get how ridiculously pretentious that is, right?”

  My father’s phone starts buzzing, and even before he speaks, I know that signals the end of this conversation. Sure enough, “I have to take this. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, Eleanor. Before the Homecoming dance.” He stands and leaves the room.

  My mother sits and stares at me for a minute, then heaves out a beleaguered sigh before rising as well. “We just want the best for you, Eleanor.”

  “You've never even met him, Mom.”

  She sweeps out of the living room without another word.

  I lean back against the cushions, letting out all the air in my lungs with an elongated whoosh. I knew my parents wouldn’t react well to learning about Ryder. I didn’t expect them to take it that poorly. Maybe I should have denied it. Or informed them there’s an excellent chance they have nothing to worry about.

  A few minutes later, I haul myself upward, first off the couch, then up the stairs to my room. I still have a couple of hours before I have to leave for the football game, so I settle at my desk to start some of my homework. Wild Friday night I’m having right here. I shudder to think how my parents might handle having a child who misbehaves more than me.

  Although, I guess they already did. Sarah’s petulance just never included a lower-class lover.

  I outline my upcoming English essay until it’s time to change into my cheerleading uniform. I shove a short dress my mother probably wouldn’t approve of into my bag to change into after the game. If I’m going to approach Ryder tonight, which I still haven’t decided I’m going to do, I want to look my best.

  Neither of my parents are in sight when I descend the spiral staircase into our front foyer. Not entirely unusual, and I definitely don’t seek them out in the wake of our conversation earlier. I climb into Betty and set off for the high school. It’s a familiar routine that’s taken place every Friday night in the fall for years. The new component is Ryder. Freshman year, I knew better than to look for him at a football game. I have no such assurance tonight.

  I stop at Brewed Awakenings, simply for something to do. Like usual, I left the house earlier than I needed to, and I really don’t need to be the one cheerleader watching the water boys set things up. There’s only one older man reading a newspaper in the corner when I enter the coffee shop.

  “Elle Clarke? In my coffee shop on a Friday night?”

  I laugh as Joe gapes with mock-surprise behind the counter. I’ve ended up here on plenty of game nights.

  “Hi, Joe.”

  “What’ll it be tonight, darlin’?” he asks as he wipes the stainless-steel countertop.

  I act as though I’m deliberating, simply to kill a little more time.

  “Blueberry smoothie?”

  He smiles, playing along. “Coming right up.”

  I pay, and Joe shifts to the right to start preparing my drink.

  “Who comes to a coffee shop and orders a smoothie?”

  I freeze, watching Joe glance behind me and then back to the blender. His expression doesn’t change, but I can see the interest swirling in his eyes.

  “Me.” I don’t look at Ryder, just shift all the way down to the end of the counter, directly below the sign that reads Pick Up Here. I’m pretty damn good at following directions.

  Joe starts the blender, then returns to the cash register. I pretend to stare at the chalkboard menu, and actually assess Ryder and Joe talking. Joe gives Ryder the genuine smile I thought he reserves for me, and Ryder laughs. Actually laughs. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen that happen. Certainly never been the reason it did.

  And now I’m jealous of the elderly man who charges me half-price for my drinks despite knowing the allowance my parents provide me with is probably more than his monthly income.

  Ryder and Joe wrap up their conversation, and I return every ounce of my attention to the menu before me as I hear footsteps approach. Ryder doesn’t say anything as he stops a few feet away, leaning casually against the counter. I chew the inside of my cheek in irritation as he fiddles with the display of straws.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally snap, fed up with the crinkle of paper.

  He stops.

  “Getting coffee,” Ryder responds.

  The rustling commences.

  “Fueling up for the big game?” I mock.

  Ryder finishes fixing the few straws standing higher than the rest and then turns so he’s facing me. He crosses his arms as he leans against the counter, and it’s a battle to keep my eyes on his. One I win. Pride over hormones.

  “Sure am.” He mimics my tone.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to decide how to proceed. Accuse him of changing his mind and not informing me? Even thinking the words makes me feel petty and foolish.

  “Here’s your smoothie, Elle.” Joe sets the clear cup filled with purple liquid down in front of me, and then shuffles away, presumably to prepare Ryder’s drink.

  “Thanks, Joe.” I call after him. Turning my gaze back to Ryder, I add, “Better do the trick.”

  Nothing changes. His face, his posture, and his voice all remain the exact same. Either encountering me here for the first time since our blow-up of a conversation is a non-event for him, or he’s better at hiding his emotions than I am. I know the latter is true; I’m still deliberating on the former.

  “I can throw a football, Elle.”

  “Yeah, I know, Ryder. That’s why I suggested you should, but I seem to recall you having other feelings about it.”

  There’s a twitch in his jaw, and then the muscle sets off like a cow chewing cud.

  “Good luck tonight.” I raise my smoothie in a mock cheers motion as I start walking toward the door.

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Ryder informs me, unmoving from his casual slouch.

  “Seems like that’s going well for you,” I reply as I saunter past him.

  “Better be ready tonight, Clarke. You’re not going to be doing much sitting around.”

  “Thought you weren’t interested in being a cocky quarterback?” I call over my shoulder as I walk out of the coffee shop. If he replies, it’s blocked by the door swinging shut.

  “Holy shit! This is amazing!” Paige exclaims.

  “Yup. Incredible,” I deadpan. She’s too excited to notice my lack of enthusiasm. It’s not just Paige. The whole cheer team is beside itself.

  We’re cheering for the winning team, and that’s about
as regular of an occurrence as marrying into the royal family. It’s happened a couple of times but tends to end unsuccessfully. Except right now, there are only five minutes left in the fourth quarter, and we’re still ahead. By two touchdowns, to be precise. Meaning Havenport has slim to no chance of tying or winning. Partly because their team morale seems to have hit a permanent low. They’re one of the better teams we play. I’m certain they showed up expecting to trounce us. Instead, they haven’t managed to pull ahead of us so much as once.

  The reason for the numbers on the scoreboard below Fernwood is currently telling two junior linebackers something. I chew my lower lip as I watch the trio converse. I should be thrilled. Instead, I’m annoyed and confused as I try to figure out why Ryder would reject this role and then accept and excel in it.

  Why he would let it snowball into an argument between us and never attempt to make amends.

  Why nothing he’s done has made me like him any less.

  There’s a roar from the crowd, and I jerk back into the present. Fernwood has the ball again, and one of our wide receivers is sprinting down the field. The brown spiral of a barely weathered football flies through the sky, and then lands in waiting arms. A couple dozen yards, and we’re now up by six more points. Our kicker misses, but it doesn’t dim the euphoria of the crowd.

  “We’re going to win!” Kennedy announces. “We’re going to win a freaking football game!”

  The crowd has come to the same conclusion. Unfamiliar eagerness courses through the fall air, mingling with the buttered popcorn scent emanating from the concession stand. Results are what matter to most of Fernwood’s residents. Ryder’s delivering in that regard, and it seems to have temporarily washed away any wariness about his home address. I almost wish my parents were here to witness it firsthand. They’ve never attended a Fernwood football game. My father prefers taking clients to professional games rather than those played at the high school level, and they don’t consider cheerleading to be a sport worth watching at all. It’s not a view they’re alone in, but it’s an opinion I’m guessing one attempt at a back handspring would change.