The Way We Are

by Shandi Boyes

  I shake my head, denying her statement while also re-covering the cut she’s glaring at with my hair once more.

  Realizing Regina won’t accept a non-verbal reply to her question, I say, “My cut is the consequence of me being an idiot.” Since I’m not lying, my statement comes out honest.

  Regina tightens her arms under her chest, then stares at me, gauging the honesty of my statement. “I’m going to arrest him one day,” she confirms, believing the pain in my eyes is associated with my dad.

  Although most of the torment will always belong to him, he isn’t solely to blame for the sadness in my eyes the past five weeks. Some of it lies on Savannah’s shoulders.

  “I just need him to make one mistake, and I’ll have him,” Regina murmurs, frustration echoing in her tone.

  “I know,” I agree, nodding my head. “That’s why he’s behaving. He knows you’re watching.”

  “He’s not the only Carter I’m watching,” she fires back, her tone leaving no doubt her comment was a warning.

  She drops her arms from her chest, loosening her domineering stance. “I like you, Ryan. Considering the household you were raised in, you’ve turned out to be a good kid. But if you are out here doing what I believe you are doing, you're going to get arrested. You are going to do hard time, and you're going to leave your mother defenseless.”

  Her first two warnings don’t ruffle my feathers, but the last one scares me shitless. Every night I’m away from my mother sets me back a few hundred dollars. Luckily for me, the reward has so far outweighed the penance.

  My eyes dance between Regina’s when she warns, “This is your last chance, Ryan. Get out before I force you out.”

  She walks to the bed of my truck before spinning around to face me. “Make sure your taillight is fixed first thing tomorrow morning.”

  My brows furrow, confused by her statement. “My taillight is broken?”

  Plastic splinters the roadside when Regina’s flashlight swings into my taillight. Her hit so firm, she shatters the frail material without too much effort. “It is now.”

  When I glare at her, shocked as fuck she damaged my truck like a criminal, she mutters, “Now you’ve got an excuse as to why you were pulled over. Would hate for your friends to think you tattled on their illegal activities.”

  My heart now pounds in my temples.

  Stealing my chance to issue the stream of lies filtering through my mind, Regina walks back to her marked police car, slides into the driver’s seat, then drives off. Her speed is so excessive, my truck wobbles in her aftermath.

  I stand at the roadside for what feels like hours but is more minutes, muted with shock. She knew way more than she should—way, way more.

  “Did she smash your taillight?” Brax asks when I slip into the driver’s seat of my truck.

  Too shocked to speak, I merely nod my head.

  "What the fuck? Why would she do that? We should have arrested her. Marshall law her ass!" He turns his eyes to the pitch-black night. "Are there any cops in this town who aren’t corrupt?"

  He continues jabbering on for the next half a mile, whining about underhanded men, and how we should go back to the gun-wielding days when sheriffs ran the town.

  His rant only stops when, just as Regina had suspected, a sleek black sports car pulls up to the side of my truck to demand I pull over. The pounding of my pulse grows when I notice it is Isaac sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Feigning ignorance, I pull my truck to the curb as requested. Just as I had done with Regina, I remain seated in the driver’s seat as I scan the cab of my truck. I don’t know what I’m seeking; Isaac knows what I was doing tonight, as he was participating right alongside me.

  "What was that about?" Isaac asks, jerking his head in the direction Regina's police cruiser traveled.

  I swallow to clear the nerves from my voice before lying, “Broken taillight.”

  Brax’s eyes rocket to mine. He stares at me in utter shock, as stunned by my lie as me.

  Like a light bulb switching on, reality dawns on his face two seconds later. The crinkle between his brow smooths as a grin etches onto his prickly mouth. “He’s lucky he brought me tonight. She nearly gave him a ticket... until I sweet-talked her out of it.” He dusts his shoulder as if he's pushing off tickets.

  Isaac chuckles. He’s not impressed with Brax’s swooning capabilities; it's the chuckle of a doubtful man. It was the same laugh he used when I arrived with Brax in tow this evening. Isaac is so suspicious of strangers, he introduced himself to Brax under the pseudonym he uses while fighting: Max Levingston.

  After staring at me long enough sweat beads on my top lip, Isaac asks, “What was your take from tonight?”

  “After Cormack’s cut, a little over ten G’s,” I reply, tapping two fingers on the bundle of bills stuffed in my pocket.

  Isaac whistles, impressed by my tally. “You’re doing good, but you’ll burn out if you keep the double schedule like the past few weeks. Maybe reel it back to one fight a night for the remainder of the month,” he suggests.

  I shake my head. “Nah. I’m good. I’m done.”

  Isaac’s gray eyes lift and lock with mine. “Done?” He only says one word, but his squinted gaze reveals way more than his words ever could.

  "Yep. Done. I've been tucking away my winnings as you suggested, so I've got a good nest egg saved up for my next chapter. One more week, and I'm outta here."

  Brax is quiet, but I don’t miss the sigh he couldn’t harness. He has expressed concern about my desire to leave Ravenshoe a minimum two to three times a day since I told him my plans, but he also knows I’ve got no reason to stay.

  I may not have the means to make a life for myself out of this town, but it’s got to be better than the half-assed one I’ve been living the past few years. It can’t get any worse.

  “Alright,” Isaac says, quirking his lips. “You always know the road back home if you change your mind.” He gathers a bundle of hundreds from his suit pocket before counting out fifty of them. “Here’s the original buy-in I kept aside for you, minus Cormack’s cut for registration.”

  “Keep it,” I reply, thrusting the money back in his direction. “I would have never earned what I did the past five weeks without your help.”

  Isaac smiles, humbled by my reply, but Brax glares at me like I’m mad.

  “If you don’t take it, I fuckin’ will,” Brax warns.

  After slapping away Brax’s grabbing hands, Isaac slides the money into my sports jacket. “Anything earned without merit I don’t want. You earned that money, Ryan. Not me.” A smirk tugs at his lips before he continues, “Besides, you’re going to need every penny for the suit Ricardo is making for you. I heard he ordered fabric from Italy for you?”

  I huff out a chuckle. "Yeah, he did. I'm gonna look like Prince Charming."

  This time Isaac’s laugh is genuine. "Usually, I’d recommended you treat any woman like a queen. But this is prom. The standard rules don't apply to prom."

  “True, but I’ll stick to my gentleman act.”

  Brax gags, sickened by my pledge.

  I promised to show Amelia that no girl deserves an asshole for a date, and I intend to keep my promise. Amelia is a nice girl—she doesn't need a man like Axel in her life. Although we haven't gone out as suggested weeks ago, we've spoken on the phone numerous times. Our conversation never veered far from prom, but the handful of times it did, it flowed freely. There was never any moments of awkward silence or discomfort. It was just an everyday conversation.

  Unfortunately, that also means it was void of any spark. I'm hoping I’ll feel that missing element when we attend prom later this week. If not, I can leave town with a clear conscience. It's a win-win really.

  Isaac taps my driver side door two times, returning my focus to him before saying, “If you change your mind about disappearing, you know where to find me.”

  He waits for me to nod before returning to his vehicle. His dramatic exit is as fast as R
egina’s.

  After checking over my shoulder for the fourth time the past two minutes, I slide out an old shoe box hidden under my bed. The money I've been stuffing inside the past five weeks has grown so dramatically, the lid no longer sits flat.

  I add tonight's prize money to the stack, not needing to count the bills to know my total. I've finally reached the amount I calculated weeks ago when my plans to leave Ravenshoe resurfaced for the first time in years. Everything I need to leave my old life for dust is now in place—I'm just doing it minus the one person I had always factored into the equation. Savannah.

  I remember when Isaac handed me the first ten thousand dollars I had won. I thought I was as rich as a prince. Now I have over five times that amount, yet I feel as poor as dirt. I try to pretend the money I've amassed is merely a means to freedom, but a niggle surfaces in my mind every time I add to the stack.

  I had initially planned to use this money to show Savannah I am just as worthy of her time as Axel. Unfortunately, it took me weeks to understand that money makes smart people stupid and honorable men dishonorable.

  As long as greed is stronger than compassion,

  there will always be suffering.

  --Rusty Eric

  23

  Ryan

  White lights dance in front of my eyes when the flash of a camera blinds me. Amelia's mom floats around us, snapping pictures from every angle. Her excitement is as high as Amelia's, an addictive mix of thrill and anticipation on what is about to happen.

  “Okay, okay, last ones, I promise,” Amelia’s mom swears when she switches from a digital camera to a Polaroid one. She follows us outside, tripping over the potted gerberas covering nearly every inch of their front porch.

  “Mom,” Amelia pleads, embarrassed by her mom’s fussing in front of our combined friends.

  “Just one in front of the limo. Please. I only have one daughter, so this is my last chance to fuss over you until your wedding.”

  The bowtie around my neck feels extra restrictive when her brown eyes shift to me during her last statement. Marriage? I'm barely out of school, so I have no plans on getting married any time soon. Furthermore, I already pledged my hand in marriage to another girl...

  My inner monologue trails off as I’m bombarded with disturbing memories.

  I’d like to pretend my thoughts are distracted by Mrs. Roach's request for me to curl my arm around Amelia's waist, but that isn't the case. It's the sneaky thoughts of Savannah creeping into my mind as they have all day.

  From the moment I slipped into my tailored suit, to five minutes ago when I circled a dusty pink rose corsage around Amelia's wrist, Savannah has been plaguing my thoughts. Amelia and Savannah look nothing alike, so the blurring of lines isn't a case of a fill-in doppelganger. It's breaking a promise I swore I wouldn’t break responsible for numerous trips down memory lane.

  The plans Savannah and I made when we were eight were simple:

  Age 13: Fall in love (with each other).

  Age 18: Attend senior prom (with each other).

  Age 20: Buy a house (with each other).

  Age 24: Have a baby. If it's a boy, have more until we have a girl (with each other).

  Age 28: Get married (to each other).

  Savannah was adamant we had to have a daughter before we could marry because she wanted her to be the flower girl at our wedding. She also planned to name her after me. With our agreement sealed by a spit shake, we set to work on making it come true.

  I crossed the first item off our list nearly a year earlier than planned. The second I’m breaking right now. I’m sure the next three will eventually crumble as well.

  Marriage is not in the cards for me right now. And kids... fuck. When I was eight, the idea of having a daughter didn't terrify me. Now... now I pray I never have one. Protecting the women I already have in my life is a full-time job, I can't add more to the mix.

  Hating that I'm already breaking one promise and determined not to succumb to another, I curl my arm around Amelia's waist as her mom requested and smile at the camera.

  I continue smiling as we take the short five-mile trip from Amelia's house to the hotel our prom is being held at.

  I continue smiling while our group poses with goofy gimmicks for the official prom photographer.

  And I continue smiling when Amelia glances up into my eyes hours later to declare she's having the time of her life.

  The only time my smile is removed from my face is when Amelia propels herself onto her tippy toes to seal her lips over mine.

  Her kiss is as scrumptious as she looks in her dusty pink satin dress with mermaid tail. The strokes of her tongue are exploratory but not in a ghastly eating my mouth like a zombie type of way, and her taste is refreshing with the slightest hint of the non-alcoholic punch she’s been sipping all night.

  Her kiss is as sweet as the girl behind the mouth—yummy and full of goodness. But it's missing the spark I hoped it would have.

  “Oh my god, I’ve been dying to do that for years,” Amelia whispers, pulling back from my mouth.

  My tapered eyes widen. She did just say years, didn’t she?

  Before I can reply to her confession, her friend, Mecca McDonald, nudges her shoulder. "There are rumors of a raging after-prom party at Bronte's Peak; you guys wanna come?"

  Amelia turns her hopeful eyes to me. “What do you think, Ryan? Do you want to check it out?”

  I nearly ask Brax and Chris if they are open to the possibility of an early departure from prom, but my words trap in my throat when I see the enthusiasm on their faces. They are as eager to blow this joint as I am to leave this town for dust first thing tomorrow morning.

  “Sure, why not?” If it's my last night in this town, I may as well make it a good one.

  Amelia's face lights up when she smiles at my nonchalant reply. "Okay, great. Just give us five minutes to freshen up, then we’ll head out."

  The excited babbling of her and her friends sounds through my ears until they reach the ladies' restroom at the side of the ballroom. Just as they enter, a thick arm curls around my shoulders, while another presses something against my chest.

  "I know you've got some in your wallet but figure it wouldn't hurt to have a spare," Chris says, dropping his eyes to the condom he’s shoving into my suit-covered chest.

  “He hasn’t used it,” Brax laughs when I step back from the offending product like it has cooties. “Oh, hold on, maybe he has,” He views the condom from a safe distance. “Has that got puncture marks in it?”

  Not hearing the jeering in Brax’s tone, Chris scoops the condom off the floor to inspect it like a valuator would scrutinize a priceless gem.

  “I’m joking, you dimwit,” Brax reveals, snatching the condom out of Chris’s hand and slapping it back into my chest. “Use this. No matter what.” When I attempt to speak, he continues talking, cutting me off, “I don’t care that you’re leaving at ass-crack o’clock tomorrow morning. If one day you wake up and decide you want to come back to Ravenshoe, I don’t want a baby momma scaring you away.”

  His voice holds the same mocking sentiment he used when stirring Chris, but I heard the words he doesn’t want to say out loud. He’s afraid I’m never going to come back. I will—one day—maybe.

  Spotting Amelia and her friends heading our way, I snag the condom out of Brax's hand and hide it in my pocket.

  “That’s a boy,” Brax praises, assuming my eagerness to secure the condom is because I’m planning to use it. I’m not. I just don’t want Amelia to see it and assume I am. “Time to get back on that horse.”

  Rolling my eyes at him comparing my date to an animal, I shadow Amelia and her friends to our awaiting stretch limo.

  “He didn’t want you to make a mess in his back seat,” Brax stirs as I hand our driver his excessive tip at the entrance of Bronte’s Peak. “Some smells you can never get rid of.”

  When our middle-aged driver discovered the destination of the party we wanted to attend, he
refused to drive us here. It was only after I promised to pay him a substantial tip did he succumb to the plea of Amelia and her friends.

  His agreement came with two conditions. We weren't allowed to start our "shenanigans" until we were out of his vehicle and that he would drop us at the entrance of Bronte's Peak lookout, leaving the half-a-mile trek up the windy hill to our aching legs. Although not ideal, when the odds are stacked against you, you take what you can get.

  “Are you cold?” I ask Amelia as we begin our climb.

  She tightens her arms around her chest before replying, "A little." The goosebumps breaking across her skin strengthens her easy-going response.

  A flare ignites in Amelia’s eyes when I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispers, her low voice scarcely heard over her friends’ heavy sighs.

  I swear Mecca and Chloe have sighed over a hundred times tonight. They sighed when I presented Amelia with a corsage of her favorite flower. They sighed when I asked Amelia to wait so I could open the car door for her when we arrived at the hotel tonight. They even sighed when we kissed. I'm so tempted to tell them if they paid more attention to their dates instead of Amelia and me, they might have something more interesting to sigh over.

  “Do you know whose party this is?” I ask when the thump of bass wobbles my polished black dress shoes. “Looks pretty packed.”

  Amelia screws up her nose. “From what Chloe said during our drive, it's a private school in Hopeton.”

  I start breathing again at the end of her sentence. I was seconds away from having a coronary, suddenly mindful Ravenshoe High isn’t the only school in our district hosting proms this evening.

  “What was that school called again, Chloe?” Amelia asks, raising her voice to ensure it's heard over the waves battering the coastline.

  Usually, Bronte’s Peak is a peaceful beach located approximately twenty miles from Ravenshoe, but with a storm in the forecast, the ocean has become temperamental, lashing the rock caves lining the foreshore as violently as my heart smashed against my ribs when I was fearful this was Savannah’s after-prom party.