He releases my hand as if only now realizing he still held it and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah. Of course,” he says, taking a step back.
I want to move with him. I want to throw my arms around his neck and kiss the crap out of him.
“Charlie?” my mom calls from the front door, effectively throwing ice water on my libido. “Is everything alright?”
Ryan jerks his head in my mom’s direction. “You should go talk to your mom. I’ll see you around?”
“Sure,” I say because right now, with my mom scrutinizing our every move, probably isn’t the most appropriate time to profess my love. “Bye, Ryan.”
He smiles, and though his tattoos and long hair might lead some to believe the worst of him, there’s nothing but kindness in those eyes.
I turn for the house, my mom watching anxiously from the doorway. Knowing her, she’s already pegged Ryan as trouble. My parents are good people, but open-minded, they are not.
“Baby,” she says, brushing the hair out of my face. She runs a finger under my eye, and it’s only then I realize my mascara is probably running in black streaks down my face.
Of course, the most time I’ve ever spent with Ryan, I’d look like death.
Wow. That was an incredibly stupid thought.
“Have you been crying?” Mom continues. “What happened? And who is that boy?”
I lay a hand on my mom’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside and I’ll explain.”
But I don’t explain because the moment we step inside my father comes barreling into the living room, cutting me off before I’ve even begun. “Charlotte Hayes, what in the Sam Hill are you doing coming home with that?” My father points toward thefront yard. His voice is dead calm, but his eyes seethe. The man rarely yells. It allows him to keep the upper hand when the rest of us inevitably lose our tempers. Somehow, even knowing this, I will inevitably end up yelling any time we argue. I can’t help it. He drives me crazy.
I take a deep breath, searching for some sort of calm amid all my conflicting emotions. “That was my friend, Ryan. He gave me a ride home.”
“On a motorcycle,” my mom chimes in, taking his side, like always.
I slap a hand over my mouth and gasp. “A motorcycle,” I say, my voice dripping sarcasm. “Oh. What shall I do?”
My father’s jaw is working so hard, I can practically hear his teeth grinding. “You are not to see that boy again. He’s trouble. Do you hear me, young lady?”
“Ryan is not trouble—”
“He’s a loser,” my father says, cutting me off.
“You don’t even know him,” I holler because now I’m pissed. “How dare you talk about him like that.”
“I don’t need to know him. All I have to do is look at him.”
“So long hair and a motorcycle automatically make someone a bad person? Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?”
“You’re a child. You don’t know anything—”
“I’m twenty years old,” I yell, throwing my arms in the air.
My mom lays a hand on my shoulder in a lame attempt to calm me down. “Charlie, please. The neighbors are going to hear.”
My father laughs, though there’s no humor in the sound. “She doesn’t care. If she cared about this family at all, she wouldn’t be rolling up to our house on the back of some long-hair’d punk’s motorcycle.”
“Stop talking about him like that.”
“I will say whatever I please. This is my house.” He swings out an arm and points toward the hallway, where I make out my 12-year-old sister’s tiny form hiding in the shadows. “Now, go to your room, and don’t come out until you’re ready to apologize.”
Yeah, right. When hell freezes over.
I’m too exhausted to deal with this anymore, so instead of arguing, I simply let out an angry huff and slog to my room. I’m stepping through my bedroom door when I hear a soft voice behind me. “You okay, Charlie?” Claudia asks and after all that’s happened, it’s that tiny bit of concern—the concern I’d expected from my parents—that brings tears to my eyes.
