Come on, Ryan. Talk to me, myboy.
“I don’t want to take off yourshirt.”
My stomach dropped and I stood up. Ryan never took my t-shirt off last night. He wanted that connection. He knew he needed that lastnight.
“I understand, but you’re ice cold and need to be in something dry. Tomorrow I will make sure you have a few extra t-shirts.”
“Okay. Um, do you want to hold or s-should I callback?”
“Ryan, I will hold and wait for you to change. Changeeverything.”
“Okay, I’ll be r-rightback.”
I heard him set the phone down and then I began to pace. I heard him open dresser drawers and fabric rustling around before he picked up the phoneagain.
“Okay, I’mback.”
“Good, Ryan. Is your pillowdamp?”
His laugh vibrated over the phone, and even though it had been a heavy laugh, the sound of his laugh still squeezed myheart.
“Yeah, my bed looks like a crime scene. There’s almost an outline of my body on thesheets.”
My poor boy.I ached to be there for him. He needed security and praise for calling me. I knew it wasn’t easy for him tocall.
“I understand why you woke up like that. Last night was a lot for you. I’m proud of you for telling me, thank you,Ryan.”
I stayed on the phone with Ryan for almost an hour, and by the time we had ended our call, I felt confident that Ryan was doing better. We planned for him to come over tomorrow; I needed to seehim.
I spent the morning making some arrangements for that afternoon, and I got on the phone with Nick and told him about last night. He was supportive, as I knew he’dbe.
With my eye on the clock, I prepped lunch for us and had finished putting the tray of food together when the doorbell rang. I told myself all morning that I needed to exercise extreme control around Ryan today. I needed to give him space so he would feel at ease to talk about anything that had been on his mind. My hand flexed when I opened the door and my eyes settled onhim.
My boy stood there in his jeans and worn baseball t-shirt. It looked like the kind of shirt that gets softer with each wash. His face had a day’s growth of hair on it, and in his hands, he held the t-shirt that I had given him to wear lastnight.
“Good afternoon, Ryan. Please, comein.”
I moved out of the way so he could stepinside.
“I brought your shirt.” Ryan held it up in case I hadn’t noticed it, and then he held it out toward me. “I washed it and used a whole cap of fabric softener,” he proudlyannounced.
“A wholecap?”
“Yeah, I wanted to make sure I returned it soft as I left withit.”
He started to get nervous because his hand gravitated to the back of his neck, and his cheeks were a pale shade ofpink.
“Fabric softener was okay to use, wasn’tit?”
Panic set in on his face and he looked down at the shirt’s inside back collar where the care instructions werestamped.
“Ryan—”
“I’m sorry, Russell.” He tilted the shirt towards a window where the natural light flooded into the entryway. “There wasn’t a tag on the shirt. So, I couldn’t see how it said to wash it. My t-shirts all have tags inside of them that have the washing instructions. I do have a shirt though that has a tag on the inside down by the hem.” Ryan unfolded the shirt and investigated the inside hemline again for a tag. “I checked the sides, and there wasn’t a tag. I’msor—”
“Stop,Ryan.”
He lowered his head slightly and nodded. Ryan’s eyes focused on my chest; he felt safe there to think and reflect. He was so concerned with making me happy or not disappointing me with the t-shirt. He folded up the shirt and held it out for me to take. I took the shirt and told him to look at me. When his big brown eyes latched onto mine, I smiled athim.
