The driver slows for another stop, and my stomach rumbles. I really need to stop putting off eating lunch, or my stomach might wage a mutiny with the rest of my body. Pulling out my phone, I check to see what’s local. I really want a pretzel and a burger, but at this point I’ll take anything so long as it’s close by.
When the bus stops again after only just starting, I don’t look up. Unbothered by whoever is getting on late. Until the baby hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and an oh-too-familiar tone echoes from the front.
“Thanks, Man! I appreciate you stopping to let me on,” the voice says to the driver.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This can’t be possible.
My chest rises and falls in rapid succession as I peek through my lashes. My head is still buried in my knees, my hair falling to create a curtain between me and him. Still looking his way under hooded lids, the only thing I’m able to do is pray he doesn’t want to sit back here.
How is this my fucking luck? Two in two days? Seriously? This city is how fucking large and they both just happen to be in the places I am? Out of how many bus routes with how many different times during the day, Ryder gets on theonefucking bus I’m on.
He plants himself onto a seat around the middle without so much as a glance back, which I’m ever so grateful for. But I don’t want to take the chance that at some point he will look back this way and notice that I’m here. Leaning forward, I hit the button to signal for the next stop, the chirpy sound going off and notifying the driver.
I need every bit of luck to slide past him without being seen. Zipping my sweater up fully, and tucking my hair so it lays against my back, I pull my hood further forward to hide my face. The driver pulls up to the next stop and I head to the front, careful not to accidently graze him as I pass by. Right as I reach the doors, they swing open wide, the low thud of them hitting the edges, a welcome relief. I’m almost there, just a few steps more and the bus will head off.
The security that the sidewalk and citizens bring me has me letting out a long sigh. What are the chances that I run into both Max and Ry within the first forty-eight hours of me being in this city?
Taking off my hood and unzipping my sweater, I fan out my hair once again. It’s way too hot to have it done all the way up. A light breeze blows, splaying my hair out in every direction and causing it to fly in front of my face. It’s in my mouth, attached to my eyelashes and I can’t see shit all. Ugh. Maybe I should just cut all this damn length off. I hear bobs are back in…
Finally managing to throw it in a halfhazard bun on the top of my head, I pull out my phone to figure out where the hell I am and start walking to the nearest cross street. I need a meal, a beer, and to lay low in the motel for a few days. These close encounters are putting me on edge.
Chapter Seven
Ryder
Yet again, it’s another meeting and another crappy manager only looking to “keep the playing field even.” I’ve been through five different interviews since letting Ricardo go, all who are more concerned with coasting at the level I’m at than helping me move forward.
Is everyone scared of working, or what?
If this keeps up and more managers continue to act like this, I may just have to get down on my damn knees and beg Z’s manager to take me on. At least I know that he’s willing to put in the work it takes to actually improve your client. You’d think they’d want me to level up, more visibility—more matches. More matches—more money in their pocket.
Walking out of the high-rise building, I immediately head to the soft pretzel stand I spotted on my way in. The amazing smell of baked dough and melted butter has had my mouth watering for the last hour. Now, it’s finally time to savor the salty concoction. I haven’t had a fight in over a week, and I’m tired of sticking to my meal plan for nothing.
I don’t even have anything booked in the coming weeks, thanks to well, not having a fucking manager. No one wants to take a chance on a free agent, or give out information to someone who may or may not be an impersonator. My name carries a tiny bit of weight, but over a phone line, it means shit.
Frustration has begun to take its toll as my mind spins with facts, names, and pretzel toppings. When I get home, I think I need to hit the gym for a bit. I’m not sure if it’s this particular situation or the fact that tomorrow is Bear’s anniversary, but I need to pour these emotions into something.
My thoughts have been about Bear a lot the last few days. When Max confessed to Zane and me last night that he thought he saw her… I swear I heard my heart shatter. The raw devastation in his voice, the way his eyes sank back and his throat bobbed when he told us she was just gone again. I want nothing more than to go to him, to hold onto him and make him feel better.
If the roles were reversed, and I was in his shoes, I don’t know what I would do. If the illusion of her being there would help or hinder me more. Just watching the sorrow as an outsider had my heart wanting to crumble into a thousand pieces, breaking in the face of Max’s pain.
Addy and the others were a grade above me growing up. I’d had a crush on Addison since what felt like the day I could walk, but I never thought I’d be able to snag her. She was older, smarter, and had a heart made of gold and diamonds. She was everything I aspired to be, everything I wanted to portray. That girl was on a pedestal that wouldn’t lower in my eyes. Reigning from her throne over us peasants like the radiant queen she was.
When they went ahead and started middle school and I was left behind, I started thinkingWWADwhenever I got myself into a situation I couldn’t figure out.
What Would Addy Do?
It became my go-to line of questioning, until the day she went missing. When none of their bodies surfaced in local searches, my initial reaction was relief. There was still a chance, some small glimmer of hope that she’s still alive and in hiding. But after numerous years of searching, my relief had all but disintegrated. Giving way for anger and agony to take over.
The fights help. A way to release the pent up energy and emotion in a controlled environment, but my WWAD never returned. It’s like the longer she was away, the more my brain forgot how to be the boy I was. No longer about care and compassion and instead, aching for another fight.
As much as I’ve always wanted Addison to return to us, to be safe within our grasp, I’m terrified she'd be ashamed of who I’ve become. Thoughts of her walking away from me, too embarrassed to be seen with someone who now takes pleasure in fighting. Who gets a sense of euphoria when bones break and blood spurts, they cripple me at night. More often than not, I wake in a cold sweat, beads of dew dripping down my neck and chest, sticking to my skin. The haunting nightmare of Bear’s disappointed face, still fresh in my mind.
It’s not just me either. Zane and I are both the same, fighting is all we know. It’s become almost an obsession, every thought spent recalling what to do better, every free moment heading to the gym. It’s why this dry spell I’m on has me itchin’ and twitchin’ like a cow being attacked by flies.
Can take the boy outta Texas, but ya can’t take Texas outta the boy.
Max and Kade have found their ways of releasing emotion, and I’ve tried both, I really have. But it never ends in my brain turning off and my head calming down. Usually it ends in more frustration, and sand in places I’d rather not remember. They’re the calm and we’re the storm.
