Shit.
I force myself to relax, wanting to help, if only in this small way. I want him to know I’m safe, so I do what I would do with my brothers.
I scroll and click on another video from a recent practice. “All right, partner.” I drum up confidence that’s currently non-existent, turning my phone toward him. “Want to check out what practice is like while you eat?”
I hold my phone to the side, not making him come any closer, while Kerry observes patiently. I talk, scrolling through videos and telling him every detail of what we do during practice.
Eventually, he sits, keeping a foot between us, and nibbles on a chip while we watch videos. As his small frame slowly begins to relax, I can only think about what Ryder told me.
She said I couldn’t unsee the things she’s seen and the places she’s been. It didn’t make sense. But with this terrified boy beside me and everything I’ve witnessed, I understand perfectly now. I can’t unsee this.
But the severe ache spreading in my gut warns that I’ve barely seen anything.
______
I punch in the code, and we both stop just inside my apartment. It’s sometime after 1:00 a.m.—a lifetime since we left for the stadium this morning.
I spent thirty minutes watching videos and talking to the boy before Ryder returned and explained that we’d be leaving. She reassured him he would be safe and promised she’d be back.
He hadn’t spoken a word until we stood to leave, but his delicate voice surprised us all, asking if I’d come back. I dropped to a squat and told him we had a lot more videos to watch.
I roll my neck, my body aching more from the tension than the after-effects of getting sacked twice in the game.
I glance at Ryder as her hand slides over her stomach, and she runs for the sink. I quickly follow, pulling her hair away from her face as the minuscule contents of her stomach splatter into the sink. She heaves again and spits, bracing her hands on the counter.
Her head hangs as she swipes at her face.
I don’t know if they’re from retching or actual tears, but I imagine it’s her body’s attempt to purge whatever she faced.
She takes a few deep breaths and steps away. “Sorry,” she says softly.
“Ryder—”
She shakes her head, stopping me. “I have to sweep the apartment and shower.” She steps away, her gaze never leaving the floor.
The physical distance she’s creating matches the emotional distance she’s determined to maintain. I want to ask if she’s ok, but I can see she’s not, and now isn’t the time to push.
I nod. “Ok.”
When she’s cleared the apartment, I step into the hottest shower I can stand, wondering if it will ease any part of the nightmare I have no choice but to accept is real. The horror, I have no doubt, is a part of Ryder’s everyday life.
I turn the water off suddenly, suffocated by the heat and steam.
I quickly pull on shorts and sit on the edge of the bed. I rest my elbows on my knees, inhaling and exhaling as my body relaxes and returns to a normal temperature.
“Hey.”
Ryder stands in my doorway in baggy gray sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt with her hands fisted at her sides. The swelling and redness on her cheekbone are beginning to turn blue.
“Hey.” I straighten.
Her tired, sad eyes stare at me, then she blinks a few times. “I. . . I need your help.”
There’s only been one other time this woman has asked me for help, and I know enough now that those words cost her every time she says them.
I grab the T-shirt beside me and tug it over my damp skin. “Ok.”
She doesn’t move. “I have a cut, and I can’t reach it.”
