L'été Dans B

Ryan was a lot of things.

He was fast, his lanky body providing little wind resistance.

He was tall, legs that could propel him further down the shaded sidewalk.

And he was stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The words beat further into his brain, like a well worn mantra, stamping a little further into his brain every time his heel came in contact with the earth below, making his ear drums throb.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. It was instinct, who was he to fight it?

Forgoing the search for a key, an action which would have taken way too long for Ryan's mounting impatience, (and after a moment's hesitation) he awkwardly scaled the 8 foot fence on the side of the house. After catching his jeans on the way over, he found himself sprawled belly first and slightly winded on the soft ground by the side of his house.

Uneasiness rose like bile in his throat and he fought the urge to spit it out, instead he swallowing guilt and fear down, burning his throat and settling uncomfortably in his stomach.

He was quite aware of what everyone in that room must have thought of him, what he looked like running away from a girl.

His mind wandered unbidden to her fingers in his palm and the brief look he had gotten of her. The place his mother prodded him throbbed at the thought of his sheepish stare.

Yes. He was stupid.

-----------

Not for the first time Sandra Ross found her only son face down in the side yard.

The position was one of utter defeat and for Ryan it was his body's way of recognizing something he couldn’t handle. The divorce aftermath looked something similar, she noticed ruefully, only then he was a lot shorter and not as skinny.

Kneeling down next to him in the supple grass, she placed a hand gently on his shoulder blade and pushed the thoughts of a chubby brown-haired, doe-eyed boy, crying in grief, aside.

His breathing was irregular, which told her that he was not asleep, and his whole body tensed under her palm before relaxing once more.

Sandra ignored the dirt and grass staining her nice skirt and sat down next to him, crisscrossing her legs before her. The two sat in silence, California's sun swallowing them up.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" his subdued voice came from within the cradle of his arms, so soft Sandra almost didn’t catch it.

"No," she smiled at his back, even though he couldn’t see. "I don't. I just feel bad for Amanda. I told her you must have gotten sick and now she's worried her deviled eggs gave everybody food poisoning."

In the safety of his arms, Ryan cracked a minuscule smile despite himself.

Silence spread over the shaded side yard as the sun winked between crowded trees. It was sometime before Sandra moved or spoke again and when she did it was too stand up and say quietly, "I worry about your reaction to your future wife," before gracefully walking away to start an early supper.

When her footsteps disappeared and the back door shut with a decisive click, Ryan rolled on his back. He grimaced at the tightness in his muscles and he curved his spine upward, hips off the ground till his bones snapped into place and relief flooded his body.

The grass was still warm in the shade and Ryan began to sweat in his jeans and hoodie. Deciding he had enough moping in self pity and shame, he rolled himself off the ground, standing on shaky legs and un-cracked ligaments.

It was time to deal with this. If he could pretend to be okay in her presence again, if the opportunity ever arose, then he could accomplish almost anything.

-------------

That night Ryan opened his window and folded himself underneath it, guitar on his lap.

It might have been overkill, the hiding beneath the window, but the moon was bright that night and he didn’t want to risk anyone, well, a specific someone, seeing inside.

Seeing him.

He knew that window belonged to her. He felt it in her fingers, felt that they were strong despite their boniness, and he knew that she played that piano and it wasn’t her musical grandparents up at 3 in the morning.

And he knew she was there, with her window open.

For some unexplainable reason, he wanted her to know that he too had passion for music.

And so he found himself underneath the window, hoping in the back of his mind for the chance she may hear and understand.

Blinking in the darkness he drew the scraps of paper across to the wooden floor to the space in front of him. The song was coming together, its music and lyrics in the final stages.

His thoughts wandered back home to Spencer and his father, which in actuality was the first time he had really thought of the latter all summer.

He wasn’t exactly worried, per say. He was sure his father was fine without him. It was the house Ryan was mostly concerned about.

He shook his head, he wasn’t here to worry about those things, but for some reason the thoughts of his father sparked something in his brain.

His fingers began to move.

------

Somewhere across the quiet street a slight figure sat alone at an upright piano, the smallest of smiles playing on her lips as the last words of a song hung in the air before her.

She knew it, had felt it in his fingers, in the calluses dotting his spindly fingers, that he truly loved his art, that he just wasn’t some strange kid with a guitar.

The girl smiled and drew her fingers along ivory keys before turning away.

Now to meet him.