Page 121 of Moros

We sat in the backseat of the truck to eat while the heater blew hotness back to keep us warm.

“This feels like a date.” Ryanne leaned her head against my shoulder while chewing.

“It does, doesn’t it?” I mused.

The sounds of a busy street on a calm night filled the air.

“You know I wouldn’t have left with her, right?” I asked. “You didn’t have to kick her ass.”

“Yes, I did.” Ryanne replied. “Or she would have thought she could keep doing that shit to me every time we saw each other. All throughout high school, she made my life hell. I guess I was stupid enough to think age would change her.”

“She’s miserable, Shorty. You see that right?”

“I doubt it. She married Travis Michaels—high school football captain.” Ryanne whispered almost in worship. “His parents owned, like, half the city. Anything he wanted—a new car before he was old enough to drive? Sure! They had the Victor Newman Money.”

“The who?”

She looked up at me, gasped as if I was the most uncool person on the planet, then settled in again.

“And she bagged him.”

“Most football players peak in high school.” I informed her. “They graduate and get too focused on their high school glory that they don’t really amount to much. I’m sure if I have Boss look up this Travis guy, you’ll see I’m right. In high school, Brianne is the kind of girl who thinks she’s scored a good thing then realize too late that she didn’t.”

Ryanne lifted her head for another bite.

“Now, she’s married to this man,” I said. “Who’s coming home later and later. Going on more and more business trips and always comes home smelling like another woman’s perfume with strange scratches on his neck he can’t account for. When she finds out who he’s working late, she realizes this woman is younger than her—barely legal if Travis is lucky. So, she starts with the body modifications to look like this woman because she believes this is what Travis is into now. At first, it’s only a little botox to look nineteen again. When that doesn’t bring his attention back to her, she up the ante to fillers in the lips, then the boobs, then the BBL?—”

“BBL?”

“Brazilian butt lift—don’t ask.” I batted a wrist at her. “My point is?—”

“We’re coming back to the BBL later.”

I chuckled. “Your ass is fine. I don’t want you pumping crap into your body.”

She stared into my eyes for an eternity before kissing me and going back to her food.

“My point is,” I said. “You can tell she’s miserable. She sees you’re happy and she wants to wreck it. I saw through her the moment I heard her voice.”

“I told you, I didn’t think you would go with her.” Ryanne reminded me. “I trust you.”

I closed my eyes.

I can’t trust you, Ryanne. Correction, I don’t trust you.

“About what I said in Jamaica that time.”

“What did you say?” She picked off a piece of pickle and popped it into her mouth. “I mean, you’ve said tons of things.”

“When I said I didn’t trust you?—”

“We’re far away from that.”

“I trust you, Ryanne.” I admitted out loud for the first time. “You’ve proven yourself over and over—I don’t want you to go on thinking I don’t.”

She nodded.

“I know,” Ryanne said. “And I love you.”

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