Page 17 of Reaching Ryan

Chapter Eight

Grace

It’s him.

Ryan.

He’s sitting on Patrick’s cousin’s chest, covered in mud, growling and snarling like a wild animal. When he heard Molly, he froze. Looked right at us. I’ve never wanted to snatch Moll up and run so fast in my life.

“Is that Uncle Patrick down there?”

I look away from the two men on the ground and down at Molly to find her staring up at me, a curious expression on her face. She doesn’t seem scared, so I do my best to keep my tone light. “Nope,” I tell her reaching for her hand. “That’s his cousin, Con—”

“Come on, Moll,” my mom says talking over me. “Let’s go inside.” She pulls Molly away from me and whisks her up the sidewalk, my dad following in their wake, leaving me to stand here by myself.

Thanks, mom.

As soon as the screen door bangs closed behind them, Con speaks.

“Good job, fuckface—” he gripes as he pushes Ryan off of him and struggles to stand. “Way to make a first impression.” Looking down at the dirt smeared across his shirt, he shakes his head. “You can be the one to explain to your sister why I look like I just went ten rounds with a naked mud wrestler.” Despite his anger, Conner reaches down to offer a hand up to Ryan. When all Ryan does is glare up at him from the ground, Con sighs and takes his hand back. “Suit yourself, you stubborn asshole.”

Not sure what to do, I stand there and watch Conner pull a few dozen burgers off the grill before shutting it off. Seeing my chance to make a break for it, I hurry toward him. “I can take those inside for you,” I offer, reaching for the platter in his hand.

“Nah—” He gives me a flat smile and shakes his head. “I got it. Someone’s going to have to go inside and do damage control,” he says, skirting around me. I stare at his retreating back until it disappears with another bang of the screen door.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Ryan and I are alone.

Because retreat would make me a coward, I turn away from the house to find him still sitting on the ground, glaring up at me. Dirty jeans. Grimy sweatshirt. Swollen knuckles from where he pounded Conner in the face.

“You got a shirt on under that?” I ask, jerking my chin at his sweatshirt. When he nods, I make a gimme gesture with my hand. He hesitates, but only for a few seconds before peeling it off and tossing it to me. I catch it, turning toward the cooler where I flip the lid open and scoop a couple handfuls of ice into the sweatshirt to create a makeshift icepack. Finished, I carry it back to where Ryan is still sitting on the ground. Hunkering down next to him, I hold it out. “Here.” When all he does is keep glaring at me, I sigh. “Conner’s right—you really are a stubborn asshole,” I say, reaching out, I grab his injured hand and turn it over to plop the ice pack onto his knuckles. “Do you remember meeting me last night?” I ask, suddenly reminded of what he said to me last night. That there was a good chance he wouldn’t. “At Cari’s show. You—”

“Grace,” he says my name, his tone low and rough. “I remember.”

For some reason, relief floods through me. “I wasn’t sure.” I chance a look up, flashing him a quick smile. “Last night you made it sound like you were gonna go all Memento on me.”

He frowns at me. “Memento?”

“Yeah—you know like the movie.” I blush, the heat of it rushing up my neck and across my cheeks when all he does is stare at me some more. “Guy Pierce? He has retrograde amnesia—wakes up every morning and can’t remember the day before. He gets these tattoos to remind himself…” I look down at his hand in mine. “Nevermind—it was a stupid thing to say.” Shaking my head, I force myself to look him in the eye. “I want to apologize for the way I behaved last night. You did a nice thing for a total stranger and I treated you like some slimy guy trying to pick me up in a night club.” I give him another smile, this one feels awkward. Almost embarrassed. “I’m not always like that, it’s just that guy really—”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do.” I huff out a frustrated breath when he just looks at me. “I was out of line and I—”

“No.” He shakes his head and makes that sound again. “I mean, you don’t have to apologize for last night because I don’t remember it.”

“Oh…” I can feel my face crumple in confusion. “I thought you said you remembered me.”

“I do.” He lifts his gaze, aiming it at the top of my head to let it drift downward. “I remember your hair was loose and your dress was blue,” he tells me, and I have to stifle the urge to pull the ponytail holder out of my hair. “And I remember that we talked but not about what or why.” His mouth quirks at its corners, too fast and tight to be called a smile. “You could’ve accused me of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby and I wouldn’t know it.”

“If you don’t remember, then how do you know I don’t owe you an apology?”

That sound again. “Because ten times out of ten, I’m the asshole in any given scenario.”

He’s wrong. He was blunt and a bit gruff last night, but he wasn’t an asshole. Because I’m on the verge of saying it and making this whole situation even more awkward than it already is, I clear my throat and nod my head. “If you say so,” I tell him, starting to pull my hand from under his. “I’ll just leave you—”

His fingers curl around mine, stopping my retreat. “I don’t have amnesia.” When I look up at him, he’s frowning again, like he’s trying to put a particularly difficult puzzle together. “I have brain damage. My head’s full of holes—like Swiss cheese. Dead spots.” His frown deepens into a scowl. “Sometimes I’m fine and sometimes I can’t remember what happened five minutes ago. Mostly it’s small things. What I had for breakfast. What day it is. Where I live.” He looks embarrassed about what he’s saying and he gives me a shrug. “Con says it’ll get better. That my brain just needs to build new synapses or some shit.” He makes that sound in the back of his throat again. “I guess he’d know—he has a doctorate in cognitive neuroscience.”

Since I’m pretty sure he has no idea what he’s saying, I let the fact that he just told me that the tatted-up mechanic his sister is about to marry is a doctor slide right past me. “You want to tell me what that was about?” It’s none of my business. I barely know him. Should’ve gone inside when Conner did. Left him out here to brood and fend for himself. “What were you and Conner fighting about?”

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