Page 61 of Reaching Ryan

Chapter Twenty-five

Ryan

I’ll take care of you.

That’s what I was going to say to her.

I’ll take care of you, Grace.

Which just goes to show how out of control this whole fucking thing with her has gotten.

I mean, I’ve got brain damage for fuck’s sake—I can’t even remember my own middle name half the goddamned time. I can’t take care of a fucking house plant, let alone a woman and her kid.

And on the heels of that revelation, what do I do? I force myself on her by insisting that I be the one to drive her to her appointment.

What the hell made me think I’d be able to get her across Boston, in the middle of rush-hour, on a Friday no less, in less than an hour?

Forty-seven minutes to be exact, after showering and raiding Patrick’s closet for something to wear that doesn’t look like it’d been slept in.

And seriously—I’m not even 100% sure I even remember how the drive a car in the first place.

Grace seems to share my concern, because when we hit the sidewalk in front of the bright-yellow roller skate that she calls a car, and I hold my hand out for her keys, she hesitates for a second before handing them over.

It’s nothing but pure, stubborn male pride that has me plucking them from her grip.

Clicking the fob, I unlock her door and open it, ushering her inside with an overly solicitous wave of my hand. “Your chariot.”

Grace flips me off before climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door in my face.

By the time I round the back of the car and settle into the driver’s seat, we’re down to forty-three minutes and Grace has Google Maps pulled up on her phone.

“Seriously?” I stab the key into the ignition and give it a crank while giving her a once over.

“Just in case,” she says with a shrug, aiming her gaze out the window.

Because it’s never hurt to have a plan B and because I’m probably even more doubtful that I can pull this off than she is, I swallow the shitty remark bubbling in my throat and focus on remembering how to drive. At least it’s an automatic. If it were a stick shift, I’d be dead in the water because there’s no way I could operate a clutch with my fucked-up leg.

“You need to disenga—”

“I know,” I growl at her, dropping my hand to release the parking brake.

And then the weirdest thing happened.

I remembered.

No grappling.

No reaching.

I just remember.

Gripping the shifter, I move it into drive and checked my mirrors before shooting into traffic, as smooth as you please. My hands relax on the steering wheel and I settle deeper into my seat. Anxiety and worry seeps from my bones and I feel like me again.

I feel like Ryan.

Not Sergeant O’Connell.

Not Henley’s fucked-up brother.

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