Page 119 of Paint the Town, Dove
And someone’s voice filled my head, a sweet sound of a girl I used to love. One who also sang a duet with Ryden.
Long before he wasRyden Spectre.
Long before she passed away.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Scarlett
Eleven Years Ago
Emory’s foster parents took us in after Emory explained to them the situation. Ryden was equal parts embarrassed, pained and grateful, while I was just angry.
We never ended up finding out where the rest of the money went. My best guess, Corban scooped it on the way out and slapped Clara into keeping her mouth shut.
It’s behind us. We’re in our own rooms now.
Ryden graduated last month, and I still had one last year to go. I didn’t tell anyone I was thinking of dropping out of high school, because if Ryden could go a year in turmoil, a shell of himself with no mother and no home, then I could power through.
Couldn’t I?
I said fuck that the second September rolled around, and begged Sinead and Flack to pull me out. It didn’t take much convincing. They were just grateful I didn’t need to steal backpacks from the thrift anymore to replace my old ones. You’d be surprised how easy they tear, when the weight of the world is disguised in books and ballpens.
When clearing out Ryden’s place, we found the property deed to the house in his name. “So… this is yours?” I’d said.
At seventeen, what was he going to do with it? I could see the gears turning in his head. He couldn’t even touch the damn walls without feeling like someone’s little boy again.
But Ryden was an artist. And all of his emotions took the form of a song.
When he sang, it was raw, strained from the bowels of pain, and it was magical.
I convinced him to record himself, then took the footage and uploaded it to every possible streaming website I could. YouTube was my personal favourite.
When he turned eighteen a few months ago, he hired help to sell his mom’s house, and played Harley while we waited for everything to unfold.
“It’s a rundown home,” he said, scooping ramen into his mouth, “I don’t think I’ll get much for it.”
“A house is a house,” I pressed, “who else our age can say they’re selling one?”
A shadow passed over his eyes. “Who else our age got abandoned by their only parent?”
I swallowed, shaking my head. “Me, me you dummy. Me and you, we’ve got this. When you sell your old house, all of those memories die with it. We… we’ll make new ones.” I grabbed the laptop, turned it around. “With your new fan base!”
His legs were gangly and long like a spider, muscular and weighty. When he grabbed the laptop from the bed, the ramen almost toppled over onto the keys. I dove for it, shoving my body onto his knees, like a fucked up game of twister.
“Got it, the soup is safe,” I chuckled.
I turned to face him, my head on his lap, his arms cradling me with gentleness. Slowly, he moved the laptop away, hand hovering over my thigh. “You alright down there?”
My cheeks burned with heat. “Just stretching.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but Emory busted through the door, shieldingher eyes. “OH NO! ARE YOU DECENT? I CAN’T SEE!”
I threw a pillow at her face, moving off of Ryden. A dimple poked from his cheek as he glanced down at the place I rested.
“You moron, I was saving our dinner.”
Emory moved towards the bed, jumping up beside Ryden. “What are we watching… OU! It’s you! My favourite little narcissist,” Emory squeezed his cheek.
