Bring Me Back(77)

“Mhm.” I nod, trying not to stare. My skin prickles with awareness, tightening all over. I hurry into the car before I do something stupid.

Inside the car, Ryder turns the heat on despite the fact that it’s nearly ninety degrees today. We need it, though, thanks to the chill from the water.

“I’m sorry we have to cut our date short,” he says a few minutes later.

I look away from the window. “I don’t want it to be over,” I admit.

He looks surprised. “Really?” I nod. “We could hang out at my house? Dry our clothes? I have a ton of movies, or we could just talk, or—” he rambles endearingly.

I reach over and touch the tips of my fingers to his forearm. His muscle tightens at my touch. “That sounds great.”

Ryder looks nervous, but happy. I can understand his nervousness. I’m not normally so forward so he’s probably afraid that it might end up being too much for me and I’ll get scared again. Maybe I will, but I don’t know if I don’t try, and I want to spend more time with him. I’m not ready for today to end. For the first time in seven months, I feel like a normal woman again, and that’s not a feeling I’m ready to give up.

We both grow quiet the rest of the drive. I think we’re both too lost in our thoughts to speak, but there’s no awkwardness in the silence, which is nice—it reminds me of what my mom used to say to me.

“Find a man that even in silence you’re comfortable with. That’s a telling factor, B. If someone makes you nervous to the point that you have to chatter endlessly, then they’re not the person for you. You need to be able to communicate without saying a word.”

Those words came back to me many times over the years as I was dating and would inevitably encounter the wall of awkward silence. Until I met Ben. There was no awkward silence with him, only comfort, and now I felt the same with Ryder.

“We’re here,” Ryder says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I look up to see that we’re parked in his driveway.

My dress is still damp and sticks to my body. I slide off the leather seat and it makes this horrible squishing sound.

“I feel gross,” I announce, meeting Ryder at the trunk where he grabs his shirt and the cooler.

“Me too,” he agrees. I follow him up the front porch and inside the house. He drops the cooler in the sink and turns around, bracing his hands behind him. He’s still shirtless and the movement flexes all of his muscles. I swallow thickly and force my eyes up. “I don’t know about you, but I want to shower.”

I nod in agreement. “Y-Yeah, a shower would be nice,” I stutter, completely distracted by him. He’s beautiful in a different sort of way—and being a guy, he’d probably hate that I think he’s beautiful, but he is, not just in his appearance but who he is as a person is beautiful.

“Okay.” He claps his hands together. “Showers are upstairs. Come on. I’m sure I have a shirt you can borrow.”

I follow him upstairs and I can’t help but glance into the rooms. There’s a guest room that also appears to double as an office space, a bathroom, Cole’s room, and at the end of the hall: Ryder’s room.

It’s obvious to me that he must’ve redecorated the room after his wife died. Unlike the rest of the house, it looks like a bachelor pad. The bed is unmade and there’s stuff cluttered everywhere—papers, coffee mugs, and laundry. It’s not dirty, more lived in, and it gives me a bit of insight into who Ryder is. He keeps the rest of his house spick and span, but this room—his space—is a mess, and I wonder how much of a reflection it is of him. Is he calm, cool, and collected on the outside and a mess on the inside? I don’t mean that in a bad way. I, personally, find that there’s beauty in chaos—if it’s the right kind of chaos.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “I would’ve cleaned up if I would’ve known you were coming over.”

“It’s okay.” I dismiss his concern with a wave of my hand.

He rifles through a dresser drawer and pulls out a shirt and holds it up. It’s navy with a faded logo on the front.

“This should work,” he says, handing it to me. “I have some old basketball shorts in here somewhere that are too small,” he muses, moving to another drawer. “I meant to throw them away and never bothered. A-ha,” he exclaims and holds them up proudly. “Here they are.”

“Thanks.” I take those from him too.

“Wait here,” he says. “I have some extra soap in my bathroom. You’ll either smell like a man or a toddler, though …” he trails off.

I laugh and clutch the clothes against my chest. “That’s okay.”

I watch as he goes into the attached bathroom and rifles through the bottom cabinet. He comes back with body wash and shampoo. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to wash your hair,” he says, clearing his throat.

I hold my arms out so he can pile the bottles on top of the clothes. “I probably should. Who knows what’s in that river water.”

“Shower’s down the hall,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

“That’s okay.” I edge toward the door. “I saw it on the way up.”

“Oh, okay.” He stands there nervously. We’re both on edge, not knowing what the right thing to do or say is. Maybe if we were both normal—not tainted by losing ones we love—we wouldn’t feel that way. Maybe things wouldn’t feel so … foreign.