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Post by american09mutt on Aug 2, 2009 0:20:48 GMT -5
Standing in the bleachers, the scent of nachos and stale sweat permeate the air. Your cheers blend in with the roar of the crowd around you. Adrenaline rushes through you as you watch the Celtics score, tying the game just before halftime. Your throat raw and scratchy, you ask your boyfriend to go grab you a soda. He grudgingly gets up and walks up the bleachers toward the exit. Your eyes are drawn toward the players leaving the wooden floor, headed to the locker room. This has been a dream of yours since you were a kid, watching the game in real life. Your dad was a huge Celtics fan, and now you get to live out this dream.
Your boyfriend comes back just as the buzzer sounds, starting the second half. He got you a small root beer, and for himself he bought a large coke and some nachos. You glance at him disgustedly as he digs into his nachos, making a mess with the cheese. You just hand him some wet naps, wondering what it was you see in him. He’s handsome enough, with his sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. But he’s built like a jock, all muscle and no tenderness in his touch. Across the court you see a group of guys all laughing and talking.
One in particular catches your attention, because among the pandemonium, he is sitting still. The black-haired man is sitting in his seat intently watching the game, cheering whenever the Celtics scored. His sharp features seem to change every time he moves his head, his face alternating between pensive and exhilarated.
You snap your attention away, and watch the rest of the game as if in a trance. In the end, the Celtics win 87 to 72. You’re disappointed by the low scores, but the two teams were very evenly matched, making it harder for either to score. You are just gathering up your coat to head out, when the people around you start clapping and jeering at you. Confused, you glance around. Then you notice you and your boyfriend up on the jumbo-tron, encircled by a big red heart. You turn to look at disbelievingly at your boyfriend, and you can see that his face is still covered in nacho cheese.
He tries to kiss you, but you shove him away; sadly not soon enough. The unnaturally yellow cheese smears across your sweater, leaving an ugly greasy stain. You back away from your now ex-boyfriend, and scramble up the bleacher steps toward the exit. Doing your best to cover your face, you make your way to the bathroom to remove the cheese smeared across your chest. You dab at it ineffectually, getting the worst off, but the greasy stain is deeply ingrained in the fabric. You put your jacket on to try and cover it, then head outside.
It’s while you’re standing in the dim light of the parking lot that you realize you have no way to get home. Your boyfriend drove you both there, and without him you can’t leave. Sighing, you turn to go back inside, determined to put up with him long enough to get safely home. In the doorway, silhouetted against the tall glass doors, is your boyfriend. You can make out his figure leaning against the doorframe, bending over a smaller form.
Your face flushes with embarrassment when you figure out what’s going on. He’s picking up another girl, just like that. The young woman is obviously college age, and giggling like a complete flake. Instead of stopping, you walk past as if you didn’t notice him. Once you’re out of his sight, you collapse against the wall. Nobody is in sight, so you just let the tears come, falling down your face as you sob silently. Now you have no way home, and you know you were dating a pig.
“You okay miss?” you hear a voice behind you say, obviously concerned. The tone is soft, but the man’s voice has a slight raspy quality to it. You can feel your heart respond before you even have the chance to look up. Your traitor heart starts racing, excited by the sultry sound of his voice. You berate yourself silently for even being attracted to a man so soon after you’ve been hurt. You manage to look up, wiping the tears away with your sleeve. The sight of him stops you in mid-motion.
The man in front of you isn’t tall, just a bit above average. But the way he carries himself is calm and relaxed, putting you at ease almost at once. His steely blue eyes are creased in a small frown, his face openly caring. His dark black hair shines like a raven’s wing, reflecting different colors as he moves. You manage to nod in answer to his question, but break down in sobs, belying your true feelings.
“I saw what happened up on the screen, and I saw your man by the door. I’m sorry that happened to you. Please stop crying, you’re too pretty to cry.” His last words make you look up, giving him a watery half-smile. His hand appears on your shoulder, gently comforting without being too familiar. He smiles carefully at you, trying to entice a bigger smile from you. You oblige him, but are a bit surprised by your reaction. “Well there now, look at that lovely smile. Man doesn’t know what he’s doing, if he can ignore a smile like that!”
You grin back at him, the tears stopping as your mood lightens. “The name’s Ryan, miss.” He offers his hand and you shake it lightly, trying to keep your confused heart from jumping ship. You somehow stutter out your name between small hiccups, smiling shyly up at him. “He was your ride home though, wasn’t he?” the man asks. Your mood drops back into the black pit from whence it came. The sobbing starts anew, this time giving way to muffled whimpering noises as you stuff your face into your hands. Before you know it, two strong arms are encircling you, and your head is up against the taught muscle of the man’s chest.
You relax into his grasp, comforted by the proximity of his body. But your brain clears just enough for you to realize what you’re doing. You just had your heart broken and now you’re letting yourself be comforted by some mystery man! Perhaps he even saw what happened and thought he could ‘comfort’ you all the way to your house. You raise your head, determined to tell him to leave you be, but the look on his face wipes your mind of all thought. The rebellion in you fades away as he looks tenderly down at you through his dark lashes.
This man doesn’t want to take you home he just wants to make sure you’re safe. You don’t even know him, but you can just tell. Once your tears are dry, he releases you. You think he may be reluctant to let you go, but you can’t tell for sure. He masks his feelings so well, only showing you his concern for your well being. He offers you a ride to anywhere a block from your house, anticipating your desire to keep your residence anonymous. He pulls up to the curb and shuts off the engine. Opening the door, he walks around the car to get your door for you.
You take the hand he offers and step out of the car. The two of you stand there awkwardly for a minute or two, unsure of each other’s thoughts. Ryan looks nervously at you, then away. He takes a deep breath and says in a rush “Could I have your number? I don’t want to hook up or anything, but I wouldn’t mind checking in with you in a day or two, just to see how you’re holding up.”
He looks pretty uncertain, his cool composure forgotten in his haste. You give him your cell number and tell him to call you in two days. You then hug him tightly as he whispers goodnight to you. Without any idea why you just did that, you walk off down the street toward your house, all safety measures forgotten. After taking a hot shower to calm your frayed nerves, you put on soft pajamas and fall into bed. That night you dream of a dark stranger whose appearance and demeanor are polar opposites.
The next couple of days are spent curled up in bed watching soap operas and eating chocolate. It isn’t your boyfriend you miss; it’s the companionship he brought with him into the relationship. Your phone rings the morning of the second day, at 6am. You groan and pull yourself out of bed, blearily staring at the number on your cell. You don’t recognize it, but decide to answer, just because you want to talk to someone.
You sit bolt upright when you hear a gentle but rough voice on the other end of the line. “How are you this morning? Have you left your house since I dropped you off the other night?” You admit that you’ve been wallowing, and he offers you a simple trade to cheer you up. “I’ll take you out to breakfast if you come jogging with me.” You agree grudgingly; not wanting to leave home, but eager to see him again. Ryan holds some kind of fascination for you, a man that is at once extremely attractive and respectfully distant.
Ryan takes you out jogging in a nearby park. The tight grey t-shirt hugs his biceps and his muscular calves peek out below his long shorts. After a few minutes of stretching, both of you awkwardly trying not to stare at one another, you set off. The cool morning air refreshes you as it wakes you up. Your muscles burn after two days of inactivity, but you push through it gratefully. You do your best to keep up with him, but you can tell he’s holding back to keep pace with you.
Pleasantly warm from your run, you both walk the last hundred yards to a local mom ‘n pop breakfast place. You eat greedily, feeling alive for the first time in days. Ryan watches you eating happily, silently pleased with himself for getting you to come out. After breakfast he walks you home, taking the same route you took out. The two of you chat about work and family, anything but relationships and heartache. At your door he hugs you goodbye, holding on longer than necessary, but you aren’t complaining.
Your self control boggles your own mind. You can’t believe how well you’ve behaved yourself in his presence, given your physical reactions to his close proximity. But you don’t want to ruin this newly budding friendship, so you rein yourself in. As you make your way up to your bathroom to shower, you can’t help feeling grateful for his existence. If he hadn’t come to your rescue, you’d be in a very sorry state indeed.
Every day for the next 6 weeks Ryan calls you, and you go out for a jog with him. Regular as clockwork, you get up at 6am and go meet Ryan in the park, then go out to breakfast. It becomes part of your routine, a relaxing and enjoyable part of your day that helps you cope with everything else. Then one day you meet him at your usual spot, and he looks guilty and sad. He explains that he has to go away for a week or so for work. As he’s talking you can tell he’s about to cry. You’ve gotten better at reading his emotions over the last month and more, and you can see right through that calm exterior he puts on.
You give him a big hug and tell him that it’s alright, that you can manage without him for a single week. He looks relieved, and makes you promise to go running every day that he’s gone. You give him a solemn promise, and Ryan looks content. He starts stretching, and you watch his muscles slide smoothly under his skin. Trying not to stare, you turn your back and begin stretching yourself out as well. When you finish, you turn back around to find Ryan staring wide-eyed at you. He quickly recovers and takes off running, daring you to catch up.
For the week he’s away you diligently get up to jog every morning. Ryan calls several times to check in with you, telling you about where he’s staying, talking a bit about his work. You ask him all about Celtic Thunder. He tells you a bit about it, sounding a more than a little embarrassed while talking about his songs. You tease him about the song titled “Heartbreaker”, and ask if you’re ever going to hear him sing it. “Well we go back on tour in a month or so. I guess you could come and tell me what you think.” He says slowly, completely unsure of himself.
He’s wondering if you’ll understand his on-stage persona, and be able to accept that part of him. You’re wondering how the sweetest man you’ve ever met could possibly be nicknamed the ‘Dark Destroyer’. Despite both of your misgivings, plans are made for you to attend a concert in one months’ time. You’re going to have front row seats, so good or bad; you’ll be able to see Ryan in all his stage-performing glory.
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Post by american09mutt on Nov 30, 2009 1:19:29 GMT -5
Ryan leaves a week before you to fly out, getting everything ready for the tour season to start. You spend that week packing and repacking, not sure what to wear or what you’re going to do in the city while you’re there. You are at once excited to meet the rest of Celtic Thunder, and to hear Ryan singing, and terrified that the other guys in the group won’t like you.
Maybe one of them will be very handsome, and sweep you off your feet? Your mind hums pleasantly at the thought of a handsome Irishman falling desperately in love with you. Playing in your mind, it sounds like a silly romance novel, so you try to push it away and ignore the idea.
You hop on a plane and fly to the city, eager to be reunited with your dear friend. He’s busy with rehearsals and everything, so you decide to go to the mall to relax and get something to eat after checking into the hotel. Walking through the main doors, your eyes light on a group of women who aren’t eating, but are sprawled across three tables, chatting. Your first thought is to walk right by them, but just as you go to do so, one of them turns around. Plastered across her chest is that familiar raven hair and icey eyes you care for so well.
Standing in total shock, in the middle of the food court, you gape at the woman. She looks back at you in confusion, but walks over to talk to you. “You like the shirt?” she asks casually. Snapping out of your stupor, you nod at her, explaining that you were planning on attending their concert that night. Giggling behind you alerts you to the presence of a young women of about 16 years of age, who is standing nearby. She’s also wearing a shirt with Ryan’s face on it, but he’s accompanied by the other four members of Celtic Thunder.
The adorable young dark-haired one is apparently the little rascal Ryan’s been telling you about, named Damian. His young face offset by those vibrantly blue eyes. The blonde you recall is named Keith, and he’s also quite good looking. His dimples and eyes have a dreamy faraway look to them. Paul must be the man grinning off to the side, forcing you to smile just by looking at the picture of him. And finally the bald one, George. His attractiveness undimmed by his shiny head and more mature appearance.
How handsome they all are, smiling at you from the cotton cloth. After a few introductions, the ladies offer you a seat at the middle table, and ask you how you discovered Celtic Thunder, and who was your favorite. You reply that you know Ryan, and that this is actually the first time you’ll be hearing them all sing. With excited voices, they beg you to tell them about him.
Thinking quickly, you tell them the story of him coming to your rescue, and they all sigh or make sympathetic noises at the right moments. You leave out your exact feelings when he touches you, making the story sound more like a friendly thing than the romantic affair you dream of. They thank you for the story and invite you to go shopping with them, as you have nobody else in the city to spend the day with. Grateful for their friendliness, you set off with a few of them in search of a new pair of running shoes.
About an hour before the concert, they bid you goodbye and you excuse yourself to go back to the hotel to get ready. A hot shower and some pizza to settle your stomach, and you get dressed. You slide into a beautiful semi-formal outfit, a skirt and blouse. The baby-blue skirt flows around your legs like smoke, every move you make punctuated by the silky fabric. The blouse is white and collared, tailored to fit your newly toned physique.
When you make your way to the opera house, you can’t believe your eyes. A over a thousand people are outside, or streaming into the already packed lobby. Many are wearing clothing with faces or names of people from the group, and the air is filled with an electric charge of excitement.
Inside, you chat casually with more fans, who are more than happy to tell you all about the show you are about to see. When the lights dim, you try to breathe calmly, not sure how you should feel about this. The thunder rolling through the theatre is loud, and then you hear a beautiful voice floating through the air. When the men appear on stage in black coats, your first thought is to find Ryan. It takes you a minute, because you don’t recognize the dangerous look on his face.
The music washes over you, and you are thrilled by it. The other men are all handsome and you find your eyes drifting between them, unable to focus on any of them for too long. When Ryan comes out for his first solo song, you’re very impressed with his voice, but sort of confused by his stage presence. Another solo song, and you are at once repulsed by and attracted to the man on the stage.
But the man on stage is not the man you care about so dearly. He’s an overconfident, arrogant, and sexy version of the sweetheart you know. Looking at the women around you doesn’t help your opinions, because they’re all staring at the stage with lust in their hearts. You suddenly feel embarrassed for yourself. Your feelings for him are pure and devoted, but why would he ever notice that with hundreds of female fans who adore him.
Trying not to focus on your discomfort, you turn your attention to the other men of Celtic Thunder, hoping to find in them the kind of man that you could fall in love with. Damian has a strong, deep voice, but he’s very young. His bright blue eyes are kind of mesmerizing, and his dark hair is wavy and sleek. His long limbs and skinny frame are obviously not fully grown.
Keith’s blonde hair and lovely eyes sparkle in the stage lights. His lean frame isn’t as scrawny as Damian, and is obviously well muscled. His sweet smile and lilting voice are enticing, the way his cheeks dimple when he smiles making you blush slightly. Then you have Paul’s powerful tenor, pulsing through the stadium seating and into your bones. His eyes glint with mischief and his well groomed appearance steals your attentions.
Somehow his romanticism and his smooth voice assuage your troubled heart, calming your mind and your emotions. George is decidedly the one that is most stoic on stage, but also does a lot to surprise you. His older age and baldness do nothing to diminish his vigor and liveliness. You can’t help smiling while watching his performance.
The last song of the night brings about slight changes that confuse and upset you once more. While maintaining their stage personas, the men also seem to be letting a little of themselves shine through. You get Damian’s bashfulness, Keith’s playfulness, Paul’s goofiness, Ryan’s sweetness, and George’s youth. And right then, your heart is only recognizing Ryan, his true shelf shining through, no longer concealed by the dark destroyer.
Apprehension floods you as you walk back to the hotel to wait for Ryan. He’s supposed to meet you after the show, and introduce you to the others. You pace in the lobby for twenty minutes, then decide to sit and watch the weather to distract yourself. Not long after, you hear the front doors whoosh open, and boisterous laughter fills the once quiet lobby.
Spotting you instantly, Ryan jogs over to retrieve you, and pull you out to say hello. His hand firm on your arm, his fingers pressing your elbow once to reassure you before he lets go of you. The other 4 are all standing there, curious looks on their faces. One thing you notice right off is that they are even better looking up close, something you thought impossible.
Damian is first, with his hands wringing slightly as he looks into your eyes. He offers a hand and says hello, his adorable smile forcing all the tension out of you. He then grins at Ryan, and you can feel Ryan’s hand on your back guiding you on to the next introduction. George is there next to Damian. Forgoing a friendly handshake, he pulls you into a tight hug and lifts you carefully off your feet.
Placing you back down, he grins broadly at you and then winks at Ryan. You glance up at Ryan just in time to catch his ears turning red, before he gently urges you to move on. Keith is standing there, all long limbs and blonde locks. He too hugs you, and grins down at you with those eyes and dimples, making you slightly lightheaded. Ryan’s hand on your back tightens slightly, as if his hand is twitching.
Lastly you come to Paul, who takes your hand in his and kisses your knuckles with an air of polite distance. Ryan’s hand doesn’t just twitch now, it balls into a fist, catching some of your shirt between his fingers. Slightly shocked, you look up into Ryan’s face as a dark look storms in his eyes. Paul puts his hands up, and the look passes. Confused by the interaction but happy to meet everyone, you ask everyone to go sit so you can get to know them.
Over the next couple of hours you come to realize that all of them are sort of different offstage. Paul is more silly, Damian is more confidant and comfortable with himself, moving with more assurance. Keith is less whimsical, and more talkative. Ryan is his usual self, and George is less sad than many of his songs tend to be. This helps dispel the image of the dark destroyer that was impressed in your mind, giving you hope that if the rest of them could be different, then your Ryan could as well.
You catch yourself on that last thought, wondering why you thought of him as ‘your’ Ryan. Peering back and up into his face, you take in several things at once. One is that he is relaxed, leaning back against the sofa with his arm over the back, but that he is curving toward you. Another thing is that the other men keep looking from you to him, and back again, with a pleased look on their faces.
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Post by american09mutt on Dec 1, 2009 1:05:09 GMT -5
You yawn so hard that your face stretches and your jaw pops. Looking at you indulgently, Ryan asks for the two of you to be excused, as you obviously need to go to bed. With hugs goodnight, and more than one kiss on the cheek, the lads let you both go. It isn’t until you reach the elevator that you notice Ryan’s hand pressed to the small of your back.
You only notice this because his hand moves over the muscles of your back, and his arm runs along behind you, pulling you into a one-armed hug. Without thinking, you rest your head on his shoulder and sigh. Your eyes close sleepily, and you feel his cheek resting on your hair. Somehow this feels right, but a small part of your mind is screaming at you to make it stop, to get away from him before he can hurt you.
The sleepy part of your mind just closes the door on the angry side, and you let him hold you for the entire ride in the elevator. Ryan walks you to your room, and hugs you tightly before letting you open the door. With a mumbled “Night Ry” you close the door on those icey blue eyes, and lean against the wall. You stay there until you can hear his footsteps walking off down the hall.
Dropping into bed that night, your mind is swirling with handsome men, beautiful music, and warm embraces. You dream of a white wedding in a field of flowers, but the face of the man is blank. You pick up a mouth, and place it on the manikin, the lopsided smile grinning back at you. Next go the eyes, and the nose. And you realize that Ryan is smiling down at you. Hand in hand, you turn to face the preacher. You pull back in shock, releasing Ryan’s hand, as your ex-boyfriend glares down at you from under the wedding arch.
Your ex smiles a dangerous, terrifying smile. Raising his hand with the bible in it, he swings it down toward Ryan’s smiling face. You reach up to stop him, but the book hits Ryan full in the temple, knocking him to the ground. Sitting up in bed, a cold sweat running down your back, you gasp for air. You’ve not dreamed anything like that since leaving your ex, but the nightmare frightens you enough to keep you from sleeping.
Around dawn, you fall into a dreamless sleep, and don’t wake up until well past noon. After ordering food to your room, you dress in casual clothes and wait. The food comes with a note from Ryan, asking you to meet him at the mall if you get up early enough. When your food is gone, you grab your purse and walk to the mall, calling Ryan’s cell as you walk in the doors.
The ringing sounds from off to your left, and you see Ryan surrounded by a group of women. Your heart caches in your throat as you watch him with them. He looks so happy, and you know that he’s never smiled at you that way. He picks up the phone, but you lower yours from your ear and snap it shut. You walk away down the long hallway, and decide to go dress shopping.
As you flip through the racks of clothing, you find one dress in particular that seems to call to you. Trying it on, you find it fits you perfectly. As you are standing in the open, wearing the dress, you admire yourself in a mirror on the wall. Glancing up from the fabric, you see two wide eyes staring back at you. Ryan walks up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders. His icey eyes are now molten steel, gazing into your reflection.
He wraps his arms around you in a hug, and tells you how beautiful you look. There’s a huskiness to his voice that you’ve never heard before. A softness in his touch that you weren’t expecting. You pull out of his grasp, sulkily inquiring after his gaggle of fans, and he looks at you with pain in his lovely eyes.
“They’re my fans, yes. But they don’t mean anything to me, not the way you do. I care about them, but I don’t ache to be with them like I do when I leave you…” he trails off, embarrassed for having said so much so freely. His eyes are still molten steel, but with a pain in them as deep as a canyon. His face is etched with worry lines, and his hands are shaking as he carefully reaches toward you.
Sighing guiltily, you walk to him and take his hands. “I never knew you felt that way Ry, I never thought you’d care for me. I thought we’d always just be the best of friends but… I can’t. I just can’t do this Ry.” You whisper the last part, and walk back into the dressing rooms to escape his agonized face at your back.
You end up buying the dress, and when you leave the store, Ryan is nowhere in sight. Your phone rings several times that day, but his name on the screen keeps you from picking up. It kills you, and your heart is in searing pain. You love the man, and he obviously cares for you, but your ex’s face won’t leave your mind. For some reason, it’s keeping you from being with Ryan at all.
Calling Ryan’s cell at a time when you know he’s on stage, praying he won’t pick up, you leave a hurried message. “I need some time to think. I’ve been having these nightmares, and I need to just think. We can talk once I’ve had time to work things out. I’ll call. Bye Ry.”
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Post by american09mutt on Dec 26, 2009 23:00:49 GMT -5
Waking up for your run the next morning is almost impossible, with your heart weighing you down and your mind crying out for blood. But you force yourself to tie your new sneakers, and make your way out to the street to stretch. Not long after you start your run, everything fades from your mind. All you care about is the sound of your shoes pounding on the asphalt, the few early morning cars driving slowly past.
Your breath coming steadily and your lungs feel strong. Nothing else matters in the world beyond you and the ground and the air. After six miles your legs are starting to slow down and your breathing is getting rougher. You decide to walk the rest of the way back to the hotel, and then order breakfast in your room. Eating breakfast out would remind you too much of Ryan, and right now it’s all about avoiding reminders.
Three trips to the hotel breakfast buffet and the hole in your chest still doesn’t feel full. But your stomach is. Piling the plates together you head back upstairs to shower and dress for the day. Clothed in just a towel, you stare at your bag on the floor. How can you choose what to wear when you don’t feel like doing anything? Still undecided, you sit on the bed and put your head in your hands. Tears are just beginning to roll down your face when your cell phone rings.
The pillow next to you is so convenient; you can’t help chucking it at your phone. But a small thought creeps into your mind, that maybe it isn’t him again. Maybe it’s your mom, or your best friend, even though you know she’s on active duty for another three months. Another idea strikes, one that makes you get up to fetch your phone. Maybe it’s your sister.
The same sister that had scumbag boyfriends all through high school, whose self-esteem dropped so low that she wanted to kill herself. The one you talked into handing you that bottle of pills, even though you were only ten years old. The one who ended up happily married to a successful real estate man from Tennessee. Who would understand the way you feel, and help you love yourself enough to let Ryan love you.
Picking up the phone, you hold your breath, praying that it’s her number on the screen. When you see her name lit up in blue, you choke out a sob of relief, and answer before it can go to voicemail. “Hello?” you manage to squeeze out through the tears. Her reply on the other end is frantic, and she can obviously hear the tears in your voice.
“Honey are you okay? What’s going on, you’re crying! Tell me everything!” she says in a rush. You tell her everything. How badly your ex damaged your self-esteem. How You ultimately broke it off with him, and how Ryan came to your rescue. Every little detail, down to the way you felt with Ryan’s arms around you, that last time you saw him.
“My husband is at a conference this week in Utah. How would you feel about me flying out to spend the week with you? Do you think that would help?” your sister asks softly. Fresh tears pour down your face as you realize what an angel you’ve been given for a sister. Here she is, with a week free to relax at home, and she’s willing to fly across the country to take care of you.
After checking flight listings quickly, she tells you that she can be there early tomorrow morning at the latest, if you can pick her up from the airport. With the plans set in motion, you say goodbye to your sister. Hanging up the phone, you realize that leaves you with an entire day to find something to do with yourself. Checking your wallet you notice that you’ve got just 17 dollars left unless you go to a bank. Throwing on a pair of jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie, you head out in search of an ATM.
Now 20 dollars richer, you stand in front of a local supermarket and try to think of what to do with yourself. The signs on different buildings catch your eye. A law office, a bakery, a cinema, an arcade, a knick-knack store. Three different movies playing should take up the better part of your day. You head off to buy tickets at the cinema, and waste away your day in a small dark theater with the smell of stale popcorn circulating through the air conditioning.
Returning to your room late that night you realize that you received 6 voicemail messages while you were at the theater. All but one of them is from Ryan, and the last number you don’t recognize. You hit play, and George’s deep voice sounds in your ear. He sounds fatherly, and somehow it does a lot to soothe the ache in your heart. His solemn confidence in you is heartening, and he manages to not mention Ryan at all during the three minute long message.
Those words of confidence echoing in your mind, you drift off to a fitful sleep. Thankfully no dreams plague you at all that night and you wake rested, if cheerless, before dawn the next morning. The plane gets in around 7am, so you have just enough time to eat and shower before you drive to the airport. At gate 11 a lovely older version of yourself is waiting, her hair slightly darker than your own, and her eyes more lively. She hugs you tight, and tugs you back to your car.
Once her bags are in the trunk, she starts giving you directions to an unknown destination. Street after street, turn after turn, you become more confused and disoriented. At last you pull up in front of a large stucco building with “Sunshine” written across the side. A day spa, with massages, wraps, sauna, manicures, pedicures, haircuts, colorings, and everything else desired for a day of much needed pampering.
Talking it over through all these activities, you straighten out some of your feelings that you’ve been hiding from for too long. Your sister also insists that after the spa day, you need to dress up really nice and go out somewhere, to help build your confidence. Though slightly reluctant, you agree to wear a dress and go to a local club with her. But only for an hour.
Two striking women in stunning dresses enter the club. You’re in a sexy but tasteful dark red dress, one that makes you feel dangerous and beautiful all at once. Your sister is in the typical little black dress, but her wedding ring puts off more guys than the dress pulls in. The pair of you attract attention as you cross the room, many men turning their heads just to watch you pass. Sending your self-esteem through the roof within minutes of walking through the door.
After seven drinks are sent to your table, one man finally comes up to your table on his own. He smiles shyly and talks to both of you, his white teeth shining in the dark light of the club. A slow song starts, and couples make their way to the dance floor. Seeing your sister’s ring, he asks you if perhaps you’d care to dance. Taking your hand, he leads you onto the hardwood floor.
His hands go on your waist, your arms go around his neck, and you sway together in time to the music. Unconscious of the world around you, everything seems to hang on a heartbeat. The feel of the man you’re dancing with. The music in your head and the lights glowing softly above you. Time slows down so that every beat of the music seems like eternity. You lose yourself in the rhythm, in the sights and smells and the heartbeats.
You feel alive again. As alive as you feel when you’re running. Running makes you feel alive, but so does your running partner. And it all comes back to one thing. Ryan. Ryan makes you feel alive, and you know now that the only thing you care about right now is him. He’s what’s important. You may be dancing with another man right now, but it’s Ryan you’re dreaming of. It’s Ryan you love.
But a pair of eyes across the room is watching you dance. And the person they belong to isn’t thinking of how much you love Ryan. This person is watching you dance with a tall blonde man in a collared shirt, and that’s all they care about. Because now those eyes aren’t ice. Or molten steel. Now those eyes are full of tears. And as he walks out the door, turning his back on you for breaking his heart, Ryan’s eyes turn to granite.
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Post by american09mutt on Jan 19, 2010 22:38:36 GMT -5
When you wake up in your hotel room the next morning, you’re full of energy and excitement. Your mind is resolved, and you are very much in love. With a newfound determination, you call Ryan’s cell phone, and leave a message on his voicemail. Pulling on your new running shoes, you head out, hoping he calls you back while you’re out.
An hour later, sweaty and alive, you head back up to your room. No new messages, and no missed calls. You’re flying home tomorrow, and you want to see him before you leave, so you call him again, and record another message. Hoping that you don’t sound too desperate or needy. Instead of sitting around waiting on him, you decide to pack your things and then head to the mall. A little more shopping should keep you occupied, and provide some fun.
At the mall, you head straight for a classy clothing store, in search of a dress. Maybe there will be one you could wear out to dinner with Ryan, on your first official date. You smile at the thought, and start flipping through the racks of dresses, in search of just the right one. A shimmer catches your eye, and a slinky little green number sits there, invitingly. But no, that’s just not the right one to wear for Ryan. You keep looking, and find a pretty white dress with dark green vines twining around it in a pattern, and a lighter green velvet ribbon at the empire waist.
The perfect dress. It looks amazing on you, and you can just see Ryan’s eyes lighting up when he sees you in it for the first time. You purchase the dress and head back to your hotel room to pack it. Still no word from Ry, and you’re getting a little worried. You leave another message on his phone, saying that you leave in the morning and want to see him. Staring at the cell phone in your palm, you make a snap decision. You pull the dress back out and iron it, then you call a restaurant and make reservations for two for 8pm.
One last time, you leave a message on Ryan’s phone, telling him when and where the reservation is. Hopping in the shower, you let the hot water relax all the tension and confusion from you. Ryan will come. He’ll show up at the restaurant, happy to see you, and then you’ll have your very first date together. Using a fluffy white towel, you dry yourself off, and walk out into your room. You slide into the pretty cotton dress, then slip your feet into some lovely green heels. With one last glance at your phone to check for a message from Ryan, you put your phone into your purse. After you get all dressed up, you grab your purse, and head to the restaurant to wait for him.
You’re led to a table in the corner, shrouded in shadows. A single candelabra your only illumination. The clean white tablecloth, the wineglasses, the perfectly folded napkins. Smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress, you check your hair in the back of your spoon, making sure you look as amazing as possible. Everything should be perfect for when Ry gets there. When Ryan is about 15 minutes late, you order yourself something to drink. Surely he’s just been held up in traffic. When he is half an hour late, you order an appetizer. He’s probably just running late because of rehearsal, and maybe an accident on the road diverted traffic.
The clock reaches 9pm, and you finally order dinner. Maybe rehearsal ran late, traffic got diverted, and his car had trouble. Or maybe bigfoot asked for a ride and he kindly went out of his way to help the fellow out. Sighing, you try to face the facts. Ryan isn’t coming. He has left you all alone, dressed up, at a nice restaurant. To eat dinner at a romantic table for two, all by yourself. He stood you up. Ryan Kelly doesn’t care about you. Otherwise he would have called, even if it was just to say that he needed some space.
If he was the man you thought he was, he would have called. The waiter places your dinner in front of you on the pristine white tablecloth, and large tears begin to roll down your cheeks. Ryan doesn’t love you, and you are hopelessly in love with him. You let the tears fall as you eat your dinner. The candle slowly burning down to a stub in its glass container, and in the background, a lone violin begins to play.
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Post by american09mutt on Jan 24, 2010 23:52:24 GMT -5
Like dark stormclouds hanging over your head, your bleak mood stays with you through three flight transfers and a two hour layover in Chicago. Even a message from your sister can’t lighten the mood. She saw Ryan and Paul at a bar last night, at the same time you wanted him to meet you at the restaurant for dinner. On one hand he wasn’t flirting with any other girls, but on the other hand he wasn’t with you.
Though your perceptive sister noticed he looked really depressed. But what does Ryan Kelly have to be depressed about? Was he upset with you? Avoiding you for some reason? Angry? But why? What could make Ryan upset with you? Why are you asking yourself these things, when he obviously showed he didn’t care about you by his actions last night? But the possibility of him being sad about you is too much to bear thinking about. That he might care after all.
Pushing open your front door, you wearily wheel your baggage into the living room, and collapse on the couch. You’re so exhausted that you pass out right then and there, sleeping off the jetlag and the worry. When you wake, it’s late at night. The stars are hidden by low-hanging clouds, and you can hear the spatter of rain on your windows. The curtains are wide open, and a flash of lightning flashes across the sky. The loud crack of thunder accompanying it scares you senseless, driving you up off the couch and into the dark kitchen.
A red blinking light alerts you to new messages on your answering machine. Hitting the button, you walk over to your fridge to find something to feed your hungry belly. The voice isn’t very familiar at first but after a few words you can tell who it is. “Listen, don’t bother calling. I’m not interested in speaking to you. I don’t want to see you, so please, just leave me alone. I’ve blocked your calls, so don’t bother. Bye.”
Ryan’s voice is rough, like he’s spent hours sobbing. You have no idea why he’s been crying, but your heart wrenches at the thought. If you caused him enough pain to cry like that… But how? What could have happened to make him dismiss you so? Whatever it is, you love the man. You’d cross to the ends of the earth, fall down on your knees and beg, whatever it took to get him to talk to you.
Ignoring his message, you call his phone and leave a heartfelt message of your own. That done, you settle down on your couch and catch up on the Celtics games and TV shows you missed. Thank goodness for DVR. Disappointed by their losses and the death of a favorite TV show character, you shuffle off to bed still in that dreadful mood. You can hear Ryan’s voice ringing in your head as you drift off to sleep. “…just leave me alone.”
Morning dawns drizzly and grey, with no news from Ryan. You unpack your things from the trip, do some laundry, and catch up on more shows. Everything seems bleak and lackluster. Your mood, the weather, even your cat seems to be down. You lie on the sofa petting your grey American-shorthair tabby. He’s a sweet-natured fellow named Louis, about 11 years old and lazy as can be. Perfect for cuddling and weeping your heart out to, as he responds to your tears by licking them placidly off your face.
It’s three months after your arrival home that you finally give up on calling Ryan. Over that time you slowly waste away in agonizing misery, doubting yourself every other day. But you keep calling once a day, every day, for three whole months. You barely leave the house, only going outside for a run at 4am, when the world is still dark. Subsisting off of delivered groceries and canned food the entire time. It rains hard on and off, the spring weather depressing, but oddly comforting you in your sadness. Holding your phone in hand one morning, you decide there is only one option left to you.
The only other number you can possibly try is one that you had hoped never to need. You dial the phone and let it ring. Once. Twice. After the third it picks up, and a deep comforting voice answers. “What is it you want lass?” he says in a resigned tone. You’re speechless for a moment, and a heartbreaking sob rips from your chest. “George?” you whisper. “What is it lass? Are you all right?” he asks, going from resigned to concerned.
“It’s Ryan. Right before I left town I wanted to take him out to dinner, and I dressed up all nice and he didn’t even show. And then I’ve been trying to call him every day since and he just won’t answer.” You realize you are rambling, but can’t seem to help it. “Why George? Why is he doing this to me? Why did he just shut down on me all of a sudden? I just needed a quick break and I discovered I’m in LOVE with him, and now he won’t even SPEAK to me!” you break off, waiting for a reply. You stand there, sniffling into the receiver and trying to regain control of yourself.
“Lass, after seeing you with Him, Ryan was broken. He doesn’t want to see you now, or ever. I can’t blame him, with you off gallivanting with some tall blonde fellow.” His words confuse you, until you remember the night at the bar. “Tall blonde… Oh no! George I was dancing with a man at a bar when I discovered that I love Ryan. Did someone see me and tell him?” a long pause follows again.
“No, he saw it himself. He thought you were turning him down in favor of someone completely his opposite. He thought you didn’t love him. Lass you best be getting’ on a plane, and you best have a grand explanation for what happened. I wish you the best, now go get him.” The receiver slams on its cradle, and you nearly fly up the stairs. You have your bags packed, a ticket waiting for you at the airport, and a determined look on your face as you head out the door two hours later. Ryan Kelly won’t know what’s hit him when you reach Ireland tomorrow.
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Post by american09mutt on Jan 26, 2010 23:56:12 GMT -5
Staying at a friends’ house on an impromptu visit to Ireland is one thing. Leaving your baggage there while you take a taxi out to a village in the middle of nowhere, now that’s truly crazy. The plane ride across the Atlantic is abysmally long and boring. Even a good book and a long nap aren’t enough to keep you occupied for the entire flight. By the time you land in Dublin you are antsy and anxious, not a good mood to be in when you arrived at your friends’ home. Climbing up the steps to her house, you try to smooth out any wrinkles that have formed on your shirt from your travels. Then you ring the doorbell, and pray she remembers you calling to ask about the visit.
This little bed and breakfast place seems to be oddly empty this time of year. The weather is much as you’d find it back home, but apparently this is a dead time before Christmas and the other holidays. Your friend is happy to see you when she answers the door, proudly showing off her home in a quick tour before she helps you get settled in. The place is big and roomy, with lots of old paintings and furniture. It reminds you of homes you’ve seen back home, big old farmhouses that have been turned into historical residences. These familiar sights put you more at ease than you’ve been in hours.
Sitting in the room you’re renting, on a soft little bed with lacy sheets, you take a deep breath. The floral wallpaper, the wooden floorboards, and the smell of freshly laundered linen are all comforting. But the very air you breathe is different, it feels more alive somehow. You feel the need for action stirring in your veins, and you decide to get a taxi up to see Ryan right away instead of waiting until the following morning.
Your friend is dismayed that you plan to leave, but even more worried by the fierce storm blowing in off the Irish Sea. The two hour trip could easily take much longer in such a storm if it hit before you arrived at your destination. It could even trap you somewhere along the route, in bad weather and in a strange countryside. No matter how hard she pleads though, you’re determined to go. All she can do is pray for your safety, and hope that Ryan is willing to let you stay out the storm at his place.
The cabbie takes you north up the M1, a cloudy sky and a bundle of worries plaguing your mind as you sit in the car’s backseat. Not a half hour from the B&B, it begins to rain. And not just any little rain, it’s a sheet of rain that hits your car. Nothing one minute, then a full on deluge that reduces sight to the few yards ahead of you, eked out by the dim glow from the car’s headlights. Stolid and sure, your driver keeps on his course on the M1 heedless of the weather. It isn’t until you get off onto a smaller roadway that he begins to look uncomfortable, his vision depleted severely and his knowledge of the landscape getting more limited.
His trusty GPS doesn’t fail though, and he gets you all the way to the A29 before beginning to panic. The pavement ahead seems to have standing water on it, at least an inch or more deep. Bravely, your driver proceeds into the dangerous terrain, and you pray that you both reach the opposite side safely. Thankfully the standing water didn’t have a hidden current underneath, waiting to snatch up your cars’ tires and carry you off the road like a an object floating on top of a stream.
You finally reach the little village called The Moy. The dismal landscape painted in blacks and grays, picked out on occasion by a flash of lightning. Any beauty it holds drowned out by the rain pouring out of the sky, and the clouds covering what should be a lovely golden sunset. Driving a few minutes more, you turn off onto a road that winds through pastures, and up a small rise. At the top, set slightly back in a stand of trees, is a little house with a fieldstone base and a stone wall. The little white fence completes what you assume would be quite a picturesque scene, if viewed by the light of day.
By the point the rain has subsided a bit, but a random drop splatters on your head as you climb out of the vehicle. You hold onto the doorframe for a minute or two, taking in the little house and the path leading up to the front porch. A cheery glow leaks from the curtained windows, and reflects off of the world around it. It’s warm, inviting, and yet completely terrifying all at once. Ryan is in that house, and you are about to go confront him. You shut the door to the cab and tap on the window, waving to the driver. Having been paid before you left Dublin, the driver tips his hat and pulls away, hoping to reach home in time to tuck his children in for the night.
Now you’re left standing in spitting rain, outside of a little house, in the middle of a country you’ve never been to before. Knowing you can’t stand here all night, you make your way forward, and pause with your hand on the little wooden gate. A deep calming breath helps you find your center, and you flip the latch, letting the gate open soundlessly. Or you assume it is soundless, as the dripping of rain could probably drown it out either way. Staring at your feet, you walk up the little flagstone path that meanders across the front yard. You’d rather walk directly across, but after all that rain the grass could be covering a sea of clinging mud.
The front steps come into your view, growing suddenly with every step along the path. It seems to yawn like a gaping mouth in front of you, the front porch grinning like an evil smile, bracketed by the glowing lighted windows. You freeze with your feet on the last flagstone, a sudden chill running up your spine as droplets of water run down your face. Ryan will probably be angry to see you here, and you aren’t certain he will even let you in long enough to give an explanation. He might just toss you out on your behind in the rain, possibly letting you stay long enough to call another cab. Maybe this wasn’t such a grand idea after all. Maybe you should have had the cabbie wait, just in case.
But you’re in with both feet now, no way to back out. So you place your foot on the first step, and climb up the front stairs with agonizing slowness, fighting the paralyzing fear. The fear seems like ice in your veins, sapping your strength of will and making you want to run. To run far and fast, to never look back at the little house but just continue running forever. A thought that stays in your mind as you walk across the little porch to the rough wooden door.
Running wouldn’t solve anything though. All that would get you is sore and tired and even more soaked. Possibly muddy and sick as well. The only choice now is to knock on that door, and confront face to face the man you love so dearly. Even if that face is full of anger, you have to see it. You knock on the door, hoping to be heard over the sound of the rain, and wait. Footsteps sound in the room beyond the door, a latch being moved, and then the door swings inward. Light blazes out from the opening, stretching out to illuminate the darkness and cast away the shadows.
At first Ryan looks shocked to find anyone on his doorstep, and the light blue of his eyes is strangely soft in the darkness of his shadowed face. He steps out onto the porch and closes the door, dimming the light back to a level comfortable for your eyes. A pair of jeans and a soft looking cotton t-shirt is his only apparel, his bare feet looking cold and white against the dark wooden boards of the porch floor. He looks fit, filling out the shirt as well as you remember. But his face is haggard in a way that frightens you, the lines etched more deeply than you’ve ever seen. A few new lines near his mouth born of worry and despair.
His brows touch in a look of puzzlement, then the look on his face twists into a horrible mixture of rage and grief. His eyes bleach of color, the blue almost gone from them. They look like an endlessly pale pit, full of anguish and pain. All the lines of his body stiffen, completely still, as if he is turned to granite in the blink of an eye. A shadow of blackest rage encompasses his once gentle face.
“What are you doing here?” The words come out between his clenched teeth like a serpent stealing from its’ nest in search of a kill. His hands roll into fists at his sides, the muscles standing out in angry lines on his forearms. You look at him blankly, unable to dredge an answer from your muddled mind. Everything you want to say to him gets mixed together, and you can’t seem to find one single thing to say to him. “Get off my porch girl, and go home. Go back to your country, for you aren’t welcome in mine.”
With that he slams his way back into the house, leaving you standing alone on his porch, staring at the door with a blank mind and a shivering body. You gather your thoughts and knock once more. A moments’ hesitation, but the footsteps do come. He stomps his way back out onto the porch, and places his hands on the railing to stare off into the distance. “What is it you want now, I’d have thought you’d made yourself very clear in the past, woman.” Clearing your throat you manage to squeak out a reply on your third try.
“We need to talk Ry. What you think, it’s not what happened! If you just let me explain…?” you trail off, hoping his face will relax and he’ll listen. But the aguish in his gaze is still there, paired with a deep throbbing rage that can only be found in the wake of a broken heart. “Explain? Let you explain how you made me fall in love with your charm and your sincerity and kindness, then went and broke me over your knee like some child’s toy?”
“No, I don’t think I care to hear that explanation. Nor the one meant to win me over and tell me how sorry you are. I’d rather never see your face again than find a spark of hope in your trail of lies and deceit.” Again he turns on his heel and marches back into the house, slamming the door so hard that the wall itself shakes. A deep hole in your chest widens, pulling you in to wallow in your despair. You sit on the top step, the tears bubbling over and down your cheeks, starting as a trickle but quickly turning into a torrent.
To try and cover the hole in your chest, you pull your knees up and hug them, placing your chin in the groove between them and staring off over the pastureland. While you sit thus, the rain begins to fall harder, streaming down your face and mingling with your salty tears. Not long after, the cool rain washes the tears from your face. You feel ready to try once more, and resume your place by the door. This time your knocks are far too soft, your hands cold and numbing from the rain. But he comes. The footsteps, and a hesitation by the door. Then it opens.
He stands there, his eyes red-rimmed and cold as a winter morning. Yet so gloriously beautiful, the anger in his face unable to mask his rugged beauty or his entrancingly pale eyes. It makes your heart ache just to look at him. Or make the hole where your heart once was, ache. You return his look with one of pure fury, letting the months of angry loneliness well up in you and fill you to brimming. Unable to hold it in you let it pour forth in an angry, screeching voice that sounds completely unlike you.
“How DARE you tell me of a broken heart you utter insufferable FOOL. I’ve loved you practically since the day we met! I may have made a few mistakes now and again, but you’ve no right to leave me for three MONTHS without a single word from you.” You steel yourself and continue, watching as every word cuts in and cracks the granite of his composure. “I waited for you. I called you EVERY DAY for three months, hoping to at least gain SOME explanation from you. Some reason that could explain this gaping hole in my chest that was left after you never came to that restaurant.”
Unable to find anything else to say immediately, the anger begins to drain back, letting you look at him for the first time since you began speaking. The lines of his shoulders are slumped, and his face no longer seems as angry as before. Now it is full of pain and loneliness, and guilt. “I’m so sorry. I thought you’d know why I didn’t want to see you again. I should have at least stated the reason, to make sure we were both on the same page. You know now, correct?” He gazes down into your eyes, waiting for a nod from you before letting the guilt seep away.
The hard lines return to his face and his spine stiffens once more. “Then we have no more to discuss. You made your choice, and now we both have to live with it.” A shuddering breath before he continues, then “Now get off my porch, and go home.” Brushing past you he rushes back into the house. But not before you catch the tears on his stubbled cheeks, and the emptiness of his eyes. The door closes, the lights within go out, and the footsteps fade away to the rear of the building.
You are empty. The hollowness inside you gapes open and swallows you down. You give in to the deep pit, allowing yourself to succumb to wracking sobs. Your whole body shakes, but you manage to comply with his request to get off his porch. But that’s as far as you are able to go, before you collapse to the ground, shaking with violent sobs. Every one seems to rip through your chest, your entire body shuddering painfully. You can’t get enough air, and the chill rain is sucking the energy from you, sapping the strength from your limbs like a sink with the plug pulled.
The mud sucks at your side, your head staying free from its clutching grasp only because it is propped on your arm. You didn’t plan in that way, it is simply how you’d landed when you fell. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you should move. You can recall the temperature of the ground at this time of year, and know that if you don’t move soon, you will surely die of the cold. But you can’t find any warmth or strength left within you, all of that having drained out with the glittering rain.
You don’t know how long you’ve lain in the mud, and let the rain pour down on you, wiping your soul clean. But you are vaguely aware of a light appearing, and vanishing just as suddenly. And on the porch, a sound that reminds you of footsteps, but too hollow and soft to really be someone walking. Then a wet slapping sound near you, one that could be bigger droplets landing in a puddle, or perhaps hail. And finally, to your amazement, you find that you are moving.
Through the cold sunk deep in your skin, you can almost feel something sliding under you at ribcage and behind your knees. You are flipped carefully on your back, eyes gazing up at the heavens in an unseeing way, and the rain pelting down onto your face. Ryan’s face swims into view, and a distant touch on your neck tells you he is checking your pulse. You can almost make out the words “Foolish woman” mumbled in your ear, but aren’t sure with the rain falling so heavily.
His hair is plastered to him, and his clothes cling wetly to his body in a way that would be intriguing if you weren’t feeling half dead. As it is you barely register these things, barely able to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds. You are lifted off the ground, a little bit of heat seeping into you from the broad chest you are being held against. A vague recollection of a dimly lit living room, then the tiles of a bathroom come into view. The light flicks on and glares in your dark-accustomed eyes, blinding you.
Next thing you know you are laying in a bathtub, fully clothed, and warm water is falling on you. When your face warms enough for you to blink your eyes, you try moving them, desperate to see what is going on. Ryan is leaning over your legs now, running a shower head back and forth over you. He is laboring over you, frantically trying to raise your body temperature. Every few seconds speaking without air, but on his lips the words still form. “Fool woman. Scared me silly. What am I going to do with you? You’ve nearly got yourself killed. And what am I doing? I’m caring for you, letting my heart break all over, just so I know you’re safe and well.”
The warm water feels fantastic against your skin, until it begins to tingle painfully. You gasp in air with great effort, and weakly move to sit up, but fail. He puts a strong arm behind you, lifting you from the tub. His head near your mouth, you now gasp out the words “Need. Dry. Need to be dry.” And he runs to fetch towels. Helping you from the tub, he begins to towel you down from head to toe, dealing with as much of the water as he is able. The heat brings strength back into your limbs, and you are able to stand on your own now.
He leaves you then, but returns quickly with some dry pajama pants and a loose shirt of his own. Then closing the door, he leaves you to strip off your wet garments and finish the drying process. And to dress in the dry things he brought for you to wear. The entire time you are changing, you can hear quickly pacing footsteps outside the bathroom door, never straying too far away. And the sounds of wet clothing being peeled off, telling you that he is also changing into dry garments outside the bathroom door.
Finished drying and dressing, you open the door carefully, and gaze up at him meekly. He can see the apology on your face, and he looks at you for a moment with eyes full of pity and love. Then his face closes once more, and he takes you gingerly by the arm, leading you into the living room. He releases you near the couch and finally speaks to you. “You can sleep out here on the couch. In the morning, we’ll call you a cab, and you can head home. Let me go get you a blanket.” His voice is no longer full of pain or anger, but filled with relief.
He retreats from the room, leaving you standing there staring after him sadly. The room slowly begins to move, and you have time to wonder why it is you feel so hot now, when before you could only feel a bone-chilling cold. It occurs to you that you must have a fever, moments before the floor rises up to meet you. Before you black out, you are aware of a strong pair of arms, and Ryan’s face, as he catches you inches from the hardwood. You fall into blackness, the memory of his terrified face fresh in your mind. Wanting to reach out to him and beg him not to worry.
Flashes of sight drift through your fevered thoughts, real but unreal. Ryan carrying you from the living room, and into a room with a large bed. Him flipping the covers up and tucking you tightly in. Making a phone call, his face etched with lines of worry. And finally, before you drop into the abyss, Ryan’s climbing onto the bed and snuggling in next to you, on top of the sheets. His chest pressed against your arm, his arm stretched up over your head, and his knees brushing your thigh. The last sensation that of his strong hands gently stroking your hair, and the last sound that of him crooning a wordless lullaby as tears begin to fall down his care-ravaged face.
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Post by american09mutt on Jun 2, 2010 22:03:59 GMT -5
Pain. It is all your world consists of. Pain and darkness. Your mouth feels cottony, your limbs leaden. A small pain tells you where an intravenous drip has been poked into your right arm. Every inch of your body feels like it has been gone over with a cheese grater; your nerves twitching as if you had been set on fire. If you can feel your skin, that must mean your nerve endings survived, which means you survived the storm. It also means you must be alive. Being alive, the cliché thing to do is to open ones’ eyes. You open them, despite their heaviness.
A man in a dark coat is staring at you, his face just inches away. His grey beard is scraggly, but his kind brown eyes keep you from panic. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth are deeply set, making him look like some ancient, brooding statue. Then he moves. He turns to speak to someone else, a person who is outside of your field of vision. That person grunts softly, and you hear footsteps walking off down the hallway.
It occurs to you that this man must be some kind of on-call physician, given the stethoscope around his neck. His air of quiet competence assures you that your guess is accurate, and the gentle smile he gives you is warm and kind. “How are we feeling this afternoon?” he asks, in a voice so mellow it could shame a placid lake. You try to answer, but the only sound you can make is an awful dry croak. He peers behind him as footsteps approach the room once more, and a hand comes out of nowhere to hand him a glass of water.
Holding it to your lips, he speaks even more softly than before. “Here now, drink this.” After you take several deep swallows, he pulls the glass away and places it on a table near the bed. Or so you assume, after you hear a dull glass-on-wood sound off to your left. “My name is Doctor Disraeli. Your friend was quite concerned with your health, so I came as quickly as I could. The winds did not die down until the afternoon after you became ill. It has taken some time for the medicines to take effect, I am afraid.”
It occurs to you that you must have been out for at least a day or two, possibly more. And this very nice gentleman has taken very good care of you. What was that surname again? Disraeli? Is he Jewish then? A Jewish doctor living in The Moy. He’s a middle-aged gentleman with strong hands, matte brown eyes, and straight pearly teeth. Your mind runs in dizzying circles, trying to take everything in at once. Too much stimulation after lying in bed for days. But how many days? You’ve forgotten to even ask!
“How long was I out?” Your voice is stronger, less of a croak and more of a rumble in your throat. It feels horribly painful, raw and scratchy. You can feel the glands in your neck rubbing painfully when you try to swallow. Doctor Disraeli’s smile is pitying and the skin around his eyes creases in a fascinating way. “Two and a half days until the fever broke, and you’ve been in and out for the last two days after that. This is apparently the first time you’ve woken fully since your night in the rain. It’s a lucky thing that Mister Kelly brought you inside and called me. You would most likely have died if it weren’t for his quick thinking!”
You move your head slightly, letting Ryan’s dark figure slide into your peripheral vision. He looks awful. A few days of beard growing on his chin, his clothes wrinkled and his feet bare on the hardwood floor. He’s leaning against the far wall, just next to the door. Ryan has one foot on the wall, his arms crossed, but tensed as if he’d be ready to bolt out the door at any moment. He isn’t looking you in the eyes, instead glancing up every few seconds to look at the bed, then looking back at the floor by his foot. You can’t tell from here, but you guess that his eyes are probably bloodshot, and that he hasn’t slept well.
“He’s a good man. And an honorable one.” You say it slowly, loud enough for both of them to hear. At your words, Ryan’s head droops, and he stares fixedly at the floor. “Mr. Kelly didn’t have to help me at all, after the things I’ve said and done to him. He’s a good man.” Not realizing that you are starting to repeat yourself, you nod over and over. “He’s a good man.”
You can feel yourself drifting now, as if the pain is too much for your body to bear staying awake any longer. Before your eyes close, the last image you see is Ryan pushing himself from the wall and approaching the bed. You hear his voice, but can’t make out the words. And then there is nothing.
Blurs and ghosts of dreams drift in and out of memory. Flitting images of Ryan’s face, his smile, his eyes. The way he looked at you that day at the mall. The fear in your heart when you realized you loved him. The acceptance. Then the rejection when you came here. And finally, Ryan singing to you as his tears drop onto your cheeks. Him holding your hand, his reddened eyes gazing hopefully down at you. Then you realize that last image isn’t in your dreams, or even in the past. Your eyes are wide open and there he is! A look of surprised pleasure on his face as he looks at yours.
“You’re awake.” Those two words are enough to make your heart soar. In them is all the longing and hopelessness you’ve felt since leaving Ryan that day on tour. He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t have that foreboding look from that night in the rain. He just looks… drained. Like a man who has had everything he loves taken away from him, but holds on to a shred of hope. Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabs the glass of water, careful not to release your hand or spill the liquid in the glass.
“Here. Noah said you would be needing more of this. Your throat isn’t healed yet, but the fever is gone and you’re recovering. I…” he stops, looking at you in anguish. “I was a horrible excuse for a man. Leaving you out in the rain like that. I should never have. I should have let you inside, at least until the storm was over. I’m so sorry…” the finger you’ve placed on his lips stops his stream of apologies.
“I shouldn’t have come.” You say it softly, looking away from him guiltily. “I knew how you felt, and I should never have come to find you.” he’s shaking his head, but you can’t tell why. “I know you don’t love me. Coming to you was the last act of a desperate, stupid woman. I’m so sorry I did that to you.” Now his face is filled with confusion, anger, concern, and lastly… hurt. Why does he look so pained at your words? Why?
“Do you not know WHY I was angry with you?” he asks, his voice rough with pain. “Do you know why I never called? Why I never came to find you at that restaurant?” you shake your head, ever so slowly. “You broke my heart, woman. When you showed up here, it was like you’d kicked me in the privates and stomped on my heart. I hoped to never see you again.”
Your face is confused now, your brow furrowed with hurt and confusion. “But… Why didn’t you come? I left you at the mall, but I just needed time. Then I came to realize I truly loved you, and you won’t return my calls?” a little breathless now, you whisper “Why?” His eyes are filled with anger now, directed toward YOU. “Why?” he repeats. “WHY?” a little louder now, dripping with pain. “You. Broke. My. Heart.” That said, he stomps his way from the room, slamming the door.
“When? And how?” you ask yourself aloud. How could you have broken HIS heart? Was walking away from him at the mall enough to hurt him that much? Or had he… no. Could he have seen you that night at the bar? Everything from before the fever comes rushing back, and you remember the phone conversation with George. Yes. Ryan hates you after seeing you dancing with a man you’d just met at a bar, wearing a slinky little dress and apparently putting him behind you.
“RYAN!” you start screaming his name as loud as you can, over and over, until you hear a pounding of feet coming down the hallway. He bursts into your room, or is this his room? He stops in the doorway, fear and pity and anger waging a war on his face. You struggle to sit up, then glare directly at him. “YOU Mr. Kelly, are a fool. How could you think I would ever love another man after you?”
His jaw drops. “What?” is all he can say. “I said” you continue more calmly “I love you. And I didn’t love that man you saw me dancing with. I barely knew him. All that time I was dancing, all I could think about was how much I love you, and how irrational I was being about your fans.” Ryan is in complete shock. Hope and pain are still fighting on his face, but hope seems to be winning out. “When?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “When did you realize this?”
“About halfway through the one song I danced with him. I guess I must have known that day at the mall, I was extremely jealous. But I didn’t know for certain until that night at the bar.” Swallowing your pride, you lay the rest of it out for him. “I didn’t know you were there. And then when you stood me up, and wouldn’t return my calls… I thought you’d decided it would be better if we weren’t together.” Your voice drops to a mere whisper. “I thought you didn’t love me.”
“How? What? NO!” he moves across the room on silent feet, pulling you into his arms and wildly patting your hair. “How could you ever think that? I thought you didn’t love ME. I thought you coming to my house was an attempt to get me back, to break my heart again…” he kisses your hair, his hands fluttering in lost motions around your face. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry that we ever thought that of each other. I’m sorry for the lost months we could have spent together.” He kisses your forehead, all pain drained from his face, replaced by a tentative happiness.
“I’m sorry too.” You say quickly, barely getting it out before he is kissing you firmly. He pulls away just as fast, though, and pushes you gently down onto the mattress. “Rest now.” He says it with a small smile on his face, then he tucks you in under the plush covers. “I love you.” he says. “I love you too.” You mumble the reply, already drifting. The bedding creases next to you, and a firm arm twines around your waist. Then your hair moves, and you realize it’s him, curled up next to you on the bed, breathing in the smell of you as you both drift off to a much needed sleep.
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Post by Cakey on Dec 2, 2010 22:38:50 GMT -5
CAAAAAAAPPPPPNNNNN!!!! WHERE ARE YOU?!?!?! *peers down well* IS YOU HAS FALLEN IN???
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Post by AmbeeBee on Jan 4, 2011 19:34:39 GMT -5
Oh. My. Word. I love this! Update soon please!
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Post by !!DerryChick!! on Feb 2, 2011 9:15:21 GMT -5
Wow I love this
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Post by CelticPrincess24 on Feb 2, 2011 17:04:00 GMT -5
Please update this soon! It's soooooo good!
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Post by meg_cahill21 on Feb 2, 2011 19:33:06 GMT -5
UPDATE!!!!! This is sooooo AMAZING!!!!!!!!!
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Post by CelticPrincess24 on Feb 17, 2011 21:58:38 GMT -5
Please, Please, Please, Please, Please Update this one!
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Post by HburgEagle44 on Jun 3, 2011 2:09:10 GMT -5
Wow that was awesome! I love it!
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