target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#u39f0d3c3-81af-52a3-bcd8-e25b76994e04">CHAPTER THREE
WHEN MARCUS HAD been Ryan’s age, his father had come home on one of his infrequent leaves from who knew where. James Skylar had offered to help a buddy fix his deck and had subsequently volunteered Marcus to join them. Somewhere in the process, something went wrong. Marcus couldn’t remember much since he’d gotten a concussion from a wooden beam that fell on his head.
He felt like that now, sitting next to Ryan at the stoplight.
“Care—” He cleared his throat. “Care to explain?” They’d never hidden Ryan’s adoption, but they’d gotten him when he was three days old. It had been a closed adoption. His birth mother had wanted it that way, and they’d respected her wishes. The reality of the situation seldom crossed his mind anymore. Apparently, it did Ryan’s.
With Carolyn’s death, he probably should have expected this. But he hadn’t even thought about it.
“We’re reading some short stories for lit class,” Ryan said, breaking into Marcus’s thoughts. “Mr. Hudson has us discuss them. One is about a bunch of kids in an orphanage.” Ryan shrugged and turned his gaze from the passenger window to stare out the windshield. “Nick made a crack about kids whose birth parents gave them away—said their mom and dad didn’t like them.”
Marcus took a deep breath. “You know that’s ridiculous, right? We’ve talked about this before, remember?”
“I remember. I know it’s not true. It’s just—” Ryan went silent for a couple of blocks, and Marcus didn’t push him. “It’s just that...” He shifted in his seat. “I wasn’t mad for me so much...”
Ryan turned to look at Marcus. They pulled into the drive, and Marcus killed the engine.
“I was mad for...for my birth mother,” Ryan said. “He had no right. He doesn’t know why she gave me up.” His indignation came across loud and clear.
Marcus took another deep breath before saying anything. “I’m proud of you for wanting to stick up for her, for caring, but it’s not something to fight about.”
“I know.” Ryan reached for the door handle and pushed it open. “But what he said was so wrong.” He slammed the door closed with a bit too much force.
Marcus followed him, grabbing his own backpack from the rear. He watched Ryan walk inside. His son was growing up so fast, and their conversation brought back memories of when they’d first brought Ryan home. Good memories.
Had that really been thirteen years ago?
Inside the kitchen, both backpacks hit the kitchen table with a loud thud, and Marcus watched Ryan head to the fridge. It was a routine Carolyn never would have allowed, but one they’d fallen into since moving here.
Carolyn. He thought of his wife, and, while his heart still hitched at her loss, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it used to be. He thought about his conversation with Principal Hawkins—
—who wasn’t anything like he’d expected from a school principal. She was young and pretty—the first woman to pique his interest in a long time. And while she hadn’t smiled much during their meeting, he got the impression she normally did.
He’d told her that they’d gone to counseling, and they had. Not just after Carolyn’s death, but for months before. Hospice had been a godsend as he’d tried to deal with her impending death, as well as Ryan and his reactions.
“Can I have the rest of the lasagna?” Ryan’s muffled voice came from inside the fridge.
“For dinner?”
“No, now. For a snack.” He turned around, the take-out container in his hands, his expression hopeful.
“Uh, no. I’ll make dinner in a bit.” Another skill he’d picked up after losing Carolyn.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Marcus nearly groaned. Those words always meant that Ryan was up to something. He smiled. How had he managed to raise a son who was a con artist at heart? Marcus leaned back against the edge of the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. “What?”
“I can eat the lasagna now and get started right away on my homework.”
“And?”
“And I’ll be done in time to play in a Castle Battle tournament tonight at seven.”
“Ryan, it’s a school night.” Video games were normally off-limits except on the weekends.
“It’s the tournament of the year. Come on, Dad. I’m really good at it. I could win.”
Marcus looked at his son. The bruise around his eye was going to be dark by morning. “Put ice on that eye tonight.” Principal Hawkins’s words came to him. Did Ryan deserve a break in this? As it was, he’d be spending the next week in detention after school. Was that punishment enough? It wasn’t as if Ryan regularly got into trouble.
Ryan’s earlier explanation almost made Marcus proud of his son. Proud of his convictions, anyway.
But Marcus also knew Ryan. He’d learned over the past few months how to deal with Ryan’s “ideas.” He could “outdeal” him, or accept the proposition. Carolyn had been so much better at this than he was.
He didn’t have the energy for dealing tonight. “I want you off the computer by ten. Lights out by eleven.”
Ryan did a fist pump and shoved the plastic container into the microwave.
“But—” Marcus knew better than to let Ryan think he was totally off the hook.
Ryan slowly pivoted on his heel. “But what?”
“Tonight you get the tournament. Tomorrow we’ll discuss your punishment.”
The boy’s smile melted. “I’m sorry you got called, Dad.”
“But you’re not sorry for the fight?”
Ryan had to think a minute. “Not really.” The microwave’s timer sounded, and Ryan grabbed the hot dish. “Gotta go. Got homework to do.”
“We will discuss this,” Marcus yelled over the sound of Ryan’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Sure, Dad,” Ryan yelled back, his footsteps crossing the ceiling overhead.
Marcus sighed. To be young and so resilient. “Sorry, Carolyn,” he whispered, “I’m trying.” But the life she’d tried to help him build, the one with the family that came home and had dinner together every night, just wasn’t meant to be.
Marcus glanced at the kitchen table. It was covered with his backpack, books and laptop. They wouldn’t be eating there anytime soon.
Besides, it wasn’t as if he had a lot of extra time. Today was the deadline for the midterm essays. It could be an awfully long night.
* * *
EVERYONE
