“When I was little, I didn’t really understand what was going on,” he continues. “And my mom always told me not to get involved. So I didn’t.”
A short pause passes between us.
“Until I did.”
I glance over at him.
“I tried to step in once,” he says, his voice flattening slightly. “My mom was crying so hard and I just couldn’t stay out of it.”
He lets out a tiny, awkward laugh.
“…didn’t go so well.”
As the words leave his mouth, his hand comes up unconsciously and scratches lightly at the small scar I just noticed. My stomach twists.
“After that,” he goes on, lowering his hand again, “I mostly focused on keeping Bailey out of it. Whenever something happened, I’d tell her I fell or screwed up at practice. Or did something clumsy.”
A quiet, humourless breath leaves him. “She was little so she believed it.”
My chest actually aches hearing him say it.
“But then one night,” he says, his voice roughening just a little, “it started the same way it always did. Yelling downstairs.”
His gaze drops briefly. “I went to Bailey’s room to check on her…” He swallows. “But she wasn’t there.”
My stomach sinks.
“I heard her scream from downstairs,” he continues. “That’s when I knew I couldn’t just wait it out again. So I called the cops.”
Hecalled the cops? Holy shit.
A small breath escapes him, almost like a laugh. “I still remember the dispatcher. Anne. She sounded really kind.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the ground. “I was shaking like hell, but her voice helped.”
I can picture it too clearly—sixteen-year-old Ryan standing there with a phone pressed to his ear.
“Anne told me to stay upstairs,” he continues. “But when I heard my mom screaming at Norman to let Bailey go, I went down anyway.”
My stomach drops even further.
“He had Bailey under his arm,” Ryan says quietly. “He was furious. Like shaking angry. And I remember thinking…” His breath catches just slightly. “…this is bad.”
I think about all the times I’ve seen Bailey. She always has this fierce, energetic energy. Just imagining her in that situation is heartbreaking. And the fact that Ryan had to see that? No one deserves that.
“The cops got there fast,” he continues. “Pulled him off before it got worse. But Bailey saw everything. Him getting dragged out. Yelling. Swearing at me.”
My throat tightens.
“I’m so sorry, Ry,” I say softly, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his face.
He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the movement. “Sometimes I still feel bad about how it all went down.”
Before I can overthink it, my hand brushes lightly against his.
“You did the right thing,” I say quietly.
Ryan goes still for a moment and turns to me, like the words catch him slightly off guard. He nods, still looking at me. “Thank you.”
After a moment, I add gently, “You were always so normal at our place. I never would’ve guessed it was that bad.”
