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Ryan hasn't relaxed in the least. “French. I want to major in French.”
Mrs. Kavanaugh's lips dip into a frown. “French? Why on earth would you want to do that?”
Ryan throws her hands up. “I just do! Why? What's wrong with that decision?”
“We were expecting better,” is all she says.
A harsh laugh falls from Ryan's mouth. “Better? You always want something better from me, but it's never good enough. What degree do you want me to have? Tell me! You decide! Because I'm too fucking incompetent to make that measly decision.”
“You are not a boy, so quit talking with such vulgarity.”
“You don't need to remind me, Mom,” Ryan cuts her off.
The tension is so thick in here between them, that I'm almost choking on it. Nothing seems to affect her mother, though. She's just as poised as ever.
“All I'm saying is that you could at least behave as a lady. You seem so stressed, dear. Are you sure you want to stay here? You can drop out and come home if it's too much. We would understand if it's like everything else you do and you just can't commit to it.”
What? She's encouraging Ryan to drop out of college?
“That would certainly please Dad, wouldn't it? Is there a particular date he has written down for when he thinks I'll fail at college too? I guess my 4.0 GPA means shit to y'all. College isn't stressing me out. You showing up here is stressing me out. You making Gabe sit here is stressing me out. Do I not stress out properly, Mom? Should I sit down, cross my legs, and act as if I'm not fucking stressed?” Ryan takes a deep breath, obviously trying to calm herself down. “Why don't you just leave, talk with Dad, pick a degree you would be happy with, and let me know. By phone.”
“Ryan,” her mother starts in what she's attempting to be a soothing voice.
“Stop talking to me like I don't have any sense!”
Mrs. Kavanaugh abruptly stands. “Enough, Ryan. Your outbursts are uncalled for. Is this what college has done to you? Are we paying for this?” She motions her hand, up and down at Ryan. “You come out here to tarnish your body with those god-awful, ridiculous tattoos. You waste money on clothes for parties. Based on the timestamp of charges on the credit card bill, you're out at all hours of the night. And now you're dating an older man,” she flings her arm out to point at me, “and you pick a major in French? We had to force you to learn Spanish! What makes you think you want to learn and speak French? Pick something more respectable. At least appreciate all the money your father and I spend, so you don't have to work and go to college.” Her voice turns deadly serious. “Do something worthwhile for a change, Ryan.”
Ryan has stopped, frozen, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I'm fluent in Spanish,” she says calmly. “My tattoos aren't awful or ridiculous because they mean something to me.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
“What could they possibly mean?” Mrs. Kavanaugh interrupts. “A dandelion, a hummingbird, and a seahorse? Those things mean something to you?”
Ryan's lips part, and she looks like her mother just slapped her. Hurt is in every one of Ryan's features. Her lips quiver as she tries not to cry.
Adding another blow, Mrs. Kavanaugh says, “I'll discuss with your father what degrees are acceptable. This isn't like when you were a teenager and you can pick something, lose interest, and quit. We will not waste money for you to fail or quit or get more meaningless tattoos. Understood?”
Ryan nods. Her fight vanished the moment her mother said something about her tattoos.
“Good.” She turns and leaves without another word.
The second the door closes, Ryan runs into her room, a sob escaping. What in the world did I just witness? I can figure it out later. Right now, I'm going to comfort Ryan. She's lying on her stomach, her crying muffled by her pillow. I sit on the edge of her bed.
“Go away,” she cries.
“No.”
Despite her protest, I lay down next to her on my side and tug her against me. She doesn't fight me. Ryan comes easily, burying her face in the crook of my neck as her shoulders shake, her tears falling from her face onto me.
“Shh,” I soothe, running a hand up and down her back.
It doesn't do any good. She cries for thirty minutes before sputtering to a stop. My shirt is bunched in her hands and with her grip, I wouldn't be surprised if her hands are cramping.
“I'm sorry I cried on you,” she mumbles into my neck. “I'm fine now, though. You can go.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask carefully. She nods, but doesn't answer. “Then why are you clinging to my shirt still? It's fine
, Ryan. I'm not going anywhere and you don't have to pretend that you're all better.”
She's quiet for a moment. Her voice cracks as she whispers, “I hate them. I hate them so much.”
