No one brings a rush of anger, a fierce touch-my-guy-and-you-die vibe, faster than Mitchell. “What does he want now?”
“Christmas. That’s what he wants. He says my dad and I should spend Christmas with him and Dan. They’re thinking a destination Christmas.”
“Oh, and your mom is supposed to what? Hang out by herself?”
Ryder’s brow furrows, like the realization of the implication was lost on him before. “We’d never leave her by herself.”
“Exactly. He can’t be serious.”
“Sounds like he is, but it’s hard to know for sure in a text.” Ryder picks up a glass of some spiced holiday drink from the table.
“You get what they want, right?” Sarcasm and tone have never been Ryder’s strong suit.
“I get it,” he says. “They want me to foot the bill.”
I’d like nothing more than to reach through that stupid text message and wring the man’s neck. “He’s so obvious. Does he think you’re that oblivious you wouldn’t see what he’s doing?”
“I’m sure he does.” Ryder’s face hardens. “You know as well as me, Tweets, I’m his autistic cousin who can’t think right.”
“Ryder,” I say softly. “I should’ve worded that differently. I didn’t mean to bring those memories out.”
He presses a kiss to my knuckles. “You didn’t. They’re always there.”
I bite my lip. “Have you, um, have you ever considered talking with someone about it?”
“I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you.”
“No, like a professional.”
“A therapist?”
I nod. “I had a lot of therapy to deal with my trust issues and everything that happened to us. It can be helpful to have an objective person sort of show you a path through some of the darker thoughts.”
He shrugs and takes another drink. “I’ve gone to therapy, Tweets. Sensory therapy. Playing college ball was harder with the larger crowds. But I wanted to get to the MLB, right? I figured stadiums and reporters would get overwhelming sometimes.”
“Look at you, being so prepared.” I wrinkle my nose. “But what about this sort of stuff? The words that get you down, I mean.”
“Having you back has helped me not care so much. They hurt sometimes, but I haven’t gotten too stuck.” Ryder chuckles. “He hasn’t said anything cruel since I made it to the MLB anyway.”
Well, give the guy a sticker.
Ryder is a pro at pushing things down inside. Always was. He’s burying words and thoughts planted in his head by Mitch deep inside. Simply because they are not always in the forefront doesn’t mean they aren’t there, poisoning the beautiful things he might want to believe about himself.
“Oh, didn’t you want to talk with Tate and Ellie about your idea?” He places his drink back on the table and takes my hand, cutting off any more talk about therapy and past hurts.
Parker has known Tate since they were in kindergarten, and said if we ever need to find Tate Hawkins, follow the food.
Sure enough, he’s standing at the long table, a grinch hat on his head, filling a plate with crackers and fancy cheeses.
“Hey, Tate.” Ryder taps his shoulder.
He spins around, one cheek looks filled with food. He laughs a bit, chewing and swallowing. “Hey. Just so you know, I’m taking all your food.”
“Good,” I tell him. “Helps with clean up.
Tate taps the side of his head. “I thought the same thing. I’m not always one for parties, but this has been fun. Yours are safe, though. Not so alcohol-ish like some we see on the road.”
“Eh, who wants a bunch of drunk guys sleeping on their couches all night?” Ryder says.
