Ryan’s head smacked the table again, and he sighed heavily. “God—is that what this is? Fucking love?”
Lucas whistled. “You’re in trouble, my friend.”
“Kill me now,” Ryan slurred, the side of his mouth pressed against the table. “Just fucking kill me.”
“Why don’t you talk to her about it?”
“You act like that’s so easy. You act like I haven’t thought of that. She’s my best friend, Lucas.” Ryan lifted his head and took a sip of coffee, praying for clarity.
“You talk to her about everything else. Why is this different?”
“It’s always been such a taboo subject. We’re friends. Just like you and I are friends,” Ryan said, waving a hand between them.
Lucas lifted an eyebrow. “Gee, Ryan, are you trying to tell me something now?”
“That’s not helping,” Ryan said.
Lucas grinned and said, “How do you think she feels about you?”
“Let’s just say, when I woke up this morning, it wasn’t to her smiling face.” Ryan sipped again. “She was upset—crying even.” Ryan’s stomach flipped at the memory of her sobbing.
“Ah, crap. She was crying?”
Ryan nodded. “She said I was all she had left, and now she’s lost me.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, the words still slicing through him, just like they had when she said them.
“Ryan, you need to find a way to get past this. You need to either come clean and tell her how you feel or stay the hell away from her. Rebounds don’t work.”
Ryan nodded, scowling. As if it was that simple. As if he hadn’t tried over the years to figure out how he felt. If he could voice his feelings for her, he would have a long time ago. He stared at Lucas and finally said, “I’ve tried, but somehow, the words get in the way.”
Lucas watched him for a minute, contemplation clear on his face. “Imagine that. Ryan Walker, songwriter extraordinaire, out of words.”
“No.” Ryan shook his head. “Not out of words—just too many and with no expression.”
“Bullshit. You just gave up too easy.”
“You’re wrong, man. I can’t blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. I can’t just throw some words at her and hope they’re the right ones. What if it comes out wrong or, I don’t know, I say the wrong thing. I need to get it right. I just… I’m afraid of screwing things up.”
“Well, it’s too late for that.” Lucas pointed toward the door. “You have a mess to clean up, and it can’t wait.”
“Right,” Ryan whispered as he stood to leave.
* * *
When he entered the house, he had to step over a slew of papers. They were splayed all over the hall and the living room. When he looked closer, he saw a trail of blood that pooled at the bottom step and traveled up the stairs.
“Bailey?”
His heart started pounding hard in his chest, and when he shouted her name, he didn’t get an answer. “Bailey!” he shouted again and rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The trail led to Helen’s bedroom. He rounded the corner and found Bailey kneeling over an old scrapbook. Tissue stuck to the bottom of her foot, covered in blood. She was still in his sweats and t-shirt from the boat.
“Bailey, you’re bleeding.” He ran into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. She was shouting about letters and the newspaper, nearly hysterical, her voice pitched like fingernails on a chalkboard.
When he returned with the towel, she was leaning against the trunk, holding up a handful of paper, still going on about a letter.
“Ryan, I found this. I think we’re missing something. I want to go to Wisconsin.” All her words were running together. She talked too fast, and Ryan moved too slowly, the sight of blood turning his stomach.
His head buzzed, and he couldn’t focus on what she was saying. “I know, babe. Hold on, let me stop the bleeding.” Sweat ran down the back of his neck, and his pulse pounded deafeningly in his ears.
Bailey was still talking, and he couldn’t think straight. He pulled away the wad of tissue stuck to the bottom of her foot, but that seemed to reopen the wound. It was gushing now, and he wanted to throw up—and she was still talking.
“Bailey, stop. Hold on.” He pried his cell phone from his pocket and dialed home. “Dad, can you come next door? Bailey’s cut her foot pretty bad.”
“How bad is it? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“No, it’s not that bad, but you should come look at it.” The line went dead, and Ryan took a deep breath, fighting for calm. He looked up at Bailey, and her eyes were wide, her skin pale. It looked as if she just realized she was hurt.
“Ryan, I’m sorry,” she said and leaned back against her mother’s trunk.
“It’s okay. I’ll clean up the mess.” He swallowed hard and tried to focus on her face.
“Mess? No, I’m sorry about this morning.”
He heard his dad on the stairs and shook his head.
Ryan scrambled back so his dad could take care of Bailey. Vince carefully pulled the towel from her foot, and Ryan’s stomach lurched. He swallowed hard and went to sit next to Bailey.
“What happened?” Ryan asked her.
“Look what I found. It’s from Uncle Pat. I think there’s more to the story.”
“No, Bay. What happened to your foot?”
“Broke the lamp then stepped in glass. It didn’t hurt and wasn’t bleeding that bad.”
“What are you talking about? There’s blood up and down the hall and stairs.”
“Bailey, how’re you feeling? Are you light-headed at all?” Vince asked.
“No. I feel fine.”
“You’re going to need a few stitches. Ryan, I’m going to hold her foot to keep the pressure on. I need you to pick her up. Can you carry her down the stairs?”
“No, no, I can walk.”
“Bailey, no,” Vince said, the authority in his dad’s voice centering them both. “Ryan, I’ll sit in the backseat with her if you can drive.”
“He can’t drive. He’s about to pass out from the blood,”
