He's Still The One. Cheryl Kushner
roses his mother had so lovingly tended. He was foolishly pleased to see them still in bloom.
A rustling sound in the bushes behind him put Ryan on alert and he quickly raced to the front yard. And was surprised to see Zoe standing on the sidewalk. Her face, lit by the light of the moon, looked troubled.
Ryan settled on the top step that led to the front porch. And remembered his promise to Kate. “Join me,” he invited, and when she did, he didn’t fail to notice she kept as much distance between them as she could.
“I really don’t want to talk to you.”
He heard the firmness in her voice. “Fine. We’ll just sit here quietly.”
“I always wanted to live in your house.”
Ryan was smart enough not to ask why. He remembered all the shouting coming from the house next door, the slamming doors, her mother crying. “I’m just remembering the first time we met.” He chuckled. “Even back then you left a strong impression.”
He’d plopped down onto the window seat and was gazing into the yard next door where a pixielike red-haired girl, partially hidden by a gnarled oak tree, watched him from her bedroom window, a curious look on her face.
“I was just happy, thinking I now had someone new to play with,” she said dryly. “And was crushed you were a boy.”
She’d climbed onto one of the thick tree limbs and when their gazes connected, they played a silent game of stare down until she unexpectedly laughed, then disappeared from view.
“I panicked when I realized you’d fallen out of the tree.”
“My pride was bruised and battered,” she said.
“And you never shed a tear.”
“I was afraid to cry,” she told him. “If my parents had heard us, they’d know I’d climbed into the tree. I was certain the next time I saw that tree it would be as firewood.”
Then she laughed. “But the next morning you made a real impression when you lost control of Webster, and he crash-landed into my wading pool.”
“It was always a toss-up as to who owned who,” Ryan said, remembering the day his golden retriever puppy had plopped into the swimming pool. Eight-year-old Zoe, buried beneath twenty-plus pounds of dog, had cried, not because she was hurt, but because she was worried that Webster had been injured.
His expression darkened as he recalled another day, the one when he’d buried his parents in the cemetery around the corner and then came to defiantly hammer a For Sale sign, much like the one in the yard now, into the ground. Webster’s loud bark had accompanied each pound, until Zoe had come to the rescue of both man and dog, ordering him into the shower and taking Webster for a much needed walk.
From the doorway, he’d watched the two of them flash down the street, wishing he could always be with them, with her, with anyone, anywhere but in this house, alone.
A long silence stretched between them, until Zoe stood abruptly. “I’m sorry Truth or Dare got a bit out of hand.”
“Yeah.” He scrubbed his hands down his face. “It’s been a big-drama day for the both of us.”
Ryan watched as Zoe jogged across the yard and into the house. He slowly walked to the edge of the yard, stopping at the For Sale sign.
And for a moment, a brief moment, he wished he could turn back time.
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