Ryin

“Hungry?” Zoie asked, moving toward the fridge.

  Ryin hesitated, then nodded. “I could eat.”

Zoie smiled softly. “Then sit down. I got you.” Zoie’s fridge creaked as she opened it, scanning the shelves. 

Ryin said she could eat, but it wasn’t entirely true. Her throat still ached, and her stomach felt tight from everything she hadn’t said out loud. But food meant normalcy. Sitting at the table. Using her hands for something other than covering bruises.

“Alright.” Zoie grabbed a Tupperware container and slid it onto the counter. “Leftover Jamaican Pumpkin Soup it is.”

They ate quietly at first—Ryin picking slowly at her bowl while Zoie scrolled through Netflix on her phone, looking for something to watch. Eventually, they migrated to the living room and curled up on the couch together under a throw blanket, watching Tallulah.

Ryin tried to relax, letting her head rest against the cushion. For a second, it felt like she could breathe again.

Then—

Bzzzzzz, Bzzzzzz, Bzzzzzz.

Her phone buzzed, facedown on the coffee table. She ignored it, staring at the TV screen like it wasn’t happening.

Bzzzzzz, Bzzzzzz, Bzzzzzz.

She hoped it would stop and go to voicemail. But it didn’t.

Zoie looked over. “Are you gonna get that?”

“Huh?” Ryin blinked like she was coming out of a trance. “Get what?”

“Your phone!” Zoie leaned forward and picked it up before Ryin could object. “Here, I’ll get it.”

Ryin’s heart dropped. If it was Tony, there would be no way to explain it.

Zoie’s face changed the moment she saw the screen. Her brows knit together, eyes flickering with concern. 

Ryin braced herself. Here it comes. I’m fucked.

"It's your dad!" Zoie said suddenly.

Ryin blinked. “What?”

“Your dad! He’s calling!” Zoie tossed her the phone.

Ryin missed the call, but it rang again almost instantly.

Her stomach flipped. Her father only called back-to-back when it was something serious. She answered quickly, lowering the volume as much as she could.

“Questa casa non è un albergo!” her father shouted through the phone in Italian.

Zoie, within earshot, clutched her imaginary pearls and mouthed, “I’ll be in the kitchen,” before darting out of the room.

“I know it’s not a hotel, Dad,” Ryin said, clearing her throat to sound less hoarse.

“You’ve been in and out since you came home! Your aunt and uncle have already headed back to New York! You left last night and said you’d be right back!”

That was what she’d said. Before getting into the car with Stephen. Before everything went wrong. She stayed quiet, knowing there was no use in defending herself when her father was in this mood.

“Helloooo?! Am I talking to myself?!”

“I’m still here.”

Her father scoffed. “This is what I mean when I say you’re thoughtless! You should already be home and packed! Are you with Dorian?!”

Suddenly the anger dropped from his voice mid-rant. “Wait. . . why do you sound like that?”

Ryin swallowed. “I’m at Zoie’s. I think I’m getting sick.” Another lie. “I have a sore throat.”

Her father exhaled, the concern softening his tone. “I told you that vest wasn’t enough. You never listen.” There was silence, followed by the sound of keys jingling. Then footsteps. “I’m coming to get you. Be ready.”

“Yes, Dad.”

The call ended with the loud slam of a door.

Zoie peeked back into the living room, wide-eyed. “Girl. . . are you good?”

Ryin nodded weakly, but her fingers trembled around the phone.

***

About twenty minutes later, Ryin stood by Zoie’s front door, hugging her goodbye. She leaned into the embrace just a little longer than usual, hoping the warmth in Zoie’s hug could anchor her.

“Text me when you get back,” Zoie whispered, rubbing her back gently. “And. . . I mean it. You can tell me anything.”

Ryin nodded, but the lump in her throat was too thick to speak. She adjusted the turtleneck under the oversized sweater Zoie had loaned her and pulled the collar up a little higher.

Her dad’s car pulled into the driveway.

The moment she climbed into the passenger seat, he gave her a once-over.

“That’s not what you were wearing yesterday,” he said, pointing to the outfit. “And what’s wrong with your leg?”

“I twisted my ankle rushing down Zoie’s stairs. It’s fine,” she replied quickly. “She let me borrow clean clothes after I took a bath. I just needed to warm up.”

“I see.” He sounded skeptical, but he didn’t push it. “You sound horrible, by the way.”

He reached over and gently lifted her chin, examining her face.

Ryin flinched as he tilted her head side to side.

He frowned deeply, noting the redness around her eyes and how pale she looked beneath her tan skin. “My goodness, look at you.” Then, placing the back of his hand on her forehead, he muttered, “Let’s get you home.”

The car ride was quiet except for the soft sound of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by The Beatles playing from the stereo. Her father hummed along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Despite the weight in her chest, something about his presence soothed her. Her body relaxed against the passenger seat, and she let her eyes close.

When they pulled into the driveway, he nudged her awake. “Come on, Ry. We’re here.”

She mumbled thanks and climbed out of the car, trying her best to disguise her limp while walking to the door. Her aunt and uncle were already gone, having said their goodbyes earlier in the day. She offered a quick, mumbled apology to her dad again as they walked inside.

Ryin winced softly as she walked into her bedroom.

Stephen was sitting at her desk, scrolling through something on his phone.

He looked up.

“Damn,” he said. “What happened to you?”

“I think I’m catching a cold,” she said, kicking off her shoes slowly, trying not to wince.

Stephen’s eyes narrowed.

As she bent down to grab them, the turtleneck slightly slipped just enough to expose the faintest outline of bruising on her neck.

Stephen’s entire demeanor shifted. “Bullshit. How’d that happen?”

He crossed the room and reached out, pulling the fabric down gently before Ryin slapped his hand away.

“Stop!” she snapped, voice breaking. She shoved past him.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He just stared at her, chest rising and falling too quickly for someone trying to stay calm.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

Ryin stood with her back to him, hands balled at her sides.

She hated that he saw. Hated that he noticed. But she hated even more that she had to lie about it.

“I told you,” she said quietly, “I’m just getting sick.”

Stephen didn’t move. “A cold doesn’t make you limp. Or leave bruises.”

Silence swelled between them.

The only sound in the room was her uneven breathing and the wet sniffles she couldn’t quite contain.

“I know we don’t talk like that, but I know you. I can tell when something’s wrong” Stephen said, voice softer now, “And I’m not stupid. Something happened.”

Ryin closed her eyes, shaking her head as if that could undo everything.

“I messed up,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

Stephen didn’t interrupt.

“I messed up really bad.” Her shoulders trembled, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle the sob that escaped. But it was too late. The dam had already broken. “I can’t tell them. I can’t—if they knew. . .”

She didn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t.

Stephen stepped forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

He gently turned her around.

The moment she faced him, her body crumbled. She fell into him like gravity had finally caught up, sobbing into his chest. His arms wrapped around her tightly, anchoring her.

“I got you,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Let it out, Ryin. I got you.”

She cried harder—tears she didn’t even know she had left. Her fists clenched the fabric of his shirt as her whole body shook. She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen said quietly. “When I didn’t hear from you, I should’ve circled back. I’m so sorry.”

Eventually, her sobs softened. She was left sniffling into his chest, too exhausted to cry anymore.

“It’s not your fault,” she finally muttered. “It’s mine.”

Stephen pulled back just enough to look at her face. “Don’t say that.”

“I deserved it.”

The words stabbed something in him. His arms tightened. “No, you didn’t.”

She avoided his eyes.

“Tell me who did this.”

Ryin didn’t answer. She just stared off into the distance, her eyes glassy and far away.

***

Stephen didn’t push again. He just stayed with her that night—close, quiet, and present.

The next morning came fast.

Her parents showed up with hot tea and worried eyes, her mother immediately placing a hand to her forehead and brushing a kiss to her temple. “You look even worse today, Ryin. Are you sure you’re okay to head back?”

Ryin nodded. It was all she could manage.

Her throat burned with unspoken truths. With the fear that if she cracked, even slightly, everything would come spilling out. She couldn’t let that happen. Not in front of them.

“I’ll be fine once I get some sleep on the train,” she mumbled.

Her mother frowned. “Are you sure? You’ve barely rested this entire break, and you’re obviously run down—”

“I already missed a quiz,” Ryin interrupted quickly. “If I fall behind anymore, I’ll drown trying to catch up.”

Her father nodded solemnly, but the crease between his brows deepened.

***

No one spoke much on the ride to the station.

Ryin sat in the backseat beside Stephen, wrapped in a scarf that hid the worst of what she couldn’t explain. Her fingers clutched the hem of her sleeve, trying to keep it pulled down over her injured wrist that was wrapped tightly in a compression bandage.

When they arrived, her mother opened the trunk and pulled out Ryin’s suitcase. Her smile was soft but brittle, like it was being held together with hope.

“I packed extra cough drops and left some money in the side pocket, okay? And call us. Even if it’s just to say you made it.”

Ryin opened her mouth to respond, but instead, she leaned in for a hug and broke.

The tears came fast. They were silent and hot running down her cheeks.

She buried her face into her mom’s shoulder, secretly wiping the tears away while holding her like she was a small child again.

Her mother rubbed her back. “You don’t have to be so strong, baby. You can cry if something’s wrong.”

But she couldn’t. Not really.

If she cried too hard, if she said the wrong thing, Tony would find out. Because that’s something her parents would never let go. They would want charges pressed immediately.

Ryin managed to whisper, “I’m just sad break is over.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either.

Her father hugged her next. His embrace was strong and steady. Even though her body ached, she felt safe in his arms. He held her close, like he could shield her from whatever was making her eyes look so heavy.

Stephen stayed back, watching with a clenched jaw.

When it was time to board, Ryin and Stephen gave one last wave before turning away.

She didn’t look back.

Her parents had already started walking back toward the parking lot, unaware they were leaving their daughter to return to school sick—but not just with a cold.

But with fear and anxiety.

And worst of all, with a lie she couldn’t take back.