August 23
Ana
A strange noise sounds in the kitchen. We both turn and stare at the satellite phone sitting on the kitchen counter. It's ringing. I've never heard the ringtone before. No one's ever called it. Ryan doesn't move, so I stand and pick it up. The number isn't one I recognize, though something seems vaguely familiar about it.
I turn to look at Ryan, who hasn't moved an inch.
"It's for you," I say, holding it out to him.
He hesitates before coming over to me, taking the phone, and answering it.
I can't hear distinct words in the feminine voice on the other end, but clearly it's something or someone significant. Ryan's eyes flash with a burst of anger I've never seen in him before. The knuckles of his hand gripping the phone begin to turn white.
"Why are you calling me?" he says in a low, tight voice. He turns away from me, his shoulders hunching a little bit. A defensive posture. I frown.
"What the hell are you saying?" Ryan asks, his voice quieter as though he's trying to keep me from hearing. "You're the one who broke up with me, remember?"
Suddenly I realize why the number on the caller ID looked familiar. The one other phone number in the sat phone's call history. I snap my gaze back to Ryan. Is that his ex-fiancee on the other end?
Ryan moves to the table and sits heavily in a chair. I can see his face now. His demeanor still carries traces of anger, but something in his expression just looks unmistakably heartbroken. Instantly I feel my own anger flare. His gaze flies up to me for a moment before he looks down at the floor again.
"Leave her out of this," he says.
I hear a laugh on the other end of the call. Ryan's expression becomes pained and I decide I've had enough of this. I walk up to Ryan and snatch the phone away from him. He looks up at me with wide eyes, clearly surprised. I turn and walk quickly across the room before Ryan can snatch it back. I put the phone to my ear.
"What the hell is your problem?" I ask, channeling my righteous indignation into my voice.
"Who is this?" barks a woman's voice.
I decide to go on the offensive. "Someone who doesn't have the patience to put up with your mood swings. Are you really calling your ex after five years? Seriously? Don't you have anything better to do? What is wrong with you?"
The voice that responds is cold and self-important. "Stop fooling around with Ryan. He's mine."
My mouth drops open. The nerve of this woman!
"No, no he is not yours. You lost the right to say that a long, long time ago."
"What, and you think he's yours now? You think that just because you're-"
I turn back to the kitchen to see Ryan standing next to the table, watching me with an expression that betrays nothing. He looks away when my eyes meet his. She's right, I realize. Ryan is still hers to manipulate. If I don't do something to convince her otherwise, there's no telling what she'll do to Ryan. My heart gives a lurch. He's already so broken because of her. If I don't stop this woman, how much more will she hurt him?
I have to do something. Maybe I can manage to convince her that Ryan's not her pawn anymore because he's moved on. So just convince Ryan's ex that he's dating me now. While Ryan is listening. This could get awkward.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," I say, cutting off whatever she'd been saying. Ryan glances up at me through his long hair.
"What?"
I look away from Ryan.
"He is mine. Any chance that you ever had of getting him back is long gone. He's mine now, and I'm not going to tolerate anyone treating him the way you are right now. So erase this number from your phone and never bother him again."
I glance at Ryan for just a second. His face has gone blank now. I hope he doesn't get mad at me for this. I give him an apologetic shrug.
"I think you're lying," the woman on the other end of the phone says.
"Oh really? And why is that?"
I do my best to keep up the act, but I've never been a good liar.
"There's no way. He's not into Mexican girls. Finds you all disgusting, really."
What follows is a stream of the most racist comments against Latina women that I've ever heard in my life. And all these opinions are attributed to Ryan, according to this woman. The sheer outrage at the despicable words is enough to cloud my judgment for a moment. Rage builds in me and I turn angry eyes to Ryan.
He is looking back at me, his expression becoming confused as he notices my mounting indignation. He walks up to me and I can see concern in his eyes. Looking at his face, the face of the man who rescued me, cared for me, is kind to me, and holds me when I cry, I realize that there's no way anything she's saying is true. She's making all of this up just to lash out at me. To make me less inclined to defend Ryan so she can sink her talons into him again.Clever, I think.But not clever enough. I walk over to the couch and sit on my side, taking a moment to school my features and regain my calm. Then I cut her off again.
"Sorry, but you're wrong again. You really need to work on making your lies more believable."
Ryan looks away, probably guessing from the context what my angry expression was about. I consider that I might need to take a piece of my own advice. A rather outrageous idea pops into my head and I go with it before fully thinking it through.
"And for your information, we're having hot, wild sex every night. And morning."
Ryan jerks his head up to look at me with wide eyes. I close my eyes and press a hand to my mouth to keep from bursting out into nervous, intensely awkward laughter.
"You're not serious," the ex-thingy says after a moment of stunned silence.
I swallow my laughter. "I'm completely serious."
"Bull. Shit. There's no way. He is unf---able. He is-"
I can't believe I thought the racist comments were the worst she was capable of. I look over at Ryan, who seems to be turning slightly red. He's staring fixedly out the window. As I listen to this woman who once professed to love him absolutely tear him to shreds, I find myself developing a new level of sympathy for him. How awful was she to him when she first saw his face? No wonder he's so messed up. This woman's words are poison. I want to hurt this woman like I've never wanted to hurt someone before. If she were here in person, I'd be strongly tempted to stab her with Ryan's hunting knife.
"Have you seen his face?" she says in the middle of her monologue.
"Yes, I have seen his face. I'm looking at him right now."
At this, Ryan finally looks up again. The vulnerability in his eyes pieces my heart like a spear.
I channel my father's voice, the one he used that could intimidate men twice his size. "Don't you ever say anything like that about him again."
For once, the psychotic ex doesn't have a response. From the very limited information I have on her, it seems that what she wants most in the world is fame. That's my best shot at knocking her down a few pegs. It might be petty, but I don't care anymore.
"Have you forgotten who he is?" I ask. "This is Ryan Burke we're talking about. Ryan. Burke. He's the guy every girl in the country wanted to date."
I don't actually know if he was this popular. I was only thirteen when he enlisted and left the public eye. But if I sell it with enough confidence, maybe she'll buy it.
"He was on TV, in the news, in magazines in grocery stores - he was everywhere. He was THE teen-heartthrob. Everyone knew his name. Who are you again? Saph-something? I've never heard of you before."
"You little b-"
I cut her off with a laugh. "Wow, jealous much? I suppose you only have yourself to blame. Seriously, what were you thinking?" I shift back into my intimidation voice without even realizing it. "You made a huge mistake. He is not someone you just throw away. Now, get over yourself and do not call this number again."
I pull the phone away from my ear and hang up on her.
I set the phone down on the coffee table and only just then realize I'm shivering with rage. I take a moment to breathe and try to calm down before turning to Ryan.
"Do not ever answer that person's phone calls again. That is... that is the WORST woman on the face of the Earth."
We stare silently at each other for a few moments before I stand and walk outside to blow off some steam.
~~~
Hours later, I'm lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling and completely unable to fall asleep. My encounter with the infamous Saph has left my head spinning. I think of all sorts of nasty things I could have said to her in return for the terrible things she said about Ryan. I'm satisfied with how I ended the phone call, but I can't keep from replaying it in my mind.
With a frustrated groan, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed. Casper looks up at me lazily. I walk to the window and look outside. Clouds obscure the stars from view and a few raindrops land on the windowpane. I look behind me and notice light coming from under the door. Looks like I'm not the only insomniac tonight.
When I open the bedroom door, Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table, shot glass in hand. He's holding a photograph in the other hand. He looks up at me slowly. The lack of nervous energy coming from him tells me that he's not on his first glass.
"Can't sleep?" he asks.
"You either?" I ask.
He shrugs and looks back down at the photo in his hand.
I sit in a chair on his left side. It's become a habit now, positioning myself on his left side whenever possible. Ryan drops the photograph on the table face-up and scoots his chair back, scraping it against the floor. He reaches to the kitchen island behind him and grabs another glass. I look down at the photo and try to contain my disgust at the blonde woman.
Apparently my face betrays my thoughts because Ryan laughs.
"Real piece of work, isn't she," he asks.
I raise my eyebrows. That's not all she is.
His smile fades. "Yeah, she's not the only one," he says with less humor. He scoots his chair back to the table and fills both shot glasses. He hands me one and downs the other.
I pick it up and consider it. I take a tiny sip and make a face. Ryan laughs again.
"Still not a fan of Scotch?" he asks.
"Definitely not," I say.
"Damn. Please keep trying it. Your reaction is hilarious."
"Good to know my suffering amuses you," I say, giving him a sly smile. He smiles and looks away.
We are silent for a moment before he speaks again.
"You want to talk about it?
"Your ex?" I ask, surprised.
"God no." He reaches for the bottle of Scotch again. "About what's bothering you."
"What if that's your ex?"
His expression goes almost blank, but not in a surprised way. More like he's hiding his emotions behind an expressionless mask. "What did she say to you that made you so angry?" he asks carefully, not making eye contact.
"I'm pretty sure everything that woman said pissed me off to some degree."
Ryan coughs out a laugh. We're quiet for a moment and his expression slowly morphs back into grave solemnity. "Something she said made you angry with me," he recalls. "What was it?"
I laugh as I remember the foolishness of it. That I believed the vicious lies for even a second. "Oh, that. It hardly matters. It wasn't true. Unless, of course, you're a closeted racist with violent prejudices against Latina women."
This time Ryan laughs, which surprises me. "I should have guessed."
At my inquisitive expression, he clarifies.
"The girl I dated before Saph was Brazilian. Saph hated her. She's probably still jealous of her to this day."
"No wonder she hates me so much," I say.
"She doesn't hate you, it's what you represent. But after some of the things you said to her, she probably will hate you now."
What I represent? What does that mean?
"That was impressive, by the way. Standing up to Saph takes guts. I've seen her break people."
So have I, I think as I watch him.
He looks away from me and down at the picture.
"I think you should burn it. The picture, I mean. You should burn all the pictures in that desk."
"Not all of them are worth burning," he says.
"Oh really?" I scoff. Keeping a little Saph-shrine certainly isn't helping him get over her.
In response, he stands and limps over to the desk. I hear him rifling through it for a moment before he returns with a small stack of pictures. He places them in front of me and returns to his chair. I see a group of men with closely-cropped hair wearing shirts with ARMY printed across the chest standing around and laughing. One of them has familiar blue eyes. I pick up the photo and examine it closer. It's Ryan, looking like a military man. A far cry from his current aesthetic. I glance up at him.
"Are all these of you and your unit?" I ask. He nods.
As I thumb through the photos, a story of friendship and brotherhood plays out before my eyes. Ryan and his friends playing football. Ryan and his friends kicking around a soccer ball in the dirt with some Afghani kids. Ryan and another man flexing cartoonishly. Many of the pictures don't have Ryan in them, but nearly every picture has that other man. I pause to look at one with just that man in it, smiling at the person behind the camera like he knows something the cameraman doesn't.
"Is this Jeremy?" I ask.
"Yes," he says. Then his tone darkens. "A week after that, all of them were dead."
"They all died the day you got hurt?"
"Yeah." He pauses and his expression becomes vacant. "I let all my friends die."
Something inside me snaps.
"That's BS."
His blank gaze instantly focuses on my face. He raises an eyebrow.
"I know you. There's no way you just 'let your friends die.'"
I scoot back my chair and stand, anger building inside me.
"I let my family die. I know what it is like to watch your favorite people in the world die and do absolutely nothing. I know what it's like to live with that guilt every day. Don't you dare pretend that your survivor's guilt is anything like what I feel."
I'm almost shouting at this point. He stands too and steps closer. He draws himself up to his full height, allowing him to tower over me.
"We're soldiers. We're supposed to have each other's backs. Well, now I'm alive and they're all dead. Does that sound right to you?"
I refuse to back down.
"It sounds to me like sometimes people die and there just isn't anything you could have done to stop it. Especially if you've just had a bomb go off in your face and you can't walk or use your right arm," I say, my voice building to a crescendo. Now I am yelling. "Their deaths were not your fault!"
"How would you know?" he asks in a raised voice, responding in turn to my tone. "You weren't there. You don't know what happened that day."
His voice is accusatory.
"Then tell me," I shoot back.
Ryan's jaw clenches as he stares down at me. I stare back up at him defiantly. His expression slowly loses its intensity and he slips back into despondency. He stops looming over me and deflates. With a quiet sigh, Ryan collapses back into the chair and looks down at the pile of photos.