What's Enough?

Chapter 115

Evelyn opens the door to Ryder's room, well not his room, his house...pool house. I have asked him several times why he doesn't live in the main house with his parents. He refuses to tell me why.

When we walk into the room Ryder, and Ashley's conversation ceases. I would say it's because of Evelyn's presence, but for some reason, I believe it's because of mine.

Ryder is sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, Ashely is sitting on the side end of the bed.

"Ashley, dear, it's time for you to go," Evelyn says to her.

She stands from the bed. "I was just leaving," she grabs her phone off the table and then walks past Eveyln and then me; of course, she glances at me and stares into my soul before leaving.

I know she hates that I am here every day with her boyfriend. She probably hates me even more than she has before. Yet she hasn't done anything. Surprising things a school for me have been... I don't even know a word for it. All I can say is things are not what they used to be.

School used to be the biggest stressor in my life, and now it's not. At least not as much as it was before. The two biggest things in my life right now is my home life and my relationship with Caleb. Both of which are stressing me.

"Okay, well, I will leave you kids to it," Evelyn smiles and looks at me and then Ryder. He isn't looking back; his head is buried in his phone. She looks back at me and mouths. Good Luck. She then turns on her heels and walks out of the room.

When the door shuts, I walk over towards his bed. "Hello," I greet him; he doesn't greet me back; he just continues to do whatever it is he is doing on his phone. I sigh and then go over to his desk and place my bookbag on top. I got his work from his teachers; they explained to me what he has to do. Now that I am no longer in Brook's class, we only have one class together, PE.

I grab the folder that I put his work in and then zippin up my bag—not going to lie; it's been hard. Not only do I have to keep up with his work, but I also have to keep up with mine.

"Did you finish the work from Friday?" I ask him. He doesn't respond. Ugh, it's one of those days.

On a good day, I'm usually able to get at least two words out of him. On a really good day, I can get a whole argument from him. That may seem bad, but it's actually a good thing. The fact that he's willing to argue means that he's getting back to his old self.

Today isn't either of those days. Today is how he is most of the time, at least towards me. He doesn't talk to me much anymore; we talked more before everything happened than we do now.

I understand why he doesn't want to speak to me; he got shot, he got shot because of me. He can barely walk because of me. His football career is hanging on a thread because of me. I know he's furious.

Surprisingly, though he has yet to say anything about that night, I haven't brought it up either. I'm scared too.

I look down at the papers in my hand, "Okay, well, we can just start on the work from today. Your teachers didn't give you much they--" I stop talking when the TV comes on; the sound fills the room.

He reaches over and grabs the remote; then he starts flipping through the channel. I close the folder and then walk over to the bed; I snatch the remote out of his hand and then turn the TV off,

"What the fuck are you doing?" he growls.

"You have to get this work done,"

He huffs, "I'm not in the mood,"

"Neither am I, but it has to get done," I toss the folder of work on his lap and then take a seat back at the desk.

...