Ryder

forty two

This was wrong.

This was so so wrong and we--I--wasn't supposed to be here. I wasn't supposed to be here, right here.

The Berkeley Theater wasn't very big of a building, but it didn't look to be a small one either. There was a fucking queue lining up at the entrance, crowding up as I kept staring, and I could feel the excitement and anticipation for the show as people bristled with it. They were excited to be here. They were right where they were supposed to be.

I am not, the words repeated on a loop in my head, I am not supposed to be here.

It looked to be an old Victorian theatre, with dark banners and intricate stone carvings. There was a poster up there, large and bold, for tonight's Brahms Violin Concerto. It was magnificent. It was everything I'd wished for, back when there were dreams and wishes and heavy bands over my heart, and everything I needed to be away from right now.

"I don't think this is a good idea." I blurted out before my thoughts could've carried away any further.

It wasn't really a surprise that I had Ryder's jacket wrapped snuggly around me while he stood there in a long-sleeved tee, one that looked soft to the touch (and I was trying not to stare at the way the fabric hugged him so perfectly without any shame). Ryder wasn't dragging me to the theater entrance either, like I was expecting him to do any second now. He was only, rather calmly, staring at me in return. Waiting.

We'd been standing here for more than just a few minutes. I hadn't looked long enough at the tickets to see when the show would be starting, but I knew it'd be soon. It was just that I couldn't make my legs move. I think he too could feel the apprehension coming off of me.

"You do not want to see your father anymore." He stated although he didn't seem pissed that I might've just been wasting his time all along.

"I don't want to go in there."

"Why not?"

I flailed a hand at the entrance. "I can't go in there!"

Ryder only responded by leaning against the brick wall and taking out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. I watched him fiddle with one, take out the lighter, and flick it on and off and on again. I tensed a little, waiting for the smoke to very well choke me, but he didn't light the cigarette.

"This was a bad idea," I said it again, shaking my head vehemently. I felt cold. I was not going to go in there.

Another silent flick of the lighter. "Your father frequently visits such theaters for violin performances. Shows of a specific kind, a scouting kind. He's a music coach."

I stared at him, strangely feeling very horrified by each passing second.

"Your mother hated that about him, your parents divorced because of this, and, I've concluded that it must've been your mother's unexplainable hate again when you couldn't find your violin in your childhood bedroom that day."

It took me a while to digest all that he'd said. What came out of my mouth though, wasn't the same disbelief I felt so deep in my bones right then.

"That wasn't my childhood bedroom," I said.

Ryder frowned and flicked on the lighter again--a sound that seemed to echo sharply in the night. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Maybe knowing he hadn't figured that very little part out correctly was the real cause of that frown.

And then I blanched. "Wait...Did you talk to my dad?"

His gaze narrowed and he put the pack of cigarettes away. "I didn't talk to anyone. I only made an old neighbor of yours speak."