I woke up with one thing on my mind the next morning; I need a pair of ear plugs or, at the very least, noise canceling head phones.

     Over ten years of living with my bedroom facing Ryder's had it perks. For instance, it wasn't exactly a bad thing to catch a glimpse of his toned body whenever he left his blinds open and paraded around his room in nothing but a low-riding pair of boxers. I had also found it convenient to be able to blame Ryder for any noise pollution that may be caused by Max or myself over the last few years, though my parents were smart enough to see through my cruel attempts at forcing blame on the boy next door. 

     While there were perks to the living arrangement, there were also cons. The biggest, and most reoccurring, being the continuous never-ending arguments Ryder and his father tended to get into on a weekly basis. I could never fully wrap my head around exactly it was that ignited the fights in the first place. I'm positive if I were to listen attentively I would find that their disputes never had a start or end. Just a loud back and forth shouting match that never quite went anywhere. 

     This morning wasn't any different. I could hear Ryder through my shut window; the whole neighborhood was probably aware of how dissatisfied he was over his father's laundry skills. 

     Sitting upright, I stretched my legs out in front of me over my pale pink and blue fleece throw, eyes trained on the chipped red polish on my toe nails. I sighed quietly to myself, my eyes drifting toward the window pane at my side. I felt my dry lips part a fraction, giving me the wonderful sensation of cotton mouth as I took in Ryder's hunched figure across the small rose garden that divided our houses. The old, rusted swing set, not in use for over five years, sat with it's legs digging into the gravel that had once been home to a beautiful bed of poppies Mrs. Blake had tended to daily. The fact that Ryder and I shared the same object of focus was a pretty good sign my sympathy for the bad boy next door had officially begun. 

     There was a tinsy tiny part of me that was surprised to find that he was still a firecracker going off with every word he spat. The mental image of a frail teenage boy in a hospital bed had already embedded itself into my mind and didn't appear to have the desire to dissipate any time soon. 

     I drew my blinds the moment his eyes flickered toward my bedroom window, worried he'd caught my wandering eyes through the glass. Standing up, I tried to wake myself fully from my sleepy daze, but was interrupted by the vibration of my phone as it danced across my nightstand. I swept it up before it slipped from the corner and hit the ground, not at all shocked to find my best friend's name lighting up the screen. Following his two missed calls were a series of texts asking for my accompaniment on his adventure to Wal-Mart to pick up party supplies. I shot him a quick response before grabbing a pair of shorts and a tank top from my dresser and changing. 

     Opening my door and stepping out into the hallway was the final step in breaking me out of my delirium. My father's quiet chatter, sister's quick fingers dancing along the keyboard, and mother's quiet humming all sounded through the house like an alarm. I stretched my arms behind my head as I walked down the hall, greeted by the intoxicating scent of my mother's chocolate chip pancakes. The recipe for them had been passed down through three generations, four if I included myself, and Mom refused to let anyone else in on the secret. Including my step-father and sister. 

     Mom plopped a quick kiss on my right temple before wiping her hands on dish rag and handing me a plate of three. When I only stood and stared, she raisec a thin, nearly nonexistent blonde eyebrow. "Max?"

     I laughed. "Yeah. He'll be here in like five minutes and if I don't feed him he won't drive me. Kind of a vicious cycle." 

     She laughed softly; a sound I'd always found a sense of comfort in. From a young age, I'd learned how strong my mother was. My biological father, Harrison Summers, had been a chronic alcoholic and abusive. Mom had dealt with it for years on her own with the hope he'd get better through support groups, but he always relapsed and fell back into the same habit. It was only when he laid hands on me in at a small gathering after my mom's high school reunion that she had enough and kicked him out of the house-and her life. For the next two years, she worked her way through the rest of college and managed to keep a roof over our head. Fresh out of college, she met Michael, who was a recent law school graduate and ready to settle down and start a family. Long story short, ten years later Michael still here and my mother wears her scars like a warrior.

     "Where are you guys headed?" she asked, tucking a strand of her dark blonde hair behind her ear with one hand and resting the other on her hip. 

     I shrugged a shoulder carelessly and nodded toward the door. "It's Max. You know how spontaneous he is. I'll keep you updated though."

     She smiled, as if my answer had been what she wanted to hear, before redirecting her full attention to the delicious batter in the mixing bowl on the counter. My step-sister, in the midst of studying for another midterm and stuffing her face with a pancake, smiled as I passed by, her usually teased hair straightened and pined up in a tight bun. I squeezed her shoulder and bit into one of the fluffy pancakes myself as I opened the door. 

     My hunger dissolved when I opened it to find Ryder Blake standing on my front porch, fist in midair, inches from the door, ready to knock. I finished chewing my pancake and swallowed awkwardly as my mind drifted to my conversation with Gabby yesterday. If what she said was true, the boy in front of me was likely in the wrong place and was possibly just wandering around aimlessly looking for sympathy. 

     "What do you want?" I muttered, peering over his shoulder in search of Max's Buick. He popped his head into my line of sight, plucking one of Max's pancakes from my plate in a quick, graceful movement. I gasped, smacking his hand away and cradling the plate against me. "Those were for Max."

     He shrugged.

     "What do you want, Ryder?" I repeated. 

     He bowed his head a fraction, blue eyes on the faded Welcome mat under his worn sneakers. He ran a hand through his messy head of dark locks, processing my words for what seems like an hour before he finally looked back up at me and sighed.

     "Do you maybe. . . want to go out for coffee or something?" he asked cautiously, "Not as a date or anything, just to. . . talk." 

     I eyed him wearily. "Why would I think it's a date? You're Ryder Blake, you don't do dates."

     He threw me a dark look and shook his head.    

     "I was diagnosed with Leukimia a couple days ago." The words came out in such a nonchalant manner it took me a minute to comprehend what he said. . 

     I frowned and bowed my own head, feeling a little guilty for my comment. I could also feel a wave of sympathy for the boy before me rushing to the surface. "I'm sorry."

     He shook his head and turned his back to me, starting down the stairs. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. I don't want to hear your pity bullshit. I'm sorry I bothered you."

     I jogged out and down the steps after him and caught his arm, shaking my head apologetically. 

     "What is it, Ryder? What do you want?"

     He's quiet for so long I'm sure he's about to tear his arm from my grip and continue on down the steps and back across the yard to his house without another word. Finally, he lifted his head and meets my eyes, his fingers curling into a fist at his sides.

     "I need you to help me kill myself."

***AN***

*Edited*

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