The backyard fell quiet except for ribs sizzling on the grill. Derek outweighed Ryan by fifty pounds, with gym-built muscles and cheap arrogance. All afternoon, he’d called Ryan “whipped,” labeled me “soft,” and joked that I looked like someone who cried at slamming doors.
I dabbed my cheek with a napkin.
“Derek,” Ryan said, trembling with anger, “apologize. Now.”
Derek laughed, moved closer, and shoved Ryan forcefully in the chest. Ryan stumbled into the cooler, spilling ice across the deck.
“Or what?” Derek sneered.
Ryan stepped forward again. “You don’t touch me. You don’t humiliate her.”
Then Derek punched him in the mouth.
Ryan’s head jerked sideways. Blood appeared on his lower lip. Something inside me became completely still—not from anger or fear, but the same calm I’d felt beneath arena lights, when ten thousand spectators roared and all I heard was my breathing.
