Page 17 of Tiny Fractures

“Right? I actually had a huge crush on him when we were like thirteen. Man, you should see my diary from back then. It’s embarrassing,” Vada laughs.

I’m surprised by her confession. “Seriously? And now you’re dating his brother!”

“I know. Weird, right? Well, they left for Montana, then came back almost two years ago, and last year things just developed between Steve and me. There was never actually anything between me and Ran; I just had butterflies for him for a hot minute there.” She laughs again.

“Wow, I have to say I learned a lot tonight,” I tease her as I open the passenger door and climb out of Vada’s car.

“Hope none of it is too off-putting for you,” Vada jokes in response.

I pretend to think about her statement for a minute, then shake my head earnestly. “I’ve heard worse.”

“Whew”—Vada dramatically wipes the back of her hand across her brow—“that’s a relief. I’ll see you later, Kitty Cat!”

“Good night, Vada!”

I walk up the three steps to my front door, unlock it, and slip into the dark house, knowing that my mom, though not hovering, is still awake in her room, waiting to hear me come home before she turns in for the night.

Ronan

It’s just after two-thirty when I manage to drag my drunk-off-his-ass brother back to his car and I begin our drive home. Steve is passed out in the passenger seat, his head tipped against the window. Any attempts to wake him or have a conversation with him are futile, leaving me without any distraction from my thoughts of Cat.

She keeps crossing my mind during the drive home.

I had every intention of just relaxing this evening, maybe having a few drinks to numb my brain, but then I got so caught up in talking with Cat that I really didn’t want to drink, didn’t want my thoughts to blur, for the world to slow down around me. Even when Cat was sitting down, chatting with Vada and Tori later in the evening, I found myself getting distracted, my eyes wandering to her. I’ve never met this girl before tonight, but fuck, her energy was so damn familiar and it felt like I had been around her, had talked to her a thousand times before. It’s disconcerting how badly I want to see and talk to her again. This can’t be fucking happening; I can’t catch feelings for some girl. Not now, not ever. It’s not what I do. It’s not safe.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath when I finally pull up to the house and my headlights illuminate the white Camry parked in the driveway. My mother is home instead of at work like I thought. I have a 1 a.m. curfew; that’s if I’m not working and my parents are home, which they typically aren’t. With my dad mostly gone and my mom working nights, Steve and I don’t usually pay close attention to when we get in on the weekends, except when we know one of our parents is home. Because Steve is a year older than me, he has a 2 a.m. curfew. Stupid, right? Especially given that we have the same group of friends and hang out so much. It’s honestly the dumbest thing when I have to end my night an hour before Steve. He’s usually nice enough to cut his night short, too, unless things are getting hot and heavy with Vada, then he just sends me on my way. And now that Steve is officially eighteen, he doesn’t have a curfew at all anymore, starting now, I guess. But I still do, which is complete bullshit. But that argument doesn’t fly in my house, and seeing as it’s now past three in the morning and my mom is unexpectedly home, I’m obviously well past my usual curfew. Fuck.

I shut off the engine and nudge Steve to wake up. He doesn’t stir, even when I punch him hard in the shoulder.

“God damn it,” I grunt, step out of the car, and move around the front to Steve’s door. When I open it, he slumps to the side, and I brace my hand against his right shoulder to prevent him from falling out of the car. I bend over and sling his right arm over my shoulder and around my neck, hoisting him into a standing position. I slam the door shut with my foot and begin to maneuver Steve to the house, briefly contemplating the easiest—and quietest—way to get him inside. I decide to just use the front door, which is the fastest way upstairs, and regardless of which option I choose—the backyard, the garage, or the front door—I’ll have to figure out a way to get Steve up a bunch of steps before we’re even inside the house.

Steve only weighs a few pounds more than me, but at the moment he’s nothing but dead weight and I struggle to get him up the front steps, cursing under my breath as he mumbles incoherently. He really pounded back those shots after Vada left with Cat, and I start to think we should have just stayed at the beach house so Steve could sleep it off. But I wanted to give Shane and Tori some space because they were getting pretty handsy with each other, and besides, Onyx has been in the backyard all day, which makes me feel guilty.

Onyx is my black German Shepherd. Well, technically she’s our family dog, but she spends most of her time with me and sleeps in my bed. I’m the one who walks and feeds her, and she gets really upset when I leave her for too long, so really she’s my dog.

I finally accomplish the near-Herculean task of getting Steve, whose legs have apparently lost all bones and muscle, up the stairs. I unlock the front door, pushing it open with my right hand while still supporting almost all of Steve’s body weight with my left shoulder. I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself to drag my brother up the stairs to his bedroom. By the time I make it up the twenty-four steps—I have never counted them before tonight—into Steve’s room and let him plop onto his bed, I’m sweaty and out of breath. I roll him onto his side in case he needs to throw up and I pull his boots off, letting them fall to the ground. He mutters something I can’t understand, and I walk through the bathroom into my own room where I pull off my own shoes and socks. I discard the socks in the hamper and tiptoe out onto the landing and back down the stairs to stash the shoes in the closet.

The living room is dark when I walk to the sliding glass door to let Onyx into the house. As soon as she hears the click of the lock, she comes bounding toward me, her tail wagging as she squeezes past me and into the house.

The light in the living room turns on as I lock the door. My heart sinks, beginning to beat double-time in my chest; I know what’s about to happen. I can sense it.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” My mother’s words are short, her voice harsh.

I turn to face her. She’s dressed in a pair of navy pajama bottoms with a matching button-up top and black slippers. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and she looks pissed.

“At Shane’s,” I say, not moving an inch. “I thought you were working tonight.” I keep my voice neutral so as not to come across as having a shitty attitude.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

I know there is absolutely no response to this question that would satisfy her, so I let it stand unanswered.

“And who the fuck do you think you are, getting in at past three in the morning?” she growls, looking at the watch on her wrist. “God, Ronan, you are such a little shit. You just cannot follow the rules around here, can you?” She takes a step toward me. “Where is your brother?” she hisses.

“Upstairs. He’s sleeping,” I say, willing myself to keep looking her in the eyes.

She continues toward me, stopping a mere two feet away. “Are you drunk?” Her voice is sharp but low so as not to wake Steve. She scans me for signs of intoxication. As an ER nurse she’s skilled at detecting the signs of drug and alcohol use—bloodshot, watery eyes; the smell of alcohol; slurred speech; dilated pupils; unsteady gate; and a swaying stance.

“No,” I say truthfully, but know it won’t matter. Whether I say yes or no, the outcome will be the same tonight.

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