Page 18 of Tiny Fractures

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Ronan! I can smell the alcohol on your breath.”

She’s shorter than me by almost a foot, and petite—maybe a hundred and twenty pounds—but she packs a punch, and years of conditioning have made me acutely aware—and afraid—of my mother’s wrath.

“I had a beer.” I swallow hard and I break the eye contact, looking at her feet.

Without a warning or another word, her right fist crashes into my jaw and it knocks me backwards into the glass door. Before I can get my bearings, my mother takes another step toward me and follows her hit up with a punch to my gut, eliciting a grunt from me as nausea and pain threaten to bring me to my knees.

Onyx is at my feet, whimpering as I stand doubled-over, my right arm across my stomach, while I cradle my left hand against my jaw. I try to steady myself, black dots popping in front of my eyes.

“Lie to me again, Ronan!” she dares me, taking another step toward me as she balls her fist.

I raise my hands in front of me, ducking my head. “I’m not lying. I had a beer. I’m sorry I broke curfew.” The words spill from my mouth. My breathing is hectic, and I feel like a fucking child. Adrenaline pushes forcefully through my veins, fine-tuning my senses, and I try desperately to defy my body’s fight-or-flight response. Neither reaction has served me well in the past, and I’ve gotten good at suppressing my instincts to flee or defend myself.

My mother evaluates me for a few seconds, her brows furrowed, eyes unfeeling, before she finally unclenches her fist and her face softens. “Get to bed,” she orders simply, and turns to walk back upstairs.

I don’t move until I hear her bedroom door close, then take a shaky breath, flinching as I move my jaw from left to right and crack my neck. The spot where her fist connected with my face throbs painfully, but all in all this could have been a lot worse.

I motion for Onyx to follow me upstairs as I tiptoe my way into my room, then lock the door behind me. Onyx hops onto my bed, makes a couple of circles, and lays down at the foot of my mattress.

I pull my shirt over my head, careful not to bump the fresh bruise, then unbutton my jeans and drop them to the floor. I sneak into the bathroom where I close the door to Steve’s room before I turn on the light and position myself in front of the mirror. I turn my head to examine my injury. Already a blue hue is spreading across my jawline, painting it like watercolors, and I try to think of some excuse to tell my friends and Steve when they inevitably ask me what caused this bruise. Frustrated by my goddamn inability to defend myself, I yank my toothbrush from its holder, smear some toothpaste on it, and brush my teeth angrily, making my jaw hurt even more.

Finally I shut off the light to the bathroom and walk back to my bed, where I crawl under my blanket and shut my eyes tightly, willing myself to drift into unconsciousness.

Sunday, May 2nd

Ronan

“What the fuck happened to your jaw?” Shane asks me first thing this morning when I meet him at the gym.

I woke up early this morning after a restless few hours filled with confused dreams. I called Shane, waking him from a deep sleep to convince him to work out with me. It’s what I do when I’m restless, overwhelmed, or frustrated—unable to express some shitty fucking emotion trapped inside my worthless head. I go and work out, push my body to its limit in an effort to make it bigger, stronger, better. It’s always about being better.

“Man, Stevie was so damn wasted last night I had to drag him into the house and I got knocked around,” I lie, keeping my face neutral, completely expressionless.

Shane narrows his eyes at me for a moment but doesn’t question the bullshit excuse. Not this time. “He really went for it with that tequila after Vada went home,” he agrees with a chuckle.

I nod. “Yeah, he did.”

“Good thing you were so mesmerized by Cat that you apparently forgot how to drink and were able to drive,” Shane says with a smirk.

I frown. “What the hell are you talking about?” I train my gaze on the barbell in front of me; I know exactly what he’s getting at.

“Oh, come the fuck on, Ran,” he laughs, and nudges me with his elbow. “I’m not blind, man. I noticed the way you kept looking at her, and I’m pretty sure I saw her wear your sweater.”

“She was cold, dude. I’m not a fucking asshole.”

Shane grins widely. “Yeah? Maybe you should have offered to warm her up with your body instead. I fully expected you to take her back up to the house and do your thing, man,” he chuckles, because that is exactly what I’d usually do.

I would set my sights on a girl for a night and then flirt, charm, and compliment my way into her pants or under her skirt. Though it wasn’t unusual for a girl to make the first move, which I rarely turn down.

But a hookup with Cat didn’t even cross my mind. She just seems so different from the girls I’ve been with. I could tell she was uncomfortable last night, her body tensing when Drew stumbled toward her and pressured her into getting in the water. Cat told him “no” a few times, and her body language made it clear she didn’t intend to go anywhere with Drew last night—or ever—but he just wouldn’t back off, which pissed me off to no end and resulted in an overwhelming need to step in, to protect her, to make her feel at ease. So I told Drew to knock it off and asked for Cat’s permission to sit with her. We talked for a while, and though she warmed up a bit—physically and emotionally, I guess, after I gave her my hoodie to shield her from the ocean breeze—I got the impression she’s guarded and cautious, analytical and aware. She didn’t come on to me, and I didn’t come on to her.

She’s a beautiful girl—fuck, so damn beautiful—but I sense darkness. I could see it in her eyes—the fractures. Tiny, but there nonetheless. I can tell because I know all about that, and I would be a horrible person if I made a move on Cat, if I let myself feel anything for her, because I would shatter her. I could never be enough. For anyone.

“Whatever.” I shrug, which is my way of telling Shane that I’m done talking about a particular subject.

He doesn’t bring up Cat again for the rest of our workout.

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