Page 19 of Tiny Fractures

“You want to hang out later, or do you have plans with Tori?” I ask Shane when we finally walk out of the gym and back to our cars.

“Yeah, she’s coming over a little later today. Not sure what we’re going to do yet, but I’m sure she won’t mind you hanging out.”

I used to spend most of my time outside of school, work, and hockey with Shane whenever I lived in New York, but that has understandably changed ever since he started dating Tori. He has different priorities now, and I don’t blame him, but the unfortunate side effect is that I can no longer count on Shane’s place as a sure hideout, as a refuge—not unless I want to encroach on his time and privacy with Tori, which I’d never want to do.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe just text me when you guys have figured out what you’re gonna do.” I guess my decision will depend on the vibes at home. I don’t really want to cockblock Shane, and I also don’t want to feel like the odd man out, but anything can be better than being home.

I never really know what I’m about to walk into, but when I get home, my mother is in the hallway, sorting through a stack of unopened mail, quietly singing along to some country song.

She looks up at me, her face soft, posture unthreatening when I shut the front door. “Hey,” she greets me, like our last interaction didn’t end in violence.

“Hey.” I’m already in the process of taking off my shoes so as not to drag any dirt into the house. I feel my mom’s eyes on me when I put my shoes in their normal spot and out of the way.

“How was your workout?” She has obviously noted my attire, my sleeveless shirt stuck to my body with sweat.

“It was good,” I tell her, itching to get back up to my room, which is about the safest place for me in this house.

“That’s great, Ran.” Her use of my nickname provides further confirmation that she’s in a good mood… for now. “How… How is your jaw?” She’s already reaching for me, her hand on my chin, turning my head to the right to grant her a better view of the injury she inflicted last night.

“It’s fine,” I say simply, but she doesn’t release me as the silence between us grows awkward.

“I have some arnica upstairs. Let me get it for you. It helps with the bruising,” she says, lets go of me, and walks past me up the stairs to the master bathroom. I hear her rummaging through the medicine cabinet. I just stand there, rooted to the spot, waiting for her to return, which she does a minute later, smiling brightly as she hands me a tube of the medicine. “Put some of this on your jaw a few times a day. It’ll take care of the discoloration.” She makes to place her hand on my left cheek, but I instinctively move my head out of her reach.

“Thanks, Mom. It’ll be fine.”

She nods, biting her bottom lip, her eyes flitting between my bruised jaw and my eyes, a pained expression on her face like she’s battling with herself.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she finally says, just like I knew she would. I could practically see the words waiting to tumble out of her mouth. “That wasn’t okay,” she adds quietly as if she’s talking more to herself than me, then locks eyes with me. “But when you’re not working, Ronan, your curfew is 1 a.m. Not a minute later, do you understand me? You know how much it bothers me when you disrespect me and my rules.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sorry, Mom.”

“It’s… You need to get this under control. Stop disobeying. Do as you’re told, and we won’t keep having these issues, okay? Don’t make me angry,” she says, her tone a mixture between a plea and an order.

“Sorry,” I say again, and she nods.

“Okay, well, why don’t you go shower and put on some of that arnica. Want something to eat?” she asks, her voice chipper. “I have leftover lasagna. I made it with ground turkey.” She walks into the kitchen without waiting for my response. “Oh, maybe wake your brother and see if he feels like eating something,” my mom laughs from the kitchen.

I exhale deeply, then walk up the stairs and to my room. I shower, get dressed, then unceremoniously march into Steve’s room, grinning. He’s still passed out, wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, lying with his face buried in his pillow, his left arm hanging off the side of his mattress. I’d be worried that he’s dead, but the steady rise and fall of his rib cage lets me know he’s still very much alive.

I nudge his dangling hand with my foot. “Stevie!”

He doesn’t stir. God, he was so trashed last night. I think I counted seven or eight shots of tequila and at least a couple of beers between the time Vada took Cat home at eleven-thirty and when I heaved Steve into the passenger seat of his Challenger to drive him home three hours later.

“Stevie!” I say again, louder, but he still doesn’t move. I place my foot against his bed and kick it forcefully enough that my brother startles awake, jerking upright only to apparently regret his quick movement a fraction of a second later; he grips his head tightly with both hands.

“God, fuck you, Ran,” Steve groans, making me laugh.

“How are you feeling today, birthday boy?” I ask him with a smirk, convinced he feels like death. He looks and smells like death, that’s for sure.

Steve just grunts and forces himself out of bed, standing for a moment while I observe him. I feel a mixture of pity and amusement as what little color he had drains from his face before he bolts past me and into our shared bathroom. I hear him drop to his knees and retch just a few seconds later.

“Mom wanted me to tell you that she has leftover lasagna if you’re hungry,” I call to him with a mean grin on my face, knowing full well that the last thing on Steve’s mind right now is food.

“Fuck you so much,” he moans, and I hear him gag again.

I sit on the edge of his bed and wait for him to finish throwing up, not particularly keen on walking back into my room through our shared bathroom. I can handle a lot of things, but seeing, hearing, or smelling people vomit is not one of those things, so I wait.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groans when he finally returns to his bedroom. He looks like he already feels a lot better after his little heart-to-heart with our toilet.

---