Page 36 of Tiny Fractures

To be honest, I had every intention of hooking up with Sophie—at first. But when we got into Shane’s room, I couldn’t go through with it. An overwhelming feeling of guilt stopped me from kissing Sophie when she leaned in, her hands already unbuckling my jeans. I knew, like I had never truly known before that night, that I was only using Sophie to distract myself. I was using a girl. If that isn’t low, I don’t know what is. At first, I tried to push the feeling down. I’d always been good at that, but not Saturday night. I stood there as Sophie, apparently picking up on my strange energy, abandoned my belt and instead pulled off her shirt and bra. But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get into it. My mind was on Cat and my body gave it away. So I apologized, then handed Sophie her bra and shirt, and left her to get dressed again. I felt like complete shit, until I found Cat and immediately focused on the situation at hand rather than the fact that I had just acted like a complete fucking asshole.

“Anyway,” I deflect before Cat can say anything at all, “do you mind if I roll down the window?” I ask her while we drive.

“A little bit of a breeze would be nice,” she agrees, pulling her shirt away from her sticky skin. I can tell Cat is one of those girls who has absolutely no freaking idea what kind of effect they have on people, and I smile as I crank my window down.

“Sorry, it’s an old car,” I say. “No automatic anything, except the stereo.”

She looks around the interior of my ’69 Mustang Boss, taking in the well-worn leather and the black dashboard. “It’s a nice car.” She runs her hands gently across the conditioned leather of her seat. “Did you put all this work into it?”

“Yep,” I say, feeling proud. “This car actually belonged to Shane’s dad, but it wasn’t operational and was just sitting around their garage. I think he was hoping to restore it eventually, but he’s just so busy with his restaurants that he didn’t ever get around to it. And then last year, the car was still there so I took a leap of faith and asked him if he’d sell it to me.”

“That’s so cool!” I love how enthusiastic she is. “My dad has a classic Chevy Chevelle that he loves, but I honestly don’t know too much about cars. My dad taught me how to change a tire, change the oil, and make sure I don’t get ripped off if my car ever has to go to the shop, but that’s about the extent of it,” she adds, a little disgruntled.

“That’s more than most people know about their cars.” I smile at her. “Honestly, some people don’t even know which side of their car the gas tank is on,” I add, recalling the time Vada attempted to fill up her car and had to pull the pump handle over the roof of her car to get to the tank. Steve would not let her live it down the whole drive home.

“How do you know so much about cars?” she asks.

Talking to her feels light and easy, not forced at all, and I really hope it keeps going because I really enjoy talking to Cat.

“That comes with living on a ranch, I think. My grandparents are pretty cut off from everything, so they do the majority of their own work. My grandfather and dad taught me how to work on cars, do repairs and stuff when I was like eleven; same time they taught me and Steve to drive, actually.”

“You drove when you were eleven?” She sounds shocked, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, not like on freeways, but we drove the trucks when we needed to move hay or corral cattle. It’s a different life on a ranch. You grow up faster because you’re expected to help with the manual labor from a pretty early age.”

“Do you like living in the city better than on the ranch?” Her entire body is turned toward me now as she leans her elbows onto the center console.

I worry we may be heading toward a touchy subject. “I don’t really know.” I finally exhale, then pause. “My best friends are here, but things are good in Montana.” I glance at her.

She nods and leans back in her seat, withdrawing her arms from the center console and adjusting her long legs.

We stay quiet for a while, and I enjoy that Cat isn’t afraid of the silence. In fact, being silent around her doesn’t feel awkward like it does with so many people. It’s comforting, and I feel content in her presence. Once in a while the breeze from the open window will make her scent drift over to me and I catch the smell of lavender and rosewater. It’s delicate and intoxicating, and I realize yet again that I’m in trouble.

Cat

I remember now. That night I asked Ronan about Sophie, and I remember how much it affected me, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. And I feel a strange sensation of relief when he tells me he didn’t sleep with her—what do I do with that?

Ronan and I have the easiest time talking, and the more we do, the more I want to know about him, discover who he is. And, holy hell, is Ronan gorgeous. It’s like I notice his perfection anew each time I see him—how tall he is; his muscular body—lean and cut rather than bulky. Even the way he is dressed today—a pair of blue jeans and an olive-green shirt with sleeves that are just a little too fitted, straining against his biceps. It’s enough to make my mouth dry. And Ronan’s face… God. But it goes way beyond his looks. He seems so unlike the guys I’ve hung around in the past, so unlike Adam. Ronan wants to know things about me—truly know them. He asks about softball and my family. I find myself shifting toward him as we talk, leaning on the console and verging on invading his personal space before I retreat, not wanting to appear as though I’m coming on to him. But it’s difficult, like trying to resist a magnetic pull.

Ronan’s knuckles graze against me as he shifts into a higher gear, and I allow myself a moment to relish the tingling sensation. I look at my knee, half expecting to see an electrical discharge, and notice Ronan looking at me, his green eyes glistening against the sun through the windshield.

“What?” I ask self-consciously.

He gives me that sexy half smile. “Nothing, sorry.” He redirects his attention to the road, but the half smile remains, and it makes my heart thump in my chest.

“Your mom looks so young,” I say out of the blue, remembering my encounter with her a few weeks ago.

His smile fades, and I can tell he’s working to maintain a neutral expression. “When did you meet my mother?” he asks, jaw clenched, not taking his eyes off the road this time.

“When I was at your house with Vada; before we headed to the movies with Steve, Zack, and Summer,” I remind him. “She was on her way out to work, and I just thought that she’s really beautiful and seems young.”

Ronan nods. “That’s because she is young. My parents had Steve at sixteen and me exactly thirteen months later at seventeen. She’s only thirty-four.”

“Wow,” I say, shocked. “I can’t imagine having a baby right now. That would be really hard.”

“I’m sure it was hard for them,” he says, his expression unchanged. “It wasn’t exactly in their plans. In fact, I don’t think that they even planned to be in a relationship at all.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him, trying to decipher his demeanor.

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