Page 44 of Tiny Fractures

“Little birthday workout. Just you?”

“No, I’m meeting Shane.”

“Great! How was your night?”

“Fine,” I say matter-of-factly, not wanting to get involved in conversation. It’s too early, and I’m still too damn tired to be fully on guard. I would much prefer she ignore me like she does most days. Her eyes flicker to the bruise on my forearm—an early birthday present from her and the result of a closed-fist punch that I’m pretty certain was aimed at my stomach, but I shifted and she caught my arm instead. It’s been a couple of days since she struck me, but the bruise is still a deep, dark blue.

“That’s good,” she says awkwardly. “Oh, so it appears your dad is finally coming home this weekend,” she tells me joyously.

“Really?” My dad has been saying he’d come home for some time now, but something has always come up at the last minute. His absence doesn’t make much of a difference to me anymore. It’s his broken promises and the resultant fights he has with my mother that make my life hard.

“So he says.” My mom shrugs. “Anyway, I just got home and I’m working a twenty-four-hour shift tonight, so I’m headed to bed. Are you working tonight?”

“No, but Steve and I will be at Shane’s tonight.”

“Okay. Remember your curfew,” she says, then walks out of the kitchen. “And, Ronan,” she calls back, stopping just before the stairs. “Clean up this mess of a house before I get back tomorrow night.” She points at something out of my sight.

I nod, frustrated. Even though I try to keep the place tidy so as not to provoke a fight, she always finds something to nitpick.

“What the hell is that face for, Ronan?” She turns toward me completely, holding her hot tea in one hand, resting the other on her hip.

I check myself and immediately replace the look with a neutral expression. “Nothing. Sorry, Mom. I’m just still a little tired. I’m gonna head out.” I try to release the tension that has seized my shoulders, but I’m only able to relax once I’m safely outside and in my car.

Cat

I’m in my room, listening to my music at full volume while texting Julie about my upcoming trip to see my dad and siblings. It’s perfect timing because it’s Julie’s seventeenth birthday next week and I’ll get to celebrate with her. She’s giddy about my brief return home, responding to my messages in all caps with lots of exclamation points.

I do look forward to seeing my dad, brother, and sister. And my friend, Julie, and Julie’s boyfriend, Nate. But of course, there’s always the risk of running into my ex, Adam, or any of the myriad of other people who made my life a living hell. When I talked to Julie last week, I made her give me an update on things. Are people still talking? Is my name still brought up despairingly?

The town I grew up in is so small—everyone knows everyone—so chances are I’ll run into Adam or some of his posse. It’s a thought that leaves me feeling uneasy and anxious, but I push it aside, not wanting to ruin my anticipation of seeing my family and friends.

I’m singing along loudly when there’s a knock on the front door. Not making any effort to see who it is, I wait for my mom to answer the door, which she does just a few moments later. I can’t make out who it is and just assume it’s the mailman or a neighbor, but then my mom walks into my room with a smile on her face.

“There’s a really cute guy waiting in the hall for you,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Who?” I ask, trying hard to make any sense of the situation.

“He said his name is Ronan.” Her smile grows even wider.

Heat rises in my face and body. “Oh,” is all I’m able to get out, and I stand stupidly in my room, my phone still in my right hand. This is unexpected.

“Well, are you going to come talk to him or do you want me to tell him you’re busy?” my mom asks, still grinning at me, obviously enjoying my stupid reaction.

I fling my phone onto my bed and run to the small mirror hanging above my nightstand to fuss with my hair. I hear my mom giggle in the background and I take a deep breath—a feeble attempt at calming myself down. Why the hell am I reacting this strongly?

“Okay,” I say, more to myself than her, and stalk past my mom, wishing—no, willing—my heart to return to a steady beat. Even though I saw Ronan only twelve hours ago—a fact that my mom is blissfully unaware of—my heart hammers at the prospect of laying eyes on him in just a second or two.

I thought about him after he left last night and again this morning when I woke up, and I keep replaying our interaction: his soft lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, his gorgeous green eyes, his sexy hair… Ugh, I need to get a grip.

But all my composure melts into a puddle and I smile widely when I step into the hallway where Ronan is standing. He clearly just left the gym because he’s wearing gym shorts, sneakers, and a gray, sleeveless shirt that is damp over his tight abs. I resist the urge to let my gaze roam his body and instead lock eyes with him.

Ronan gives me a small smile, seeming uncomfortable as he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say back, and Ronan starts to laugh. “What?” I say, becoming instinctively self-conscious.

“Sorry, I just feel really stupid stopping by like that. And this definitely wasn’t my smoothest opening line.” He still chuckles, and it’s so contagious that I join in.

“Alright, so what’s up?” I’m giddy, but try hard to appear unfazed by his presence.

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