Page 48 of Tiny Fractures

My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my back pocket and smile when I recognize the Montana area code.

“Happy birthday, baby boy,” my grandma’s voice chimes.

“Thank you,” I chuckle at her.

It’s almost a crime to call her my grandmother. Like my own parents, my grandparents had my dad at a really young age. My grandmother was fifteen and my grandfather seventeen when they emigrated from Ireland and came to the U.S. My grandmother was pregnant with my aunt. They settled in Montana and had my dad a couple of years later. That makes my grandparents fifty-one and fifty-three, respectively. It’s strange, I know.

“You know I’m not a baby anymore, right?” I ask her, amused.

“Don’t start with me, Ronan Perry Soult. You will always, always be my baby boy,” she says in her strong Irish accent. “I miss you. Are you doing okay?” she asks, her tone somber. My grandmother has always had a soft spot for me, I think because she secretly knows that my mother is not good to me.

“I’m fine, Morai,” I respond. “How is everyone doing?”

“Fine, fine, everyone is fine. Athair and Tom are branding some new bulls,” she says of my grandfather and his wrangler. “So he’s not here to wish you a happy birthday himself, but I told him I’d call you, and he asked me to tell you that he loves you.”

My grandma’s words hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe it’s the whiskey finally making its way through my bloodstream, but I actually feel a little emotional.

“Tell him I love him, too,” I say, my voice a little off pitch. I unscrew the whiskey bottle, needing another gulp.

“I will. Is your father home?” She always asks if he’s home, but I suspect she knows the answer most of the time.

“Nope, I haven’t seen him in about six weeks,” I say, starting to feel my body relax as the alcohol makes its way to my head.

There’s silence for a moment before my grandma speaks again, her voice sharper than it was before. “He’s not home for your birthday? Has he at least called you?”

“No.”

I’m seriously contemplating another shot of whiskey, but I hesitate because my mother is still home and I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I can’t leave on a moment’s notice.

“Unbelievable. Well, baby boy, do you have any fun plans for today?”

“Going to hang out with my friends and Steve.” I place the Jack back in the sideboard and slide the door shut before wandering over toward the couch, where I plop down and put my feet on the glass coffee table. I hate that thing because it’s impossible to keep clean. It’s all glass and the second someone touches it it’s full of fingerprints and grime, which inevitably results in my mom ordering me to clean it again.

“Lovely.” My grandma’s voice is clipped. I can tell she’s upset about my dad being absent today, though it doesn’t bother me. My dad’s lack of a physical presence in my life hasn’t bothered me in a long time. “I hope you have a nice day and lots of fun with your friends tonight. Don’t go overboard, okay? Take care of yourself.” I hear the concern in her voice.

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the sofa as my body relaxes. “I will, Morai. Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you.”

We end the conversation, and I remain on the couch with my eyes shut, head tipped back, feet resting on the coffee table. My body feels heavy—probably due to lack of sleep and alcohol—and I give in to my desire to rest, falling asleep within minutes. But the slumber doesn’t last long.

“What the hell is this, Ronan?” My mother’s stern voice startles me awake as she kicks my feet off the coffee table. “This isn’t a fucking youth hostel.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, and quickly get up off the couch to stand and face her. She’s dressed in her scrubs, her dark-blonde hair in a high ponytail.

I brace for whatever she has in store for me, expecting to at least get yelled at, but she turns and heads toward the kitchen, leaving me standing in the living room instead.

“Again, I expect you to clean this pigsty up before I get back tomorrow evening,” she calls back over her shoulder.

I furrow my brow. Before I can stop myself, I retort, “I already did.” God fuck, why did I have to do that?

My mother turns on the spot and comes stalking back toward me, her jaw tense.

“You’re kidding, right? This?” She gestures around the living room. “This is supposed to be clean?” She lets out a dry laugh.

“Yeah.” I know I’m asking for it at this point. “I don’t understand what else you want me to do.” I mean, fuck it, right?

“Excuse me?” She steps closer to me, invading my personal space. Her hands are on her hips and her face is contorted in anger. “I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me. You think just because today is your birthday, you can have a shitty fucking attitude with me? You might want to rethink this strategy, Ronan, because I’m going to put you in a world of hurt.”

---