Page 75 of Tiny Fractures

Ronan only shrugs, and I get the distinct impression he no longer wishes to talk about this. I put an earmark in this conversation, determined to come back to this; it just doesn’t make sense to me.

“What time are you guys heading out tomorrow?” he asks, and I can tell he’s eager for a subject change.

I oblige, hoping to relieve the tension that has seized his shoulders. “The bus leaves at seven,” I wince. “I’m still not an early bird.” I close my eyes as Ronan kisses my head, and I snuggle against him, enjoying his arms around me and the warmth of his body. How does he always manage to make me feel so safe?

“But you’ve been coming to the gym with me in the mornings,” he says.

I nod into his chest. “Yes, but getting to see you first thing in the morning is a much better incentive than getting on some bus for a seven-hour ride to Buffalo.”

Ronan chuckles. “Fair enough.” He lifts his arm to look at his watch, then sighs. “Baby, I have to get going. I still need to change and then get to Murphy’s.”

He pulls me in tighter, kissing my head again before he lets go of me and gets to his feet. “Hey, little people,” he says to Benny and Sam, who turn their attention from the TV to Ronan. “Be good to your sister; she’s pretty awesome. I’ll see you guys later,” he says, making me smile a stupid happy smile.

I follow Ronan into the hallway, where he turns to me, gently places his hands on my hips and pulls me into him again. “What are you doing to me?” he sighs, and even though I don’t think he actually expects an answer from me, I feel the need to provide him with one.

“Hopefully the exact same thing you’re doing to me,” I say, and for some reason there’s a knot in my stomach. I know it’s ridiculous; we’ve only been seeing each other for a little over three weeks, and I’ll only be gone for five days, but I can’t help the way I feel about him. I just don’t want to be away from him.

He searches my eyes, and I detect sadness in his, so I angle my face up and kiss his lips softly.

“I’ll miss you,” he says against my lips, “but I hope you have fun.”

“I’ll miss you, too, and I’ll try really hard to have fun. I promise.”

He smiles at me, then kisses me deeply before letting go of me and heading out the door.

Ronan

I know exactly what Cat is doing to me. She’s breaking down every wall I’ve ever built, my carefully constructed cocoon meant to shield me from vulnerability, and she’s making me fall hard and fast in love with her.

Being with her is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Even when I was with Miranda—the only other serious relationship I’ve ever had—it was nothing like being with Cat. Granted, I was fourteen, and Miranda was my first everything. We were together the whole year I lived in Montana. She was forbidden: two years older than me; the daughter of the pastor whose church my grandparents, and by extension I, attended religiously every Sunday; a freaking rebel, hell-bent on defying her father’s stiflingly strict rules. So we started sneaking out together, getting high on pills and weed, drinking, having sex in the backseat of her truck or the pew of her father’s church after Sunday service when everyone was in the mess hall having lunch. It was exciting and dangerous, but it wasn’t a relationship meant to last. It was an escape for both of us, each from our own private hell.

After Miranda, there were only random one-night stands, hookups, and meaningless sex to scratch the itch, but I never allowed it to go further than that. But with Cat it’s all different. I feel seen with her—truly, deeply seen—which scares the shit out of me because I worry about what’ll happen when she sees all of me and realizes how broken and fucked up my life is. How broken and fucked up I am. So part of me waits for the day she’ll recognize that I’m not enough for her, just like I’m not enough for my mom.

Sometimes I get the feeling Cat knows something is off by the questions she asks. Like the ice cream thing today. The truth is that my mother never allowed me to have any of it, but not because she’s against junk food per se. She let Steve have it. It was just a way for her to withhold something I wanted, so I learned to just not want it.

***

The drive back home from Cat’s house takes me less than five minutes, and dread overcomes me the second I spot my mom’s car in the driveway but not Steve’s. I bet he’s spending his evening with Vada, soaking up as much time with her as he can before she leaves for the better part of a week, just like I had wanted to do with Cat.

I park on the curb in front of my house, shut off the engine, and take a few deep breaths. I hope my mom is in a good enough mood and that any interaction I have with her today will be civil. But the moment I step foot in my house, I pick up on the negative vibe and my body tenses.

My mother is in the kitchen, pacing left to right across the tiled floor, her shoes click-clacking. She’s holding her phone to her ear, talking loudly, arguing. The second she makes eye contact with me, her eyes livid, I know who she’s arguing with—my dad—and that I better get my stuff and get the hell out of here. I contemplate my strategy; all I need to do is get upstairs, change into my work clothes, and leave. Simple.

“No, your responsibility is to your family, Frank,” I hear my mother hiss into the phone. “You think it’s easy raising two teenage boys alone while you’re off living the life you’ve always wanted, only coming home whenever the fuck you feel like it? You’ve been coming home less and less, and I’m tired!”

I hurry upstairs, listening intently to my mother’s voice, which becomes louder by the second until she’s yelling into the phone. In my room, I kick off my shoes and yank open my closet door, desperate to find my shirt. It takes me way too long to retrieve the black long-sleeve with the Murphy’s logo, but when I finally do I hastily pull it over my head.

Then I realize that my mother’s shouting has stopped.

I stop in my tracks, hoping she’s still on the phone, but I don’t hear anything else. No voices, no pacing. Get a move on. I slip my arms through the sleeves, pull the shirt down over my torso, and put on my black ballcap.

I’m not fast enough, though.

My mother is leaning against the fridge in the kitchen as I step off the staircase and reach for the doorknob, almost tasting the fresh air.

“Ronan.” My mother’s voice is sharp as she says my name, and my breath gets trapped in my chest. Anxiety claws at me, and I close my eyes, willing my feet to move me forward. Finally, I turn my head toward the kitchen. She’s not looking at me, but I can tell by the sound of her voice, her posture, the way her thumb is spinning the simple silver wedding band on her ring finger, that whatever she has to say to me isn’t going to be good.

Her voice comes out clipped. “Get over here.”

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