Page 80 of Tiny Fractures

“You know, that doesn’t totally surprise me,” Vada says when I tell her about Ronan’s mom not letting him have candy growing up. “I told you, their mom is kind of gruff, especially with Ran.” Vada shrugs. “She’s really not like the warmest person I’ve ever met.” She eyes the bag of candy and smiles. “He’s going to love it.” She nudges me, and I blush.

***

We get back to our hotel well before our ten o’clock curfew. I wash my face and change into pajama shorts and a tank top, then climb into bed. Because there are only two beds in our room, we’ve been playing musical chairs; each night one of us gets one bed while the remaining two share the other. Tonight, it’s my turn to enjoy a queen bed all to myself. Vada and Tori have their backs turned toward each other, each holding their phones to their ears talking with Steve and Shane respectively. It’s kind of comical, actually.

My phone chirps at me with a new text message, and I feel a rush of excitement as I grab it, fully expecting to see a text message from Ronan. My giddiness turns to dread, however, the moment I see the unknown number, and I instantly know the message is from Adam. He’s been sending me random text messages, calling me at the oddest hours—only sometimes leaving me messages—ever since I came back from North Carolina.

Unknown: Hello Sexy!

That’s all Adam’s message says. His messages are mostly like this: short and somewhat alarming. I don’t know what this is about, whether he just texts me because he’s drunk or because he wants to remind me, again and again, of what happened between us, holding me hostage to the past, preventing me from fully moving on.

I delete his message, like I do each time, without responding. I haven’t told my parents about these messages, haven’t shared with them that I ran into Adam while I was in North Carolina. Nobody knows. Not Julie, not my parents, not Ronan. My intention is to just keep ignoring him, to delete all the messages and hope he’ll get tired of his game and stop contacting me altogether.

But tonight is not my lucky night, because I receive yet another message only minutes later. I open it, intending to delete it like I did the last.

Unknown: I need a picture of you.

Delete.

Five more minutes pass before my phone buzzes for a third time, but this time my breath hitches when I see the picture Adam attached to his latest text. It’s a photo of me passed out at a party, half-undressed, my chest bare and exposed. I swallow hard, my heart racing as my fingers fumble around on my phone, desperate to erase the picture, when a new message pops up underneath the incriminating photo.

Unknown: You still owe me! You don’t want to ignore me, Cat. Not unless you want me to post a little sneak peak of slutty Cat on the Internet. Send me a picture!

I delete this text message, too. Maybe if I don’t respond at all, he’ll think I’m asleep and will leave me alone tonight.

Unknown: DON’T IGNORE ME, YOU SLUT. You have exactly two minutes to send me a picture of your perfect, perky tits or I’m posting you for all to see. Countdown starts now.

I quickly climb out of bed, ignoring the startled expressions from Vada and Tori, and disappear into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

My fingers shake when I slide first one, then the other spaghetti strap off my shoulders and push my tank top down, exposing my breasts, before I hold my phone up, covering my face in the mirror, and take a picture of myself—my bare breasts—feeling so ashamed, so used, so dirty.

As soon as the shutter clicks, I lower my camera and quickly pull my tank top back up, covering myself, only to sit on the edge of the bathtub and compose a text message to Adam, attaching the photo. I choke back a sob when I press “send.” The realization that I’m sending a topless picture to some guy who isn’t actually my boyfriend makes me feel sick. I haven’t even sent Ronan a topless picture of me; in fact, Ronan hasn’t even seen me without a shirt on, and here I am sending such an intimate, vulnerable photo of myself to another guy.

Tears stream hotly down my face as I go back into my photo gallery and delete the photo I just took, feeling disgusted with myself.

I knew Adam had pictures of me, most taken without my express consent when I had once again overdone it and found myself impaired, my inhibitions lowered, my judgment affected. I trusted Adam; I trusted my “friends,” ignoring the red flags, the signs, the increasing volatility of my relationship, even though I should have known better.

The vile feeling in my stomach compounds when yet another text message pops up.

Unknown: Fuck, yes. Not so damn, difficult, right? We could have been great if you hadn’t been such a little cunt.

I delete it like I did the others, along with my message to him with the picture, desperate to erase any trace of my betrayal of Ronan tonight.

I sit in the bathroom for a while longer, letting my tears dry, pretending to use the toilet. Adam doesn’t text me again, and I eventually emerge from the bathroom, only to crawl into my bed without a word to Tori or Vada, dead set on pretending I didn’t just send a nude picture to my ex-boyfriend, that I didn’t just betray Ronan, that I didn’t bring this on myself.

Friday, July 2nd

Ronan

It’s finally Friday, the beginning of a long weekend very much needed after an even longer week. I’m at home, packing the rest of my stuff into my backpack. We’re heading out to the Hamptons in thirty minutes. The plan is for Steve and me to share a tent, and both our sleeping bags are stacked next to the door downstairs.

Camping brings back memories of when I was younger and my dad would take Steve and me out into the Montana wilderness when he was home for more than a couple days during the summer months. I used to love spending time with him; I always sought his presence. I was his little shadow when he was home, until I was about seven or eight and I began stacking the bricks, cementing the figurative wall meant to protect me from the pain.

When I finish packing my stuff I take a quick shower, knowing the next time I’ll have a real, hot shower is when I get back on Monday. I smile at the idea of spending a few uninterrupted days with Cat. The thought of possibly sharing a tent with her when Vada invades my space to hook up with my brother causes a rush of want and need. I know I need to take it slow, but the way she feels when I kiss her makes restraint really fucking difficult.

On top of that, Cat’s smart and funny. We spend hours talking about every possible topic and I’ve learned so much about her over the past weeks. And more importantly, I’ve shared so much with her, more than I’ve ever shared with anyone. Well, except for the one huge elephant in my own private prison cell. But I wouldn’t even know how to broach the subject with her. “Oh, hi baby. Guess what, my mom beat the shit out of me last night.”

I tried to be out of the house as much as possible this past week, but I can’t seem to escape my mom. She’s been more on edge these past six months, and it just keeps getting worse. Lately it seems every time we’re in the house alone together, we have a run-in.

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