Page 61 of Stranded

He doesn’t need me jumping in to rescue him when he’s not drowning.

I’m trying my best to stay hands-off. The last time I went upstairs was to bring Ronan lunch. I persuaded him to eat a few bites of his sandwich before he panicked about the crumbs and told me to leave the plate in the kitchen.

I bet you anything it’s still there.

But now… I’m getting really worried.

The noise upstairs has been at a fever pitch all day long. Loud rock music, hammering, sewing, furious pacing and phone calls, and a whole lot of swearing—and that was all before 9am.

Now, it’s eerily quiet.

I poke my head through the open door at the bottom of the stairs and wait for a few moments, half-expecting to be startled by another explosion of sound… but there’s still nothing.

“Ronan?” I murmur, carefully making my way up the stairs. “Are you here?” I haven’t heard the golf cart leave, so I’m starting to wonder if he snuck out the back door.

Still nothing.

“Are you running away from home to live in the woods? Felix tried that once, you know. I freaked out, but Mom just baked brownies. He was back within the hour.”

The cardboard boxes of piecework are gone, but I still can’t see through the banisters. They’ve been replaced by a row of magnetic whiteboards, each with numbers and words I’ve stopped trying to understand.

I poke my head around the top of the staircase.

There he is—lying face-down on a pile of fabrics on the couch, his blond hair splayed every which way.

“You okay?”

Ronan doesn’t even move. He just moans quietly.

“It’s like that again, huh?” I pick my way through the clutter until I can crouch by the sofa.

I can’t say I’m surprised. There’s a reason I asked Berty for the morning shift today... and then the whole weekend off.

“There’s a lasagna in the oven,” I tell Ronan. I sit cross-legged on the floor, reaching out to stroke his hair. “And I’m going to make you come eat it when it’s done. And I’m also going to force coffee on you every hour, unless you say otherwise.”

Ronan finally turns his head enough that he can peer at me with one eye. “Yes, please. Sorry about the disaster zone in your very nice home,” he mumbles against the cushions. “I’m a raccoon in a trash can.”

I laugh, finger-combing the hair back and out of Ronan’s eyes. “It’s okay. I know it all makes sense to you.”

Ronan moans. “Not anymore. It’s just chaos. Everything is chaos.”

“Come on.” I stand up and bend over, wriggling my hands and forearms underneath Ronan until I can shift him out of the way. Then I sit down and pull his head into my lap. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Ronan rolls all the way over until he’s on his other side, knees curled up by his chest, peering up at me.

My poor angel. He looks like a robot who’s run out of battery.

“I’m proud of you. Always. Okay?”

Ronan covers his face with his hands. “You’ve been waiting for me for so long.”

I shake my head. Every night, I call up the memory of Ronan’s warm, smooth skin against mine, pressing my nose into his freshly-shampooed hair, listening to his breathing turn steady and deep.

“It’s not like the dinosaurs came and went since… you know, we came and stayed.”

Ronan has to take a moment to think about that. Then he cracks up, snorts in a tiny little giggle. “Was that a dirty joke?”

“It might have been. Maybe you’ve been rubbing off on me this whole time,” I raise my eyebrows.

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