Page 4 of Dearest Ronan

I don’t fully understand how I feel it in my soul, but I do. Ronan needs me.

Anika:

I’m coming to see you. Still live on Carpal drive?

Three little dots dance, telling me he’s typing. While they dance, leaving me to party, all I can do is stare intently.

Finally—freaking finally—he answers.

Ronan:

No.

My head dips backwards. Ronan’s never flat out told meno—full stop—before.

There was this one time, my junior year in high school, where I begged Ronan and Carolyn to let me throw a massive party when they were out of town. You see, I’m a good girl, but I’m no saint. So while I longed for a party at their never-ending remodeled home, just so I could impress Jimmy Keen, I couldn’t do it behind their backs.

Really, they should have thanked me. For trying to impress Jimmy Keen, that is. Because, as I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been in love with my guardian since I was sixteen. By inviting Jimmy over and throwing a massive party with alcohol and ill intentions, I might have been distracted enough to develop a crush on the boy more age appropriate.

I’d exchange Ronan’s light brown eyes with hints of red for Jimmy’s hazy green ones.

After drinking enough vodka, I might not find Ronan’s wavy chestnut brown hair as sexy as Jimmy’s buzz cut. Maybe I would have forgotten how Ronan’s hair curls perfectly against the top of his neck. I’d no longer imagine my finger twisting in his strands as I laid in bed in the pale moonlight.

And maybe, just maybe, I would have wanted to follow Jimmy anywhere, rather than stay with my guardian forever.

But Carolyn said no. Her husband, though, her perfect freaking husband that deserves better than their never-ending house under construction, couldn’t. He said, and I quote,No, but I’ll give you a couple hundred bucks to rent the party room at city hall.

It was brilliant, really. Adults wouldn’t be supervising us at night, but surveillance cameras ensured we’d stay out of trouble. Plus, city hall is two blocks from the fire and police station.

Ronan would give me space, but keep help close enough that if I need it, they’d be there in minutes.

That’s always been Ronan.No, but. . .

So when Ronan saysnonow, I know he’s not saying no to me visiting. He’s saying that he doesn’t live in the same house. Which is odd considering he and Carolyn have spent god-knows how much money renovating and expanding on their house.

Anika:

Where are you?

This time, he types faster.

Ronan:

Home.

Anika:

And where is that?

Ronan:

My apartment.

Apartment? Gripping the phone like it holds all the answers, I stare at this text until the word blurs.

I have so many questions. Why is he in an apartment? Is Carolyn there, too? Are they remodeling again and had to move temporarily?

Settling for the most subtle, less threatening question, I ask:

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