Page 1 of Edge of Unbroken

Part I

Thursday, December 2nd

Cat

Five weeks. It’s been five weeks to the day since Ronan left for Montana. Five weeks and one day since I last spoke to him, last felt his lips on mine, last told him I loved him. Five weeks that may as well be five years because that’s how it feels.

I haven’t spoken to him because that’s what his therapist ordered. Ronan’s dad Frank told me, the day after Ronan’s departure, that Doctor Seivert decided to treat Ronan as though he was admitted to an inpatient rehabilitation facility, which would come with strict rules around contact with anyone on the outside.

Steve threw a fit, complaining how ridiculous this was because it’s not like his little brother is being punished.

“This is such bullshit. He’s not in prison, Dad. He’s supposed to be healing!” Steve said while he paced in the living room of their house.

I had tried to call Ronan when I got out of school the day he left for Montana but had been unable to get ahold of him, reaching only his voicemail. My texts to him were left unanswered, too, and eventually I decided to call Steve, who told me that Ronan wasn’t allowed access to his phone. My heart hurt at the prospect of not getting to speak with him until his therapist decided he was ready.

“Yes, exactly. He’s supposed to focus on what he needs to do to get better, and right now, Doctor Seivert thinks this is the best way to go about it,” Frank said, his voice steady and calm.

I know Frank is dealing with a lot. Not only did he have to send his youngest son to live with family in Montana after it turned out he had suffered lifelong physical abuse at the hands of his mother, but Frank also had to quickly rearrange his home and work lives while still providing stability and support for his oldest son.

“Doctor Seivert will let us know when she thinks Ran’s in a place where we can slowly start exposing him to possible triggers, but now isn’t the time,” Frank said sternly. “Ran’s not okay. Can we just agree to trust this process?”

Steve stopped pacing then, a look of defeat on his handsome face. He exhaled deeply, then nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Dad.”

So, this is how I’ve been getting my updates—mostly from Steve and Frank. From what they’ve told me, Ronan has been struggling.

I saw him withdraw before he left for Montana. He spent less and less time with his friends and me, and it doesn’t sound as though he’s doing all that much better in Montana. I’m aware he has almost constant night terrors that make it impossible for him to get rest. My mom explained to me that Ronan is unable to regulate. Because of the trauma he has experienced throughout his life, his amygdala—which is part of the brain—constantly activates his fight-or-flight response, even now when there’s no longer a threat to his safety. But he has been so conditioned, has experienced so much pain, that any small thing can hijack his nervous system, and that ultimately results in him being unable to rest and heal. It’s incredibly stressful for the body, and so the best thing to do was remove Ronan from the place that was never safe for him.

I know Doctor Seivert was right to suggest Ronan live with his grandparents for a while. I want Ronan to get better. I want him to heal, but god, I miss him so much. I’ve been trying to distract myself by spending most of my time outside of school with my friends. It’s safe to say that we’re all equally miserable.

“I hate that we can’t fucking talk to him,” Steve said against gritted teeth when we were all hanging out at the beach house the weekend before Thanksgiving. “I hate that I have no idea how he is. My dad gives me these vague updates on Ran, like, ‘He’s had a rough couple of days’ whenever he talks to my grandparents, but, you know you can only tell how someone is really doing by talking to them? I need to hear his voice.” He ran his hand through his dark hair, just like Ronan does when he’s frustrated.

“I’m with you, man,” Shane said. “This shit about not being able to talk to Ran is driving me insane. I just don’t see how it’s helpful to Ran. And honestly, it’s not helpful to us, either. I’m fucking worried about him.” He looked at me. “How are you holding up, Cat?”

I sighed. “Don’t ask.” I knew if I began to talk about how much I miss Ronan I’d probably break apart.

My friends have been an incredible support system. I spend a lot of time either at Vada’s place or at Shane’s, though I do spend a good chunk of my time at Steve’s. When I do, I always sneak up to Ronan’s room and lie in his perfectly made bed, inhaling his scent still lingering on his pillow.

A few days after Ronan left, Vada and I stopped by his house, and I took the opportunity to rummage through his closet. To the amusement of Steve and Frank, I borrowed a couple of Ronan’s shirts and sweaters, including that dark-green one he wore when I first met him. It’s been my favorite thing to wear. My mom almost has to pry it off my body to wash it.

I truly miss everything about Ronan—the sound of his voice and laughter, his scent. I miss his love, the comfort he provides, how my heart flutters in my chest when I see him.

And I miss Ronan as my protector, as my emotional buffer from the terror my ex-boyfriend, Adam, has continued to inflict on me.

I thought it was over. I thought Adam was finally done playing his games, would leave me alone after he showed up here in New York in August and got his ass kicked by Ronan. For a while it was pleasantly quiet. After weeks of random messages from Adam blackmailing me into sending him more and more compromising pictures of myself—a fact that, as of yet, nobody knows about—Adam stopped contacting me.

It was a relief, like the weight had lifted off my shoulders, and all thanks to Ronan, who, from the moment I met him, helped me heal from the emotional wounds inflicted on me during my past relationship. Ronan made me believe it was possible to trust again and not get hurt.

But the respite didn’t last. Adam contacted me again. His messages, as always, came from an unknown number and, though sporadic, were more menacing than before his violent encounter with Ronan.

At first, I did what I’d tried to do when Adam first began his extortion campaign—I simply ignored his messages, hoping he’d leave me alone already. Didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. So one day about two weeks ago, I replied to Adam’s message pretending to be someone else—a guy who just got himself a new phone and a new number. I hoped this would make Adam believe I’d changed my number, like I did after the last time Adam became violent, after he was arrested and put on probation, after the threatening calls and messages from Adam’s seemingly hundreds of close friends and allies began blowing up my phone.

So far, it’s working. There has been radio silence from Adam. I just hope it stays this way. I hope he stays away from me for good and I’ll never have to come clean about my transgressions.

Luckily, I didn’t have to go back to North Carolina for Thanksgiving. Both sets of my grandparents still live in New York and my dad and siblings came here to spend the week with my mom and me instead of us having to make the trip. It was a relief. I didn’t want to risk running into Adam who, it’s my understanding, is back in my small North Carolina hometown attending classes at the nearest community college and working part-time for his dad’s Mercedes dealership while he awaits his next court hearing—the hearing that will determine what consequences Adam will have to suffer as a result of his “visit” to me in August.

The entire week of Thanksgiving, I had to listen to my dad grumble about how slowly this process is moving, how long this thing is getting dragged out. I’m in no hurry, though. I worry that if Adam has to go back to jail or his probation is extended, it’ll set him off and he’ll make good on his threats and expose me to the world. I’m terrified of those closest to me finding out how stupid I was in allowing myself to lose control to the point of letting some guy take nude photos of me.

I know it wouldn’t go over well, and I have little hope that, even if I explained myself, my dad would be able to see past my failure to live up to the expectations he has of his children, and especially of his oldest daughter.

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