Page 102 of Edge of Unbroken

I nod. I know the feeling all too well—that desire to save the people you care about and how upsetting it is when you can’t keep them safe. I wonder if this is a result of the abuse Randi and I have suffered—this need to protect others when we’re so completely unable to protect ourselves.

“The doctor advised my dad to consider going to rehab.” She chuckles ruefully. “As if I haven’t been telling my dad this for years.”

“What did your dad say?”

“Nothing. He’s going to drink himself to death, Rony.” Her voice cracks. “And I don’t think there’s anything I can do to stop him.”

I don’t know how to respond other than to keep holding her hand, to squeeze it. I could tell her she’s wrong, that everything will be fine, that her dad is going to get his act together, but the likelihood that he will is slim to none, and both Miranda and I know that. I’m not about to lie to her about the realities of these things.

“He can go home tomorrow,” Miranda says. “Do you think you’ll be able to take a look at my truck so I can pick him up and take him home?”

“Oh, yeah, actually, I already did. The front differential needs to be replaced, but I did what I could for now,” I say. “You can take your truck tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Rony.”

I drop Miranda off directly in front of the small, one-bedroom cabin she’s currently occupying on the ranch, then return to the main house.

My grandparents are still up, sitting on the comfortable leather sofas in the large open living room. It’s obvious they’ve been waiting for my return.

“Hi baby boy,” my grandmother says quietly when I walk into the living room.

“Hey,” I say, feeling decidedly drained.

“How is Miranda’s father?” my grandpa asks.

“He’ll be okay. I guess he’ll be able to go home tomorrow.”

“That’s good news.”

“I’ll make some calls tomorrow and make sure Father Jackson has someone bringing him some food for the next few days,” my grandmother says. “How’s Randi?”

“Worried. Tired,” I say, but don’t elaborate. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go to bed.”

I make my way to the stairs and up to the bathroom where I take a quick, hot shower, then crawl into bed and pass out almost immediately.

I wake up an hour or two later when I hear my door open, then close, followed by quiet footsteps on the hardwood floor. Not seconds later, Miranda slides into bed behind me. She cuddles up against my back, her arms tucked between us, and we fall asleep without speaking.

Saturday, February 26th

Cat

Vada’s lips curl as though she just tasted something gross. “Okay, I have to admit that I had envisioned something different when you told me your parents agreed to let you have your car back.”

Her comment stings a little. “What do you mean?”

She turns her head in my direction and immediately fixes the expression on her face. “Oh, I mean, I just didn’t take you for a faded blue early 2000s Subaru Forester kinda girl. I pictured something a little sexier. You know, like you,” she says, her tone overtly chipper.

I frown at her. “Well, I happen to think it’s a great car,” I say, perhaps a little too loftily. “It hasn’t let me down yet.” I pat the hood.

“M’kay, let’s just hope it stays that way at least until your personal mechanic is back,” she mumbles under her breath, then plasters a bright smile onto her pouty lips. “But maybe still hitch a ride tonight. Or maybe take Ran’s car now that you know how to operate a stick shift. You know, just in case?”

“Oh come on,” I huff. “Do you seriously think that Ran’s car, which is like, fifty years old, is more likely to get me to Shane’s than mine?”

“Yeah,” she says with a decisive nod, shoving her hands deep into the pouch of her hoodie. “Ran’s car is a damn classic. Those things are pretty much indestructible. Plus, I know for a fact that he’s always tinkering and tuning and stuff.”

I’m a bit prickly at her less-than-enthusiastic reception of my car but only make ahmpfsound, electing not to continue the discussion.

I’m over the moon to have my own car again, to be able to go anywhere, any time without being required to take public transportation—which my parents had been adamantly against ever since they heard Adam was a “wanted fugitive”—or having to slum rides off my friends. It gives me a sense of independence, freedom even. Sure, the car’s nothing fancy—nothing like Shane’s decked-out Jeep or Steve’s souped-up Challenger, but it’s a car. It’smycar.

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