Page 26 of Edge of Unbroken

“I went into your room and stole two of your sweaters and two shirts. Well, borrowed. Your dad knows,” I say hastily. “And I’m constantly wearing them. They were washed, unfortunately, so they only smell a little bit like you, but it’s better than nothing… You know that black New York Rangers shirt you have?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Yeah, I wear that to bed at night,” I say, my face burning now.

He’s silent for a moment, and I begin to worry that I’m freaking him out a little.

“What else are you wearing to bed with that shirt?” he asks. I recognize the huskiness in his voice, that undertone of need that makes his gravelly voice dip a little lower still and darkens it in a way that makes the sensitive spot between my thighs ache for Ronan’s touch there.

A grin spreads across my face. “Absolutely nothing else,” I breathe into my phone.

I hear the sharp inhale of breath between Ronan’s teeth and I feel powerful, proud of my ability to get such a reaction out of him, even with thousands of miles separating us and the healing Ronan still has ahead of him. “Thank you, baby. That image should carry me through the next week until I can call you again,” he says.

I blink my widening eyes. “Wait, will you be allowed to call me next week?”

“Oh, yeah, every Sunday, I guess. For now. I know it’s not much, but it’s a lot better than what it was, right?” His tone is hopeful, making me feel hopeful in turn—hopeful that the Ronan I fell in love with is still there, just beneath the surface of the suffering that’s been pulling him under, attempting to drown him. I’m hopeful that he’s coming up for air, seeing some light, feeling the darkness lift from his kind, beautiful soul.

A wide, exuberant smile breaks across my face. “Are you kidding me? Yes,” I squeal into my phone for a second time, and I hear him chuckle. “Are there any rules?” Surely his therapist didn’t just do away with all the restrictions she imposed on Ronan’s communications, his ability to call me, his best friend, or even his own brother.

“Like that you can’t tell me you’re wearing my shirt andonlymy shirt to bed at night?” he asks mischievously.

“I was thinking more like for how long we can talk, or, yeah, if there are any things we shouldn’t talk about. But sure, if your dad said I can’t tell you that I’m only wearing your shirt to bed, then you should probably share that with me, too.” Talking with Ronan feels so easy and familiar. I haven’t felt this at ease in months.

“My dad didn’t exactly say anything about you not telling me what you’re wearing, but I’m limited to talking for an hour. And my dad insists that I check in with him, so that should take a good two minutes, leaving me fifty-eight minutes to talk with you.”

“Okay, I can manage that.” I’m elated at the prospect of getting to hear Ronan’s voice once a week. I used to get the Sunday scaries, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Sundays are about to become my favorite day of the week. “And now I don’t have to hold back on telling you that, right now, I’m wearing this super-cute, light-blue lacy bra and matching panties, right?” I’m definitely trying to get a rise out of him now, but I can’t say that my body hasn’t been yearning for Ronan just as much as my mind has.

“Shit, Cat, why are you making this so hard?” he asks, his voice gravelly again, darkening like it did a minute ago. My body reacts just the same as it always does when his voice sounds like that.

“What exactly am I making hard, sweet boy?” Only Ronan has ever managed to make me feel this comfortable without pushing alcohol on me first.

“All kinds of… things,” he growls. “Fuck, I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. So, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Pent up,” he says so matter-of-factly it makes me laugh out loud.

“Okay, but other than that. I mean, do you feel like you’re getting better at all?”

I hope he’s making progress, because that would mean there’s light at the end of the darkness and that maybe he’ll come home sooner rather than later.

“I think so?”

His answer sounds more like a question. I ask about his injuries, and he explains that he is mostly healed, but his knee still gets sore. It’s a different story when I ask him about therapy and how he feels emotionally. “I don’t really know. I still don’t sleep great, although I did have a pretty good night a couple of days ago. I get overwhelmed at therapy,” he admits. “I know Doctor Seivert wants me to talk about what happened, but I can’t,” he adds quietly.

“Why not?” I ask cautiously. I’m sure there’s a plethora of reasons why he isn’t ready to share details about what happened to him, and I don’t want to be another person in his life who pushes him to open up about his abuse before he’s ready.

“Because talking about it means remembering it and remembering means reliving it. I don’t want to relive it.”

It strikes me how vulnerable he sounds when he talks about these things, how young and innocent and helpless he was while his mother abused him, and how much he still is all those things. Even with his masculine face and sculpted body, his forced emotional maturity, and the very “adult” things he does, he still is, in a lot of respects, young, innocent, and helpless.

“I get it. Do you still get panic attacks?”

“All the time.” He sighs again. “I’m working on ways to ground myself though.”

His voice is getting heavy, and I decide right then and there to change topics because I don’t want this to be another downer for him. I want him to have something good in his life, and, selfishly,Iwant to be that something good.

“Did you get my letter?”

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