Page 72 of Edge of Unbroken

“Here are the rules going forward, Cat,” he says, his voice low, sinister. “You will not ignore me anymore, or I will put these pictures of you to good use. No more playing games! Don’t fuck with me, Cat. I know where your boy toy lives. I watched you go in and out of his house. I know you spent the night with him last year. And I know whereyoulive, baby. Do. Not. Fuck with me! Now, be a good girl and get to work.”

He hangs up the phone without another word.

Tuesday, January 18th

Ronan

One step forward, two steps back. Isn’t that how it always goes?

It’s been a confusing, unsettling few days that started with Cat not answering her phone last Sunday. I dutifully called my dad after lunch, then tried to reach Cat. She didn’t answer. I gave it a few minutes, then tried again. Still nothing. I left her a message, but when I hadn’t heard from her thirty minutes later and began feeling irrationally anxious after our abbreviated phone call the week before—I’m obviously going insane—I decided to use my remaining time to call my best friend.

Although talking with Shane doesn’t calm my highly strung brain quite like Cat’s voice, I felt overwhelming relief when he answered. It was short-lived, though, when I asked him if he had any idea where Cat might be. After some hemming and hawing, he told me he thought she might be at Vada’s because, as he put it, “some shit went down” between Vada and my brother. It took some more frustrating prodding before Shane finally spilled the damn news and informed me with a deep, heavy sigh that Steve had broken things off with Vada.

I was speechless. Things had seemed great between Vada and Steve when I was home. The guilt took me into a stranglehold when Shane began to tell me about the steep decline of Steve and Vada’s relationship after my departure almost three months ago.

Shane did his best to calm me, which made me feel even shittier. In the end, it’smybullshit that’s messing with their lives. It had been my sincere hope that my absence would give everyone room to breathe, to move on, to live their lives without me weighing them down while I tried to piece myself back together. The fact that my brother and closest friends are suffering douses me like a bucket of ice water.

If I thought my regular Tuesday therapy session today would provide me with an opportunity to work through the mess of nameless emotions clogging up my head, I was sorely mistaken.

We’re in the middle of calving season and my grandfather, Thomas, Elias, and I have spent the majority of the morning taking stock of the new calves, the health of the mothers and babies, if the newborns are nursing okay, and all the things that come with new life on the ranch.

My grandfather dutifully reminded me, at just after eleven-thirty, that it was time for me to return to the house so I could wash up, scarf down the lunch my grandma had prepared, and be in front of my laptop in time for my two-hour appointment with Doctor Seivert.

Since my slow emergence from the deep, dark depression I fell into a few months ago, my grandparents have been vigilant about me making it to every session, even when I try to conveniently forget about it, and so I’m properly fed and up in my room logging on to the private video conference at exactly noon.

I know today’s session will be different than normal. Last Thursday Doctor Seivert asked my permission for my dad to join us today, assuring me that the decision was solely up to me.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Whatever,” I said without any pushback. It was the end of our session, I was tired and ready to call it a day.

“Hi Ronan,” Doctor Seivert says joyfully the moment I connect. Her hair is in a loose bun and she’s wearing a black silk blouse and glasses with a clear frame. She always looks perfectly put together yet never comes across as stuffy or cold. She doesn’t appear to be sitting at her desk, but rather in one of her comfortable, light-tan upholstery chairs. “How are you?” It’s always her first question.

“Fine,” I say like I do every time. It’s a pre-programmed response and a hard habit to break because I was never allowed to be anything butfinegrowing up.

She’s obviously unconvinced, but rather than gingerly steering our conversation in a direction that would get me to open up, she clears her throat. “Alright, well, Ronan, you obviously know that I have your dad here with me today.” She smiles, then gets off her chair, taking her tablet with her. When she sits back down, my dad comes into view.

“Hey bud,” he says, smiling widely. His face is scruffy, a deep shadow darkening his chin and cheeks like he hasn’t shaved in a week, but his hair is freshly trimmed, the brown of it a visually pleasing contrast to the light-gray crew neck sweater he’s wearing. He looks relaxed and happy.

“Hi Dad!” Even though this makes me ache for my own bed, the four walls of my room in New York, my friends, and Cat, getting to see him—a visual representation of home—is still comforting as hell.

Doctor Seivert appears to hand him the tablet, giving us a minute to talk face to face.

“I love seeing your face, bud,” he says, his brown eyes warm.

“It’s really good to see you, too. You look happy.”

“Yeah, being home and not traveling so much has been good. It’s been calm.”

Yeah, I bet things have been calm. After all, I’m not there to fuck things up. Except, Ididfuck things up for my brother and Vada.

“But we miss you, Ran,” he says. “How are you doing, buddy?”

I crease my brow. “Dad, did you really go to Doctor Seivert’s office just to ask me how I’ve been? I call you every week and tell you how I am. There’s obviously a reason for your ‘visit,’” I say, making air quotes.

Doctor Seivert comes into view. “Well, Ronan, your dad and I had a chat before you logged on, and there’s something he wanted to discuss with you. We wanted to wait until I felt you were, perhaps, in a better place to receive the information. I know this is something your dad has been wanting to talk to you about for a little while. I’ve been really pleased with your progress, so I invited your dad here today to let you two talk in a controlled environment.” God, it sounds so damn clinical. “Please go ahead, Mr. Soult,” she says, as she places the tablet onto some kind of table or similar platform in front of her.

“Ran, I really just… whew, I don’t really know where to start, I guess,” my dad says, running his hand through his dark hair.

“Maybe just say it,” I say, not at all sure what to expect.

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