Page 90 of Edge of Unbroken

I move about, taking my sheets and shirt downstairs with the phone still to my ear. My grandmother gives me a quizzical look when she makes to take the laundry from me, but I just move around her and shove my things in the washing machine.

Cat and I spend the remaining few minutes with her catching me up on Vada’s status. When my grandma gently reminds me that my time to talk is up and Cat and I end our call, I feel decidedly more at ease than I had these past fourteen days.

Thursday, February 10th

Cat

Step one: redemption. Step two: reckoning.

That’s my plan. I’m going to atone for my misdeeds, for the things I’ve done wrong, and then I’m going to reckon with all the things and people that somehow continue to assert control over me, my life, and my everyday decisions.

I’m by no means a confrontational person, never have been. I’m docile and compliant. “Sweet,” as Vada likes to say. But I’m also angry, filled with angst and rage. The past few weeks I’ve been feeling more like a pressure cooker, a time bomb, stewing, the tension within me rising, bottling it all up. But even my tolerance has its limit, and I have a feeling I might just be close to reaching it.

I’m desperate to find a way out of this mess, or at least the aspects I have some control over. I have to find a way to sever whatever stranglehold Adam has on me. I don’t want it to linger, don’t want him playing any part in my life once Ronan is back. Adam doesn’t deserve my attention. He’s already demanded too much of it, of my strength, my willpower. I’ve spent countless hours trying to get to the bottom of… myself, why I’m so demure, why I allow people to walk all over me.

For the longest time, I thought bad things happened because I did something to deserve them. It wasn’t until Ronan came along that I began to understand that this was a lie, one I didn’t only tell myself, but that others reinforced with their words and their behaviors. I won’t deny that I’ve made mistakes—really big ones—but I have an easier time accepting that the fallout of those mistakes may not have been warranted. What I don’t quite understand is why I have such a difficult time standing up for myself.Speak up, Cat!Yet I never do, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

One thing I have done, though, is repay the tips I stole…borrowed.

Despite my vehement objections, my mom still gave me my February allowance. “Did you really think I was going to make you pay for a winter coat, Kitty? I’m your mom; of course I’m going to buy you clothes,” she laughed when I asked her why she transferred $200 into my bank account at the beginning of the month.

The first thing I did was withdraw half of that money. I went to Murphy’s and made sure the bar tender got her forty bucks. The next time I saw Shane, I gave him the remaining $60. He had no idea what the heck was going on, looking at me with the most adorable, confused expression on his freshly shaven face.

“Forty is for you. For when Tori and I ate at Murphy’s last time and you so lovingly cleaned up our table. You deserve a good tip, sir,” I told him with my most convincing smile. He tried to argue with me, but I didn’t take no for an answer. “Oh, and the other twenty is for Jack, please. For the L.A. water he made just right.”

Step one: redemption. Step two: reckoning. It’s coming. I’ll make it happen.

And I’m starting today.

I’m still steaming, huffing and puffing as I pace the house after my mom picked me up from school today. My mom hasn’t picked me up from school since I was in second grade. And no, she didn’t get me because Adam has me almost constantly on guard these days, but because I had to go to the principal’s office with Vada and Tori after Vada quite literally knocked a girl’s tooth out of her mouth when we were standing by the lockers after lunch today.

The three of us were about to split up and head to our afternoon classes when a group of juniors walked past us. One very conveniently and forcefully stumbled into me. Rather than apologize, the girl huffed an insult at me, calling me a “blonde-haired hockey glory hole”—very creative, I must say—causing her girlfriends to giggle wildly and Vada to lose her absolute shit. I hardly had time to register the comment before Vada dropped her backpack to the floor and pounced on that girl, fists flying.

And then it was friends trying to come to each other’s aid, hair pulling, nails scratching, and hands slapping as Tori and I tried to pull Vada off the girl. A crowd of students gathered, cajoling and cheering on the fight.

It felt a lot longer than the three minutes it took for the fight to get broken up and for Vada, Tori, me, and the four other girls to be marched into the office. Vada was given an ice pack for the bump on her forehead, and the girl who “tripped” into me sobbed as she held a wad of paper towels to her mouth to stem the blood running down her chin.

Vada readily admitted to starting the fight without an iota of remorse in her brown eyes. Her face was stern as she told the vice principal about the rumors that have been floating around for months now, about the insults and underhanded threats.

I feel bad for the three-day suspension the vice principal imposed on Vada—after all, she was only defending me—but she just shrugged. “I told you I’m not above kicking someone’s ass,” she told me victoriously when she left with her dad, who was obviously displeased about his daughter instigating a fistfight at school.

“Why didn’t you tell me about these rumors, Kitty?” my mom asks me, her hands on her hips.

“Because it doesn’t matter, Mom. There’s nothing you can do about it. I try to just ignore it,” I tell her, still angry. As much as I appreciate Vada’s willingness to step in, I have no doubt this will only fuel the haters. I could practically feel the eyes on me when I followed my mom to her car, and I’m getting really damn fed up with it all.

“Do you mind if I take a walk?” I ask. Some fresh air, some movement would probably be good. Otherwise I’ll just sit and ruminate, contemplating what a complete crapshoot my life has been since the day after my birthday last year. Actually, with the exception of the four months between when I met Ronan and when he got hurt, this entire year has been a wash, and I would gladly erase any memory of it if it wasn’t for the incredible moments I spent with Ronan.

“Go ahead, sweet pea,” my mom says with a nod, her eyes warm. “Don’t wander far, okay? And keep your phone on you. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

I can’t say it’s a conscious decision, but I find myself walking in the direction of Ronan’s house, feeling my heart rate increase the closer I get to the two-story red-brick home with its dark-green front door. I know he’s not home—in fact, he’s really, really far away from me—but still, being there in his home, maybe even in his room, always makes me feel closer to him.

I see his satin-black Mustang first, still parked right in front his house. I notice the hood up, then spot Steve bending over the engine block, apparently working on Ronan’s car.

“What are you up to?” I say when I’m just a few feet behind Steve, and I laugh when he jumps up, startled.

He whirls around to face me. “Fuck, Cat, you scared the shit out of me,” he says, eyes frenzied, his hand on his heart. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” I laugh. “What are you doing?”

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