Page 99 of Edge of Unbroken

“Okay,” Miranda finally says and pulls off her gloves and hat, the truck’s cabin having warmed up significantly.

“Do you want me to drop you off first or do you want to run the errands with me?” I ask her, eager for a conversation that doesn’t revolve around anything sexual or my mother.

“Umm, where do you have to go?” she asks, now shimmying out of her thick jacket.

“Pick up a set of tires, then the tack store for some grain, and the grocery store for whatever is on that list.” I point at the piece of paper sitting in the cupholder between Miranda and me.

“How long do you think it’ll take you?”

“I don’t know, an hour?”

“Okay, just drop me off first, I guess,” she says, hesitant.

“Are you sure? We can run the errands together and then I can drop you off and just hang out in the truck if you want? That way if shit hits the fan, you can just leave without having to wait for me.”

She studies me. “You sure you won’t mind waiting?”

“I mean, you’re not planning on hanging out for hours, right?”

“Not really. I just want to make sure he’s still alive and functioning rather than just drinking himself into a stupor.”

“It’s fine, Randi. I’d rather be on standby than you needing me and not able to reach me,” I say with a frown at the fact that I still don’t have access to a fucking phone.

“You’re seriously all the green flags, Rony,” she says, her face full of warmth. I have no idea what that means.

We drive to the auto shop first and Miranda waits in the warm truck while I hoist the heavy tires onto the bed. Luckily I don’t have to do any heavy lifting at the tack store; John happily loads the bags of grain onto my truck with his forklift. I’m getting a lot better physically, recovering way more quickly than I had anticipated given the extent and severity of my injuries, but I’m still nowhere near as strong as I was just months ago. I’m getting there, but the frustrating thing with muscle and strength is that it takes a lot longer to gain it than it does to lose it.

“Let me see your list,” Miranda says as we walk into the small grocery store together, and I hand her the small piece of paper with my grandmother’s handwriting on it. “Okay,” she says, perusing the list of items. “Want to split up? I can get the fruits and veggies if you want to load the drinks?”

This strategy works well. Miranda and I are out of the store and back on the road to Miranda’s dad’s house not fifteen minutes later.

It’s a quick drive from the store to the house, and I pull into the driveway of the small, meticulously kept two-bedroom home just a few minutes later. It has a small front porch with a porch swing and light-blue shutters. I’ve only been to Miranda’s house a couple of times because—much like me with Cat—she never wanted to bring me home with her to risk running into her father, and we would usually spend our time either on the ranch or out in the country somewhere doing god knows what.

“Want me to come in with you?” I ask when I put the truck into park.

Miranda pushes open her door. “No, I’ll be fine,” she says, and I nod. “You’ll wait though, right?” she double-checks, already on her way out of the truck.

“Yep,” I say. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to head back to the ranch.”

She smiles at me, then hops out of the truck, shoves the door closed behind her, and walks through the front door, which matches the light-blue shutters. It’s interesting when you think about it. Houses provide a shell—a front. From the outside, Miranda’s home doesn’t give away anything about what she’s endured inside its belly, just like my home in New York—with its dark-green front door, its red-brick walls, its clean exterior—never would have provided anyone on the outside an idea of how much pain and violence that house hid deep within it. If houses were a reflection of how functional or dysfunctional the people living in it are, the houses Miranda and I grew up in would be nothing but shattered, burned-down ruins. But I guess the same could be said for people, because I’d like to say that—aside from when I was in the hospital, looking utterly broken and bruised—neither Miranda’s nor my appearance would give away the darkness locked away inside us.

I watch Miranda enter the house before leaning my head back against the headrest and closing my eyes. I’m tired. The extraordinary physical exertion that comes with the work on the ranch, combined with the fact that I’m still somewhat handicapped, doesn’t really help my stamina.

But I have no chance to relax even a little bit. Miranda couldn’t have been inside her house for more than maybe two minutes before she comes storming back out the front door, her face pale, blue eyes wide as she runs to the truck.

I’m already swinging my door open. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s not breathing!” she shouts, her voice pitchy, sheer panic on her face. “He’s on the couch and he’s not breathing!”

It takes only a heartbeat before my body goes straight into autopilot and I run into the house after Miranda. Sure enough, her dad is lying on the couch, face-up, his right arm dangling off the side of the sofa, an empty bottle of liquor on the floor next to him.

“Randi, call an ambulance,” I order as I approach her dad. He couldn’t have been in that state for long because he’s only beginning to turn blue in the face. I immediately understand the issue. He must have passed out from the alcohol and thrown up in his sleep, because there’s vomit all over him and the couch.

I take a deep breath, shut off my brain, and go through the motions, forcing myself to not think about exactly what it is I’m doing as I kneel beside the couch.

I turn him onto his side, then shove two fingers into his mouth to clear his throat of the vomit blocking his airways.God damn it, I fucking hate vomit.I have to work hard to suppress my gag reflex.

I scoop as much of the cottage-cheese-like substance out of his mouth as I’m able while Miranda is on the phone with 911, then move my fingers to his neck to find a pulse. There isn’t one.Fuck.

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