Page 114 of Edge of Unbroken

My grandfather gently takes it from my hand. He gives me a once-over, then glances at my grandmother, who is on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay,” she says softly.

It surprises me. The last time I was drunk in front of her, I was fourteen. I got caught drinking with Miranda and the sheriff took me home where my grandmother gave me a huge lecture. My mother inflicted her own punishment on me later that night, unbeknownst to everyone else.

“Why don’t you just go upstairs and lie down? I’ll bring you some water and you can sleep it off, okay?” She ushers me through the living room and to the stairs.

“Where’s the truck, Ran?” my grandfather calls after me.

“I left it by the lake,” I say slowly. “I didn’t drive it back.”

“Good boy,” he says, and the words, meant to be praise, feel like an insult. I know what I am—worthless, a fucking no-good piece of shit. I feel like crap for hurting Miranda, and even shittier that I allowed her to drive home.Wait. Where the fuck is she?

“Morai, have you seen Randi?” I call back as I slowly climb the stairs to my room.

“Yes, she just grabbed some food from the kitchen about fifteen minutes ago, why do you ask?”

I exhale in relief. “Just wondering.” I walk to my room where I belly flop onto my bed, praying my head will stop spinning soon.

Sunday, March 13th

Cat

These past few days have been exciting. When I got home from school Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, my mom was eagerly awaiting my arrival, each day holding up a new letter from Columbia, NYU, and Duke. She urged me to open them right then and there, but I’ve been determined to hang on until I have the chance to open them with Ronan on the phone with me. Whether the news is good or bad, I want him there with me, even if it’s just his voice.

Admittedly, the neatly stacked letters feel like they’ve been burning a hole into the white wooden surface of my desk. I often find my eyes glued to them as if I could somehow see through the envelope and determine my admission status without having to actually tear open the paper.

My mom shook her head each time I told her I wouldn’t open the newest letter until Sunday, but all effort on her part to convince me otherwise was futile. I want to share this moment with Ronan.

“What time are you talking to Ran today?” my mom asks when she walks into my room with a stack of folded laundry around lunchtime.

I’m in the midst of shoving some underwear into an overnight bag, packing for my trip back to North Carolina tomorrow, for that visit to Duke University. Seems silly to pack for a college campus tour when I don’t know whether I even got in, right? No, not according to my dad.

When my dad found out I had received my Duke letter, he was even more insistent I open it immediately.

I’m so conflicted about the whole thing. Sure, getting accepted to Duke would be an incredible achievement. And maybe I wouldn’t be so defensive if my parents, and more specifically my dad, weren’t pressuring me to attend.

My dad has checked in on me almost daily and has called and texted me several times over these past forty-eight hours. “Kitty, you’re flying out to Durham on Monday. Don’t you think you should open your letter now instead of waiting until you talk to your boyfriend on Sunday?” he asked me.

Each time, my response was the same—that I was going to open my letters with Ronan on the phone.

“Uh, Ran usually calls when he’s done eating lunch, so in an hour or so,” I tell my mom.

“Are you sure you can’t at least open the letter from Duke now?” my mom asks, her tone smooth like honey.

I smile but shake my head. “I want to open them all with Ran, but I promise I’ll let you know as soon as I’m off the phone with him.”

***

My phone goes off later than usual today, but the butterflies in my stomach and the stupid grin on my face when the picture of Ronan’s gorgeous face lights up on my screen are the same as ever.

“I was worried you weren’t going to be able to call today.” I close my bedroom door and wander to my bed to get comfortable.

“Sorry, baby, I’ve been a little preoccupied.” His voice sounds tired.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, feeling uneasy. I hate not being able to see him, to gauge his body language and facial expressions.

“Yeah, I… Miranda’s gone.”

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