Page 102 of Not Another Yesterday
Then everything goes eerily silent, like even nature is holding its breath.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.
A single shot cracks through the night, a deafening explosion that echoes across the valley. The mountain lion crumples instantly. But Ronan still stands.
No one moves. Not Perry, braced with the rifle still at his shoulder. Not Saoirse, hands clutched to her mouth. Not Steve, wide-eyed beside me. Not me, barely breathing.
Ronan doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there, a statue etched in moonlight, like his body hasn’t registered yet that he’s safe. That it’s over.
The silence roars louder than the gunshot.
Then, slowly, his shoulders collapse. Ronan sinks to his knees. And, finally, the rest of us move.
Ronan
I can’t find sleep. My room feels like a tomb, the walls too tight, my thoughts too loud.
By the time my adrenaline faded to a bearable level and I managed to walk back into the house only to lower myself onto the sofa, my dad was here. He heard the damn gunshot, got in his truck, and sped to the main house where my grandpa debriefed him.
Even though his military background trained him for high-stakes situations, I could tell my dad was freaking out. His brown eyes were wide, his voice just a little too loud for the hour, his tone clipped when he barked at my grandpa—his own dad. He crouched down in front of me, eyes darting over my face and body, checking for injuries that didn’t exist.
“God damn it, Ran,” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “What’s with you and always staring death in the face, bud?”
“It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose, Frankie,” my grandma said, setting cups of tea on the coffee table. One for me, one for Cat who was on the sofa next to me, her leg barely touching mine, but it was enough to ground me, to prove I was still here.
We didn’t drink the tea. We couldn’t. As far as Cat’s and my hierarchy of needs went, tea was the least of our concerns. It took a while, but eventually the quiet returned. My dad went back to his cabin, and my grandma ushered Steve, Cat, and me upstairs into our respective rooms without even the tiniest chance for me to ensure that Cat was alright. Not just because of what happened with that wildcat out there, but because of my confession just before.
All Cat knows right now is that I did the unthinkable, that I slept with Miranda. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know what was going through my head, or the hole I’ve been living in, or how I’ve hated myself every fucking second since I’ve ended things between us.I didn’t get to tell her all the things I still need to get off my chest before we stand even a hope of repairing…us. I didn’t get the chance to tell her any of it. And it’s killing me.
She went into her room without looking back, without saying a word. Without acknowledging me or the gaping rift I caused, the one I had every intention of fixing and somehow only managed to make worse. Fuck that mountain lion for picking that exact moment to show up. Fuck the universe for reminding me, again, that I have absolutely zero control over anything.
A little while ago, I rolled out of bed, then stood outside Cat’s door for a solid five minutes like a damn ghost, hoping she’d open it. She didn’t.
So now I’m back in the dark, staring at a ceiling I’ve memorized since childhood, replaying the last hour on a loop, wondering if that one sentence, that one decision, was enough to destroy whatever hope we had left.
I did this to myself.
I deserve the silence.
I deserve the pain.
Sunday, April 2nd
Cat
I’m grumpy.
I knew the second I got on that plane yesterday that it would be an emotional arrival on the ranch. But Iwayunderestimated what a rollercoaster it would be.
It was a lot. A total freefall of adrenaline spikes, doubt, longing, anger, disappointment… It’s only been one day. One! And already I’m emotionally exhausted.
The house is quiet when I finally crawl out of bed just before ten. I assume everyone’s off doing whatever ranch life requires while also somehow preparing for the wedding. I catch the scent of coffee and smile gratefully when I arrive in the kitchen to a full, steaming pot.
I pour myself a cup, then rummage through the fridge for creamer or milk when I hear the sharp clack of bootheels on tile.
“There’s caramel creamer all the way in the back of the second shelf.” Miranda’s voice floats through the space.
My jaw clenches. First of all, why does she have to beright herewhen there are literally three thousand other acres she could be on? And second, how does she even know that I have a weak spot for caramel coffee anything?
