Page 152 of Not Another Yesterday
I laugh.
Ronan narrows his eyes at his best friend. “Not you. You need to watch your waistline.”
Shane looks deeply offended. “Iamthe waistline standard.”
Ronan snorts. “Of a dad in his fifties, maybe. Dude, my grandpa’s more ripped than you.”
Shane’s mouth drops wide open. “You take that back right now unless you want me to challenge you to a gentleman’s duel.”
Ronan just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe Shane sometimes, then shuts his laptop. “Come on,” he says, standing and offering me his hand.
I take it without hesitation, letting him pull me up from the couch. His fingers stay laced with mine as he leads me into the kitchen, where the morning light casts a soft glow through the window above the sink.
He moves with purpose, already pulling out eggs and bacon while I head for the coffee maker. My lifeline. My doctor said I didn’t have to cut it out completely, that a cup or two a day was fine. Thank goodness for that. I don’t know how I’d function without it.
“Ooh, will you make a cup for me, too?” Tori’s voice floats into the kitchen with a half-yawn as she peeks her head around the corner. Her bed hair is even wilder than mine.
“You got it,” I say with a smile.
“Want breakfast?” Ronan asks her.
Tori nods gratefully. “If it’s not too much of a bother.”
“Nah.” Ronan waves her off, and Tori disappears to join Shane in the living room.
The bacon starts to sizzle just as Ronan’s phone buzzes against the counter. He glances at it, then answers.
“Hey, Dad,” he says. “Hold on, let me put you on speaker. I’m trying to do a thousand things at once.” He taps the screen and places the phone down, resuming his bacon-cooking duties as he cracks eggs into a small bowl.
“I found him, Ran,” Frank says simply.
My eyebrows pull together; the words mean nothing to me. But Ronan’s whole body stills.
“Are you for real?” he asks, frozen in place, his hands hovering in midair.
“Yeah. He’s still alive, bud.”
I piece it together. “Your uncle?”
Ronan nods, pale, swallowing hard.
I step closer, gently take the tongs from his hand, and nudge him aside. He needs to focus on this conversation.
“Hey, Cat,” Frank says, noticing the change.
“Hey, Frank,” I say quietly.
“Where is he?” Ronan asks.
“Camden, Maine. He changed his name though, goes by Mac Johnson now.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“I’m sure. Double- and triple-checked. It’s him, Ran.”
“What… what do you know about him?”
“Well, he’s married. Took his wife’s last name. They have a son—Mark. He’s your age. Looks like they run a small family business. No criminal record, clean background. Not even a speeding ticket, aside from a parking violation or two. He looks like a good guy, Ran.”
