Page 167 of Not Another Yesterday
“I’m okay,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can feel something different in his voice. Calmer. Less guarded.
“Did you see him?”
“Yeah. I actually talked to him. For a long time.”
My breath catches. “And?”
“It went better than I could’ve hoped,” he says, and I feel the relief wash through me like a tide.
“Yeah? Are you okay talking about it?”
“Yeah,” he says, and he tells me everything. About the drive, the wait, the hesitation. About seeing Cormac. About the stories, the hurt, the history. I listen—fully, completely, the way I always try to. And when he repeats the words Cormac told him—that he gets to choose the kind of man he becomes—I feel something soften in my chest.
“So, how do you feel now?” I ask, voice low.
“Lighter,” he says, and I can hear the honesty in it. “And hopeful. And a lot less stressed.”
“God, Ran, I’m so glad,” I exhale. “You needed this.”
“I did.” A pause. “Baby… I want to be good to you. And our baby.”
My heart gives a little flutter. “Sweet boy,” I say, voice warm. “You are good to me. You always have been. And you’re going to be amazing to our baby. I know it.”
“When are you heading home tomorrow?”
“Probably late morning. I think I’ll stop by Murphy’s when we get back, but I want to see you. Will you come by in the evening? I need to recharge my battery.”
“Your battery?” I tease.
“Yeah. You recharge my emotional battery, baby. Ever since I met you. When I’m not around you for too long, I can feel it draining.”
“Really?”
“Really. Is that weird?”
“No,” I whisper, smiling so hard it hurts. “I love it.”
Hope blooms in my chest. It’s tentative, but real. I want to hold onto it, to let it fill me completely. But hope has hurt before. Hope has made promises it couldn’t keep. So I let it in gently, carefully… like something wild that might run if I move too fast.
Sunday, June 25th
Ronan
Dinnerwith Cormac and his family last night felt… surreal. But good. I sat across the table from a man who, not long ago, was just a name, a blurred silhouette. But last night he was all presence and voice and gentle wisdom. And hope.
The hours passed in a haze of warmth I still don’t quite know how to hold. The conversation drifted between Mark’s and my college classes, the best clam chowder on the coast, and a long, dramatic retelling of a T-ball game Ashley swears was the peak of Mark’s athletic career. Everyone laughed. Even me. Even my dad. And Cormac—Mac—sat across from us, talking about the best type of wood for framing, about the kid he once was and the father he chose to become, like it’s not a miracle. Like healing doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
Later, in the stillness of the motel room, I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. The quiet settled differently than it used to. Not heavy, not hollow. Just quiet. I thought about Cat. About her laugh. Her beauty. Her strength. About our baby, a blur of cells and possibility, already reshaping me. And I thought about Cormac. About how he hasn’t erased the past, but he hasn’t surrendered to it, either.
And then something stirred in me. Not certainty. Not peace. It was Cat’s words, and Shane’s, and my grandparents’, and my therapist’s. It was a small, stubborn belief that tomorrow doesn’t have to echo the worst parts of before. That I canchoosesomething different. That this life I’m building, still imperfect, still unfinished, is not just another yesterday.
***
Even now, in the quiet hum of morning light spilling through the car window, that feeling lingers. It sits in my chest like a foreign object I’m afraid to poke too hard. What if it dissolves under pressure? What if I imagined it?
My dad hasn’t said much since we hit the road. We’ve been driving for over an hour, the highway stretching out like an old scar—cracked, familiar, unchanging. I can tell he’s thinking. So am I.
We’re overdue for a talk. We’ve been dodging it. Well, I’ve been dodging it, shutting him down the moment he even hinted at getting too close to something real.
