Page 4 of Not Another Yesterday
Ronan
How I wish I could skip class today, spend the day in bed with Cat, feel her, touch her, make love to her several more times before the day is done. But I really can’t. Not today.
We’re steadily marching toward the end of our first semester in college, and, fuck, that shit is way more intense than high school. The workload is brutal—assignments, labs, papers all piling up on top of an already-packed schedule.
Things haven’t exactly slowed down lately. The opposite is true, and though everyone, including my therapist, keeps urging me to rest, it’s in short supply.
I’m taking a full course load at Columbia, which occupies my mornings and early afternoons with classes, labs, and lectures. And in the evenings, I work. Way more than I used to. Partly because I need the money. Mostly because Shane’s been leaning on me hard.
Until roughly three months ago, Shane and I worked the same schedule. And then Shane took on full-time responsibility for Murphy’s, resulting in him running the place during the day and me running it most evenings. I’ve definitely gotten a crash course in business management.
I cover Friday nights and Saturday brunch. Shane works Saturday nights. That way we each get at least one weekend evening with thewomen in our lives. Still doesn’t give me nearly enough time with Cat, who’s buried in her own full-time course load at NYU.
Our schedules barely align. Cat’s definitely not a morning person. I keep telling her that her parents did a fantastic job picking out her name; I swear, if she could, she’d sleep sixteen hours a day. A good number of her classes fall in the afternoon, whereas I front-load mine so I can squeeze in a workout or a nap before heading into Murphy’s.
Sundays are sacred. No classes, no work. Just us. Even then we’re usually pulled in all directions—by our families, errands, or whatever else “adulting” requires of us, like doing laundry. God, I hate laundry.
But I’m not complaining. Not in the least. Life’s busy, yeah, but it’s also the most peaceful it’s ever been.
I no longer live with the daily threat of getting my face kicked in—yay for that—I get to call the most perfect girl in existence mine, and I share an apartment with my best friend. Considering that only a year ago I barely managed to keep breathing, I’m in the best place I’ve ever been.
I love living with Shane; I love the freedom, the independence, the normalcy. Shane’s a great roommate and we complement each other well. He’s nurturing, and, bonus, he loves to cook. There’s always enough food in the house not only for Shane and me, but for Shane’s girlfriend, Tori—who spends probably six out of seven days at our apartment—Cat, and any of our friends who might stop by.
But Shane isn’t particularly neat, which is where I come in. I had always been responsible for keeping things clean and tidy at home, lest I invoked my mother’s wrath. So now, messes give me serious anxiety. I just can’t come to rest if the apartment is cluttered, which luckily doesn’t happen too often. Shane, Tori, and Cat are mindful of my mental health struggles and try to keep triggers to a minimum. Nonetheless, I’m typically on top of making sure things don’t get too messy, so Shane and I make a good team.
I ready myself to sit through my morning lecture on biochemical processes and retrieve my phone to silence it. My jaw flexes when I notethe voicemail from my dad. It’s barely eight. But of course his military training is so ingrained in him, he’s up before the sun rises, probably running a 5K and doing a hundred push-ups before he allows himself to have his morning cup of joe, or whatever. I don’t actually know.
“Hey bud, just checking in,” his message starts. Sure enough, he sounds winded. He for sure worked out. I wonder if he’ll be able to keep that up with two newborns in a matter of months. But I digress. “Haven’t heard from you in a few days. Stevie assured me you’re still alive, but it would be nice if you could occasionally answer my calls. I assume you and Cat are still coming this afternoon since I haven’t heard otherwise. I love you, Ran. Just…” He releases a deep sigh. “Yeah. I’ll see you this afternoon. Bye.”
A pang of guilt jabs at me. He’s right, I haven’t returned any of his calls or texts. I’m trying, but it’s still difficult for me to allow my dad to play more than just a surface-level role in my life. It’s hard to explain why, how much his efforts to be involved put me off, and how much I genuinely believe he has no right tome, not after he left me to fend for myself for so long.
Therapy’s helped. A little. The walls are lower. But they’re still there, still solid. He offers advice, and I bristle. Tries to help, and I push back. I don’t let him pay for any of my crap. Not rent. Not gas or insurance. Not even my phone bill. Although I did finally relent and let him buy me a nice bed and new mattress when I moved into Shane’s place. He was able to convince me with the argument that I was leaving all my stuff behind, which he and Penny would continue to use as they turn my old room into the babies’ nursery, and that the least he could do was buy me a new bed.
I’m not going to lie, there’s a ton of anger in general, but also specifically at him. At his failure to protect me, his absence, for not knowing. For building a whole new life with Penny while I was getting broken at home.
I never realized how much I resented my dad, how angry I was…am, until Doctor Seivert drilled down on something I said during atherapy session this past July—after Penny and my dad broke the news about Penny’s pregnancy. The longer I sat with the news, the more it felt like confirmation: he’s still not choosing me.
What makes this whole thing worse is that I see how hard he’s trying. He calls me almost daily, checks in with texts, and even makes a point to stop by Murphy’s when he knows I’m working. But it feels impossible to let him in. It makes me resent myself, which is a whole other issue.
Do I know how fucked up all this is? Of course. I’ve always known. But I’m learning to give myself grace. Especially on the hard days, which still come more often than I’d like. Days when just getting out of bed feels like a herculean task.
But the most effective medicine for my soul is Cat.
Everything about her is just perfect. From the way she looks, smells, sounds, tastes, all the way to her soul. She’s beautiful inside and out and so damn good to me. She never judges, doesn’t make me feel less than, doesn’t hold it against me when I’m having a hard day. In fact, the opposite is true. She’s the one who shows up when I’m falling apart. She’ll drop everything to just lie beside me, sit in silence, hold my hand. She’s talked me through panic attacks. Reframed my spirals. Helped me separate truth from trauma. Her touch calms my nerves. Her voice slows my thoughts. She was, is, and always will be too damn good for me, and nobody can convince me otherwise.
***
I make it through my morning lecture, scarf down a quick lunch, then spend a couple of hours in the library working on my biology paper before I sit through my economics class. My professor doesn’t end class until exactly three; he drones on about gross domestic product or some shit, while just about every single one of us sitting through this torturous hour and a half is ready to call it a day.
I know there are a bunch of students in my class who aren’t from New York and are eager to get on the road or on a plane to head home to their families for Thanksgiving. But my lecturer, whose cadence is drawn-out and monotone, lacking any inflection, seems blissfully unaware of the restless energy in the lecture hall. There’s no wedding ring on his left hand, so maybe he’s got nowhere to be. Whatever the reason, he’s clearly not in a rush.
The moment I step out into the courtyard, I’m met with the kind of late-November New York weather that makes you want to crawl back into bed. Cloud-covered skies. A faint drizzle—not enough to soak through your clothes, but just enough to seep into your bones. I yank my hood up and steel myself to walk the two blocks to my car, already regretting not taking the subway this morning. Traffic’s going to be hell.
“Hey!” a woman’s voice calls behind me. I don’t bother turning around. This is New York—someone’s always yelling. I have no reason to believe that current someone is trying to get my attention.
“Hey!Hey!” she calls again, closer this time.
I glance over my shoulder, but don’t slow my stride until I notice a young woman hurrying toward me, hand outstretched, long hair streaming behind her.
