Page 193 of Not Another Yesterday
I feel bad about leaving Cat, torn between staying by her side to make sure she’s okay and needing—desperately—to distract myself from the weight of everything we’ve just lost. I know running off to work probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but the alternative—sitting still, wallowing, spiraling—is worse. I don’t trust my brain to be left unsupervised right now.
I’m tired. Bone-deep exhausted. Emotionally and physically drained, even though I managed a few hours of sleep at the hospital last night. It’s funny how exhaustion finds a way to let you sleep anywhere, in any position. I remember those days of crashing in class after my mom’s last act of violence, my body too heavy to hold up my own head, my mind too weighted down to concentrate. I know that kind of exhaustion well. It’s the same kind of exhaustion I feel now. I know what it means when even breathing feels like work. Life has a brutal way of reminding you how little control you actually have.
So I do the one thing I know how to do: lock it away. Focus on something else.
“Hey, man, what are you doing here?” Shane asks as I head behind the bar at Murphy’s.
“Working,” I say simply.
He frowns. “Where’s Cat?”
“She’s at her parents’. They discharged her this morning. Her mom insisted she stay with them while she recovers.” I pull out my wallet, phone, and keys, ready to stash them in the small office.
“Dude, I told you not to worry about coming in. I’ve got you covered,” Shane says, trailing me.
“Yeah, I know. But, Shay… Iwantto be here.”
He watches, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think you should be with Cat right now?”
Oof, heavy on the guilt.
“I’m going back after I close. She’s not alone. She’s taken care of.” My voice tightens. “Please, Shane. I just need a few hours. Please.”
He studies me, his eyes roaming my face, even my body, like he’s expecting to see some gaping wound. But no, the injuries are only emotional this time.
“Have you talked to your therapist?” he suddenly asks, catching me off guard.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“Okay. Before I let you work, you have to call her.Right now,” he says, firm.
“What?”
“Ran, I’ve known you all my life. I’veseenyou spiral. I saw you at the hospital. I know what you’re doing. And I’m not letting you disappear again. Call her. Now.”
I stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious. “Dude… it’s Saturday.”
“She doesn’t have an answering service that can connect you in case of emergency? Which this is!”
My mouth opens, then shuts again.
“I’ll call your dad and have him drag you out of here if I have to,” he says, arms folded over his sturdy chest.
“Jesus, Shay. Fine.” I grab my phone from the desk, unlock it, and dial Doctor Seivert’s number. I hold it up for him to see. “Here. I’m calling. Now get out. This shit is supposed to be confidential.”
He grins and backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
As expected, only Doctor Seivert’s answering service picks up. I let them connect me to her personal cell phone, making this only the third time in two years that I’ve bothered her at home or grocery shoppingor whatever she’s doing with her time when she doesn’t have to deal with asshole patients like me.
“Hi Doc, it’s Ronan,” I say when she answers the phone. Judging by the background noise, she’s in her car.
“Oh, hi Ronan,” she says jovially. “How are you?”
“Well, I want to say I’m fine, but I’m sure you wouldn’t believe me anyways.”
She laughs quietly. “Especially considering that you’re calling me on the weekend.”
“Yeah, I guess that, too.”
