Page 65 of Not Another Yesterday
I call Vada and Tori. I break the news to them. The words that slip out of my mouth feel foreign, muted. Each react exactly as I thought they would. Vada begins huffing and puffing, talking about marching over to Ronan’s apartment to kick his ass. Tori says Ronan isn’t at the apartment, that she’ll call Shane, who only just opened Murphy’s for Sunday brunch. Maybe Ronan is there, too.
“Great. Then I’ll call my annoyingly handsome ex and tell him to talk some sense into his little brother. Such bullshit,” Vada mutters.
She means well, but her outrage only widens the rift inside me. I don’t want Ronan talked into anything. I just want him to want me back.
I shake my head. “Imessed up, Vada.Icheated on Ran.” And with those words, I sink to my knees again, no longer solidly rooted to the ground or myself.
1:19 p.m.—my parents and siblings get home, filling the house with noise that travels up the stairs into my room. I’ve been lying on my bed, paralyzed. I’ve tried to reach Ronan twice more, sent him another handful of text messages, but the result hasn’t changed. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even read the messages I sent him last night when I was drunk and desperate. I’m no longer drunk, but I’m still desperate.
I hear footsteps approach and a quiet knock on my door before my mom pokes her head into my room. The soft smile fades from her lips the second she spots me curled up in bed.
She storms into my room. “Oh my god, Kitty, what happened?”
My mom has a special touch, a special way of talking, a warmth that is soul-sustaining. The second she reaches me, sits down next to me, and pulls me into her arms without even knowing what I’ve done, what’s transpired, I break wide open.
She sits and listens as I lay myself bare, recounting—to the best of my abilities—last night’s happenings, and the devastating consequences I’m now made to suffer. Like she did when I finally came clean about Adam’s blackmailing, about my thieving and lying, sheremains calm and supportive, talking to me softly. She strokes my hair, my back for an eternity while I cry against her shoulder.
My dad walks into my room, completely flabbergasted. My mom shoos him away with a swish of her hand and a decisive head nod toward my door. “I’ll come talk to you in a few minutes, Bobby.”
Eventually, my tears ebb and I’m left with a bone-deep exhaustion that begs me to close my eyes. I don’t want to be awake for this anymore. Sleep is the only mercy left.
Tuesday, January 31st
Cat
I looked up the five stages of grief on my phone today. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Clearly one doesn’t move through them in a linear fashion; I’ve mostly been living in a state of denial, bargaining, and depression, moving from one to the next seemingly within hours. I have yet to be angry, and I most definitely have not arrived at acceptance.
I skipped classes today and yesterday. I was supposed to have my onboarding for my research assistant position yesterday, but my eyes were red and puffy with the tears I’ve been shedding and I didn’t have the energy to get myself dressed, let alone face people. So I emailed all my professors that I was sick with the flu. I know I’ll need to get myself together eventually, but today’s not that day.
Vada has called me several times a day. Zack and Summer have been texting me, and even Steve called me Sunday night and again yesterday evening.
This morning, Tori stopped by before class. It was the first glimmer of hope since Sunday. I pounced and bombarded her with questions. Had she been staying at the apartment? How was Ronan? How did he seem? Upset? Sad? Unaffected?
“I honestly saw him only twice for about thirty seconds,” she told me. “But he looks sort of like I’d expect him to look… like shit, like he’s not sleeping much or very well. But he won’t talk to me about… you. And he won’t really talk to Shay, either,” she told me with a shrug.
That seed of hope in my chest evaporated like a drop of water on a hot stone.
***
It's just before six o’clock in the evening when I wake from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. My body is heavy, my mouth dry, and the ache in my chest is momentarily replaced by confusion. But only for a moment.
My dad’s voice is clearly audible downstairs.
“God damn it, Frank, get ahold of your son and talk some sense into that boy or I will.”
I shoot up in my bed. My dad is talking to—make that shouting at—Ronan’s dad.
Frank must be on speaker; I can hear his clipped voice clearly. “I respect you, Bobby, but don’t fucking talk to me about Ronan that way. From one father to another: I understand you’re ticked off, but I won’t tolerate you threatening my kid.”
My dad chuffs. “You know my daughter has hardly left her room since your son decided to come to my house and break her heart?”
Yeah, he did break it, but not until I gave him a reason to.
“You know full well it’s not as simple as that,” my mom chimes in, her tone much calmer, more reasonable.
“What are you talking about, Jen? God, I always knew this would happen. Didn’t I tell you this would happen?”
My mom doesn’t respond, but Frank does. “Ran hasn’t shown up here. He doesn’t answer my calls—”
