Page 68 of Not Another Yesterday
I pack myself into the crowded train, cramped between people commuting home after a long day. While my mom was right—it was good for me to get out of the house—and I was surrounded by people all day long, the moment I’m no longer distracted by classes or conversation, the reality that I haven’t spoken to or heard from Ronan in days now crashes in on me. How is it possible to live in a city among millions of people, yet feel so alone?
My text messages to Ronan from Sunday, Monday, and yesterday are still unread. Or maybe he turned off his read notification so I wouldn’t know he read them? I really should try a hell of a lot harder to stop thinking about Ronan, what he’s feeling, what he’s up to every waking minute, but I just can’t.
The closer I get to my house, the heavier I feel.
“Hey, Kitty,” my mom calls from the kitchen the moment I enter the house. “How was your day?”
I take off my shoes, then hang up my coat. “Living the dream.”
She gives me an empathetic look, then nods. “I know, sweet pea. Come help me trim the green beans.
“Tell me about your meeting with your professor today,” she prompts as soon as I begin cutting the ends off the large pile of green beans, then toss each bean into the pot with a quiet clank.
“It was good. He’s working on an article about the effects of codependency on dyadic coping and relationships, and another student and I are going to be helping with the research,” I say, proud that I pronounced the word correctly.
My mom turns to me, her left hand on her hip, the other grasping a large wooden spoon. She smiles. “Well, well, how apropos.”
I crease my brow at her but don’t bother asking for further explanation. My chest is a collapsed balloon, and my brain feels like static. I don’t ask her what she means. I just keep trimming green beans and let my mind go quiet.
Saturday, March 4th
Cat
“Just please come out with Vada and me,” Tori pleads over the phone.
I glance at the mess of research papers strewn across my bed. Journal articles, my own annotated notes, printouts from PubMed. I’ve been living in this stuff for weeks now—codependency, dyadic coping, emotional enmeshment. The deeper I go, the more hooked I get. Not just academically, either. I can’t quite say why, but it’s like the topic has claws in me.
Tori’s still talking, trying to tempt me with food and booze and Shane’s face, of all things. “We can just grab something at Murphy’s, have a drink or two. I’ll ogle my man and then we’ll be on our merry way.”
I hesitate, tugging a spiral-bound notebook into my lap. “You’re sure it’s Shane working tonight?”
“Very much so,
I nod to myself. That’s something. “Okay, I’ll go,” I say with more conviction than I actually feel. “What are you up to right now?”
“Heading to the animal shelter. I didn’t make it yesterday, so I told them I’d swing by today.”
I blink. “Wait, why are you going to the shelter?”
Tori hums innocently. “Because I didn’t go yesterday?”
“Uh-huh. And why were you going yesterday?”
A laugh chimes over the line. “Because it’s what I do on Fridays, remember?”
“I gotta be honest here, Tor, I really don’t.”
“I go to the animal shelter on Fridays to take pictures of their new arrivals. You know, so they can put the pictures on their website? Cat, I’ve been doing this for months!”
Well, color me totally dumbfounded. “Really? I… Why didn’t I know about this?”
“You’re not serious, right? You did know. I’ve asked you to come with me before, but you were always so busy making sure you were at Murphy’s when Ran was working.”
That sentence lands harder than it should. I stare down at the notebook in my lap, my thumb caught in the coil.
I used to clear my Friday nights for Ronan. Just like I used to clear them for Adam. Only with Adam, it was about fear. Fear of what he’d say, what he’d accuse me of, what kind of fight he’d start if I said no. With Ronan, it didn’t feel like fear. Not exactly. It felt like love. But maybe… maybe love shouldn’t feel like obligation. Maybe that buried, clenched-up feeling in my chest isn’t just heartbreak. Maybe it’s old trauma flaring under new light. Ronan shuts down. I perform. I contort. I people-please until I don’t know where I end and someone else begins.
I gather the papers on my bed into a neat stack and exhale, soft and shaky. “Would it be too late for you to come back and pick me up? I kind of… want to tag along.”
