Page 84 of Not Another Yesterday
“I’m just kidding, Rony,” she wheezes, her eyes shimmering with tears. She inhales sharply. “I don’t like butt stuff, so maybe just you and your da—”
I yank my arm free and make to stand once more.
Miranda reins in her guffaw. “Stop, Rony. I’m totally joking. I’m joking!” She pats the seat next to her.
With a shake of my head, I retake my spot.
“Are you sure you don’t want kids one day? Because I’ll guarantee you, you’ll have the same effect as your dad has on the female folk. Just, woof.”
“I’m sure.” Cat’s face flashes through my mind, her sad eyes when I told her I don’t want kids, the tears rolling down her cheeks when I ended things. I’ll never be like my dad because I refuse to become like my mother.
Miranda doesn’t let off the pain point. “They look really happy. Your dad and Penny. Your dad’s, like, glowing with love,” she says with a contemplative nod.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad this happy before.”
Miranda watches me while my gaze is glued to the patterns of the wood fibers on the coffee table.
She scoots closer and hitches a leg onto the sofa cushion, facing me. “You deserve that, too,” she says. “You deserve to be happy like that. Like glowingly, stupidly happy.”
I sit back, sinking into the cushions with a deep sigh. “I have a feeling that’s not in the cards for me.”
“It takes a long time, you know?”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “What does?”
“Unlearning the negative things that have been hammered into your head all your life,” she says, her voice heavy. “You keep thinking there’s something wrong with you that you can’t just tune out your abuser’s voice in your head telling you, like a fucking chant, that you’re not good enough. You’re not alone in that, Rony. I still struggle with it, too.”
“Do you believe it?” I ask her. “Do you believe the things your dad’s voice tells you?”
Her blue eyes hold the weight of the world as she nods. “Sometimes. Some days it’s easier to tell that voice to shut up. Journaling helps. I get it all out of my head, and when I read it back, I always realize that none of the shit my dad said holds water.”
My gaze falls to my hands. “I believe it. I believe the things my mom’s voice says—the things my own voice tells me. I don’t know how to stop it.” Miranda doesn’t respond, watching me instead, her eyes soft. “I wish I could shut it off. I wish I could believe, like truly, honestly believe that I’m enough. That I’m not destined to…” I swallow.
Miranda’s fingertips graze my chin. “Rony, look at me.”
I lift my eyes.
“You wouldn’t ever hurt anyone,” she says with a conviction I’m envious of. “You’re good, Rony. So damn good. You deserve happiness, and love…” The last word comes out breathy and a subtle blush heats her lips, then her cheeks. I notice her eyes flitting to my mouth, feel the tension between us rise, and I know what’s going to happen before it does.
I do nothing at all to stop it.
Not this time.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my body moves before my mind catches up, because I’m tired of fighting the ache that never lets up. Miranda’s lips are on mine a fraction of a second later, my tongue meeting hers. Her hands glide underneath my shirt, her fingers outlining my abdominal muscles as she slowly pushes up the fabric.
“Randi, I…” I mutter against her lips. I want this to mean something. Or maybe I just want it tofeellike something. Anything.
But it doesn’t.
Not really.
Still, I let her pull my shirt off. I let her guide us back through old, familiar motions. Her touch is soft, warm, even reverent in its own way—but I’m already aching with the knowledge that it won’t be enough.
She slides off her flannel and I follow, lifting her tank top over her head, my hands moving automatically. Her bra is on the floor a moment later, my left hand cupping her breast, my thumb carefully grazing over her taut nipple. Muscle memory.
With my right hand on her back, I pull her toward me, shifting us to feel her bare skin against mine.
I know what Doctor Seivert would tell me. That this is unhealthy coping. I’m reverting to old patterns of dealing with pain. But what does it matter? Why should I stop this now? Randi and I are both lost in this world, drowning in our fucking pain, our loneliness. Why not provide each other with an hour where we can get lost in each other?Where we can get pulled into a void of sex rather than more darkness? At least we’re not strangers, some random hookup. We know each other, know that we’re safe and healthy. It’s familiar. It’s easy. It’s all physical and completely unemotional.
