Page 86 of Not Another Yesterday
Her voice has weight, but there’s a letting-go in it, too. Something honest. Something final.
***
I end up staying with Miranda until well past three in the morning, sitting on the couch silently, watching reruns of some black-and-whiteTV show Miranda has always loved because it’s mindless and makes her giggle.
Eventually, she falls asleep. After tugging the ornate Native American blanket over her, I leave her cabin to drive back to the main house.
The lights are on in the kitchen, shining through the downstairs windows like a lighthouse, guiding me home in the darkness. Nights out here are thick, all-enveloping, like they swallow life.
I didn’t expect the majority of the Soult crew to be awake, but when I walk into the house, three adult heads turn in my direction. There stand my dad and grandparents. My grandma and dad each hold a baby, giving them bottles, while my grandpa pours some coffee into two mugs.
Judging by the surprised looks on their faces, they likewise didn’t expect me to be walking in through the front door at this time of day… night… whatever. And more, I get the distinct impression they were talking about me.
My grandma cocks her head to the side. “Where are you coming from?”
Suddenly, I’m fourteen again rather than two months shy of nineteen, my heart prancing as though I just got caught doing something I shouldn’t. Probably because I actuallydid.
“Randi’s,” I say simply. For all intents and purposes it’s an innocent fucking answer, but by the way my dad shifts his weight, my grandpa’s eyebrows flatten, and my grandmother’s lips press together, I can tell they suspect Miranda and I didn’t play a round of Monopoly.
“And what? You got lost on your way back after dropping her off at her cabin”—my dad checks his watch—“almost eight hours ago?”
Awkward silence settles so completely, the entire house seemingly holds its breath.
“You look tired,” I say to my dad.
He huffs a laugh at my piss-poor attempt at a diversion.
My grandma steps toward me, those familiar brown eyes of hers warm, soft. Without warning, she transfers the baby she was holding into my arms. A quick glance into his sleeping face and I know it’s Kellan I’m holding. He looks virtually identical to his brother, but their little faces are already full of expression. Where Kellan generally looks content, his features relaxed, Dean always looks a little bit like he’s plotting world domination. I also know—from sitting on the plane with my dad, Penny, and my brothers for eight hours today—that the babies’ cries are different. Kellan whines when he’s tired or sleepy. Dean sounds like someone is attempting to amputate a limb without proper anesthesia.
“I look forward to seeing Cat tomorrow,” my grandma chirps. My eyes snap to hers, which are conveniently locked on Kellan, a small smile on her face.
I knew they were talking about me when I walked in. This is an intervention-style, middle-of-the-night gathering, and I bet that baby in my arms is my family’s way of ensuring I don’t just run out of this kitchen.Ugh.I crease my brow. “Morai, please don’t meddle.”
Her face settles into a rigid frown. “Ronan Perry Soult, you leave me no other choice.”Jeez, always with the government name. “I’ve had enough of watching you punish yourself for what your mother did to you.”
I flinch at my grandmother’s words. Few people so brazenly bring up my mother in front of me. Most everyone avoids talking about anything that even remotely hints at my mom or her violence, but not my grandmother. She’s a huge proponent of facing the bull head-on and reminding me that none of what happened to me was my fault. It’s a constant refrain in our bi-weekly phone calls, though I’ve admittedly been avoiding her these past two months.
The bricks around my heart begin to cement themselves. “I’m not punishing myself.”
Her hands find the curves of her hips, fortifying her small frame. Unlike my grandpa, my grandma is a tiny thing—over a head shorterthan me—but holy Jesus, I don’t know anyone who’s willing to mess with that woman once she gets going. “You know what, you can keep trying to convince yourself of that. You can lie to your friends, to your dad all you want, but trust me when I say none of us are buying your crap. Good god, baby boy, we all see what you’re doing. The problem I see, though, is that you’re not only hurting yourself, you’re also torturing this lovely, beautiful, smart, kind, wonderful girl who is just so perfect for you.”
I’d rake my hands through my hair if I wasn’t holding a sleeping baby. So I settle for chuffing out a verbal reply. “But I’m not perfect for her, Morai.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No,” I say sheepishly. “But I know it to be true. There are things that Cat wants—that she deserves—that I can’t give her.”
“And what would those things be?”
“She wants a family. I don’t. I don’t want kids, ever.”
“Because you’ve got yourself convinced that you will abuse your children like your mother abused you?”
That woman does not mince words.
“Exactly.”
My grandma raises her eyebrows at me. “So, you’re worried about being a good dad.”
