Chapter Wednesday, November 23rd #2
His rhythm breaks, thrusts turning erratic, harder, faster. His body tenses above mine, muscles coiled and shaking as he chases his own high. I watch him, every glorious second, because I love seeing him like this—unraveling, needy, beautiful.
When he finally lets go, it’s with a quiet, broken groan and a final hard thrust. His body seizes, releasing inside me as his head drops to my shoulder, breath hot and fast. God, I love him.
Ronan blinks his eyes open a few moments later, dazed and sated, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
“Sorry I made you late,” I tease, brushing my thumb across the curve of his lips.
He chuckles. “Worth it,” he murmurs, then dips his head to kiss me softly, like he’s memorizing my taste all over again. “You’re always worth it.”
Carefully, Ronan slips out of me, drawing a soft whimper from my throat.
“Might need another quick shower, though,” he mutters as he pushes off the bed and rises to his full height, gloriously naked and unbothered.
I let my eyes roam his body. “I should join you,” I say, lifting onto my elbows with a grin.
He narrows his eyes and snatches his towel from the floor. “Stay away from me, Cat,” he warns, half-laughing. “I can’t resist you, and I really need to get to class.”
I shrug and fall back onto my pillow. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”
Ronan stops mid-step, his towel by his side.
“‘Want’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” he says.
“Trust me, I’d rather spend all day in this bed with you than sit in a three-hour lecture about biochemical processes, but I really need to go because my final paper is due after Thanksgiving break, and I’m not sure I understand what the hell this class is even about. ”
He tightens the towel around his waist, which somehow only makes the pout on my lips deepen. Ronan chuckles as he heads out of the room and down the hall toward the bathroom.
***
“No class for you today, right?” Ronan asks upon his return from the bathroom only a few minutes later.
I stretch my arms over my head, the blanket slipping off my breasts. I grin at the way Ronan’s eyes darken the moment he notices, his jaw flexing. “No class for me today,” I say casually, like I don’t delight at how he reacts to me, even a year and a half into our relationship. “Jealous?”
Normally I’d have my Intro to Psychology class today, but my professor decided to offer up the time for us to work on our term papers instead. I finished that last weekend—an aggressive-overachiever move I’m very proud of—and I gleefully kicked off my Thanksgiving break last night.
Ronan drags his eyes from my nipples and focuses on my face. “Very,” he says with a dry nod, and turns abruptly to open the door to his closet, which really shouldn’t be called a walk-in unless you’re a toddler. It’s that tiny.
“What time do you think you’ll be at my dad’s?” he asks, pulling a hoody over the black Murphy’s long-sleeve he’s already wearing.
“Not sure,” I say. “What time are you done today?”
“At three. Depending on traffic, I should be at my dad’s no later than four. But you can always head over there a little early,” Ronan says, then grins. “Stevie got home last night.”
I perk up. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to come in until today?”
“Yeah, but I guess he decided to skip class today and avoid the holiday traffic. He hung out at Murphy’s until I closed last night,” Ronan says with a smile.
I know he misses his big brother. The two of them are about as close as brothers can be, and Ronan has mentioned a few times over the past three months how weird it is that his brother lives so far away now.
“You can interrogate him about his new girlfriend.” Ronan chuckles and pulls on his jacket, the hood of his sweatshirt tugged neatly out from underneath.
“Did he finally fess up to you?” I ask with a giggle. Ronan shared his suspicions with me a few weeks ago that Steve was seeing someone new.
“Nope, but I know my brother. Something’s up.” He leans over and kisses me softly. “I’ll see you later, baby.”
I watch him walk out of the bedroom, then hear the front door close moments later. I sigh. That half hour with him this morning is the most uninterrupted time we’ve had in days, and already that all-too-familiar ache of missing him begins to settle in my chest.
Ronan hasn’t stopped. Not once. He’s all motion, all momentum. He works, he moves, he avoids. He’s all go and no stop. He rarely even stops for me. And he also doesn’t talk—at least, not about the things that matter. Not about his past, and not about the future either. Not even our future.
Sometimes I wish he’d stop. That he’d pause long enough to see that he’s safe now, that he can trust me. But no luck.
So I wait. I give him space, even when it hurts, even when I’m frustrated or lonely or angry. I wait for him to stop running from everything he’s survived. I wait for him to fall into me completely.
I just hope he knows I’m here when he’s ready to land.
Ronan
How I wish I could skip class today, spend the day in bed with Cat, feel her, touch her, make love to her several more times before the day is done. But I really can’t. Not today.
We’re steadily marching toward the end of our first semester in college, and, fuck, that shit is way more intense than high school. The workload is brutal—assignments, labs, papers all piling up on top of an already-packed schedule.
Things haven’t exactly slowed down lately. The opposite is true, and though everyone, including my therapist, keeps urging me to rest, it’s in short supply.
I’m taking a full course load at Columbia, which occupies my mornings and early afternoons with classes, labs, and lectures. And in the evenings, I work. Way more than I used to. Partly because I need the money. Mostly because Shane’s been leaning on me hard.
Until roughly three months ago, Shane and I worked the same schedule. And then Shane took on full-time responsibility for Murphy’s, resulting in him running the place during the day and me running it most evenings. I’ve definitely gotten a crash course in business management.
I cover Friday nights and Saturday brunch. Shane works Saturday nights. That way we each get at least one weekend evening with the women in our lives. Still doesn’t give me nearly enough time with Cat, who’s buried in her own full-time course load at NYU.
Our schedules barely align. Cat’s definitely not a morning person.
I keep telling her that her parents did a fantastic job picking out her name; I swear, if she could, she’d sleep sixteen hours a day.
A good number of her classes fall in the afternoon, whereas I front-load mine so I can squeeze in a workout or a nap before heading into Murphy’s.
Sundays are sacred. No classes, no work. Just us. Even then we’re usually pulled in all directions—by our families, errands, or whatever else “adulting” requires of us, like doing laundry. God, I hate laundry.
But I’m not complaining. Not in the least. Life’s busy, yeah, but it’s also the most peaceful it’s ever been.
I no longer live with the daily threat of getting my face kicked in—yay for that—I get to call the most perfect girl in existence mine, and I share an apartment with my best friend. Considering that only a year ago I barely managed to keep breathing, I’m in the best place I’ve ever been.
I love living with Shane; I love the freedom, the independence, the normalcy.
Shane’s a great roommate and we complement each other well.
He’s nurturing, and, bonus, he loves to cook.
There’s always enough food in the house not only for Shane and me, but for Shane’s girlfriend, Tori—who spends probably six out of seven days at our apartment—Cat, and any of our friends who might stop by.
But Shane isn’t particularly neat, which is where I come in.
I had always been responsible for keeping things clean and tidy at home, lest I invoked my mother’s wrath.
So now, messes give me serious anxiety. I just can’t come to rest if the apartment is cluttered, which luckily doesn’t happen too often.
Shane, Tori, and Cat are mindful of my mental health struggles and try to keep triggers to a minimum.
Nonetheless, I’m typically on top of making sure things don’t get too messy, so Shane and I make a good team.
I ready myself to sit through my morning lecture on biochemical processes and retrieve my phone to silence it.
My jaw flexes when I note the voicemail from my dad.
It’s barely eight. But of course his military training is so ingrained in him, he’s up before the sun rises, probably running a 5K and doing a hundred push-ups before he allows himself to have his morning cup of joe, or whatever. I don’t actually know.
“Hey bud, just checking in,” his message starts.
Sure enough, he sounds winded. He for sure worked out.
I wonder if he’ll be able to keep that up with two newborns in a matter of months.
But I digress. “Haven’t heard from you in a few days.
Stevie assured me you’re still alive, but it would be nice if you could occasionally answer my calls.
I assume you and Cat are still coming this afternoon since I haven’t heard otherwise.
I love you, Ran. Just…” He releases a deep sigh.
“Yeah. I’ll see you this afternoon. Bye. ”
A pang of guilt jabs at me. He’s right, I haven’t returned any of his calls or texts.
I’m trying, but it’s still difficult for me to allow my dad to play more than just a surface-level role in my life.
It’s hard to explain why, how much his efforts to be involved put me off, and how much I genuinely believe he has no right to me, not after he left me to fend for myself for so long.