Chapter Wednesday, November 23rd #3
Therapy’s helped. A little. The walls are lower.
But they’re still there, still solid. He offers advice, and I bristle.
Tries to help, and I push back. I don’t let him pay for any of my crap.
Not rent. Not gas or insurance. Not even my phone bill.
Although I did finally relent and let him buy me a nice bed and new mattress when I moved into Shane’s place.
He was able to convince me with the argument that I was leaving all my stuff behind, which he and Penny would continue to use as they turn my old room into the babies’ nursery, and that the least he could do was buy me a new bed.
I’m not going to lie, there’s a ton of anger in general, but also specifically at him. At his failure to protect me, his absence, for not knowing. For building a whole new life with Penny while I was getting broken at home.
I never realized how much I resented my dad, how angry I was…
am, until Doctor Seivert drilled down on something I said during a therapy session this past July—after Penny and my dad broke the news about Penny’s pregnancy.
The longer I sat with the news, the more it felt like confirmation: he’s still not choosing me.
What makes this whole thing worse is that I see how hard he’s trying. He calls me almost daily, checks in with texts, and even makes a point to stop by Murphy’s when he knows I’m working. But it feels impossible to let him in. It makes me resent myself, which is a whole other issue.
Do I know how fucked up all this is? Of course. I’ve always known. But I’m learning to give myself grace. Especially on the hard days, which still come more often than I’d like. Days when just getting out of bed feels like a herculean task.
But the most effective medicine for my soul is Cat.
Everything about her is just perfect. From the way she looks, smells, sounds, tastes, all the way to her soul.
She’s beautiful inside and out and so damn good to me.
She never judges, doesn’t make me feel less than, doesn’t hold it against me when I’m having a hard day.
In fact, the opposite is true. She’s the one who shows up when I’m falling apart.
She’ll drop everything to just lie beside me, sit in silence, hold my hand.
She’s talked me through panic attacks. Reframed my spirals.
Helped me separate truth from trauma. Her touch calms my nerves.
Her voice slows my thoughts. She was, is, and always will be too damn good for me, and nobody can convince me otherwise.
***
I make it through my morning lecture, scarf down a quick lunch, then spend a couple of hours in the library working on my biology paper before I sit through my economics class.
My professor doesn’t end class until exactly three; he drones on about gross domestic product or some shit, while just about every single one of us sitting through this torturous hour and a half is ready to call it a day.
I know there are a bunch of students in my class who aren’t from New York and are eager to get on the road or on a plane to head home to their families for Thanksgiving.
But my lecturer, whose cadence is drawn-out and monotone, lacking any inflection, seems blissfully unaware of the restless energy in the lecture hall.
There’s no wedding ring on his left hand, so maybe he’s got nowhere to be.
Whatever the reason, he’s clearly not in a rush.
The moment I step out into the courtyard, I’m met with the kind of late-November New York weather that makes you want to crawl back into bed.
Cloud-covered skies. A faint drizzle—not enough to soak through your clothes, but just enough to seep into your bones.
I yank my hood up and steel myself to walk the two blocks to my car, already regretting not taking the subway this morning. Traffic’s going to be hell.
“Hey!” a woman’s voice calls behind me. I don’t bother turning around. This is New York—someone’s always yelling. I have no reason to believe that current someone is trying to get my attention.
“Hey! Hey!” she calls again, closer this time.
I glance over my shoulder, but don’t slow my stride until I notice a young woman hurrying toward me, hand outstretched, long hair streaming behind her.
I come to a stop, eyebrows raised. “Can I help you?”
She holds up her hand, catching her breath before she straightens up and plasters a bright smile onto her ochre face. The color of her big obsidian eyes matches her eyelashes and hair.
“Hi,” she gasps. “You’re… you’re Ronan Soult, right?”
I furrow my brow, digging through my mental archives, trying to recall if I’ve met her before. “Yeah?” It comes out more like a question.
Her smile widens as she adjusts the strap of her oversized leather satchel. Her puffy polyester coat sends the strap sliding right back off her shoulder. “I’m Rashana Yates.”
Nope. Definitely not someone I’ve met before.
“I’m so sorry to ambush you like this. You’re probably heading home. Or, that’s probably presumptuous. For all I know you still have three hours of classes and are just grabbing something to eat. Gosh, I’m so ready for a few days off and all that good food.” She giggles awkwardly.
The crease on my brow deepens. “Can I help you?” I ask again.
Another giggle. Rashana pulls her bag forward, opens the flap, and retrieves a notebook and pen. “I’m Rashana Yates,” she repeats. “I’m getting my master’s in investigative journalism.”
My stomach drops.
“I’ve been working on a criminal justice piece, and—”
“No,” I say. I turn on my heel and march away.
She flings her bag behind her and jogs to catch up, practically sprinting to keep pace. “No what?” she asks, breathless.
I stop cold and face her. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open.
“No to whatever the fuck you want from me,” I growl.
She raises her hands in surrender. “I’m working on an investigative journalism piece involving abuse cycles in families and the failures of the criminal justice system. I came across your mom’s case. It took me forever to find you. I’d love to—”
“No. Whatever it is you want or think I can give you, the answer is no. I don’t know how you found me—I thought my name was redacted from all court—”
“It was,” she says, but smiles. “But that’s what investigative journalism is. There’s always a way to find a person if you’re willing to dig deep enough.”
This feels violently intrusive.
“Yeah, so, I’m gonna tell you right now to stop. Drop this. Take my mother, my story, me out of your… piece. Don’t approach me again,” I warn her, each word punctuated by a sharp pause.
I turn and walk away.
“You know what all investigative journalists have in common?” she calls. I don’t stop. “We’re determined. I have buried secrets I could share with you if you’d be willing to sit with me for an hour.”
“I doubt that. And I won’t,” I call back without sparing her another look.
“Yeah? So you already know about your mom’s sister?” she shouts.
I hesitate, my stride slowing as my thoughts stumble. My mom’s sister?
I know she has a brother—never met the guy—but I’ve never heard a single word about a sister. For a second, I’m tempted to turn back, to ask what the hell she’s talking about.
But I keep walking. It doesn’t fucking matter.
It’s not like I’m going to rekindle some kind of familial relationship with anyone on that side of the family, and I sure as fuck won’t sit with some investigative-reporter wannabe and do a deep dive into things I barely manage to talk to my therapist about.
She can get fucked.
Cat
“Well, well, well, look who decided to join us today,” my dad says over Sam and Benny’s boisterous needling of each other when the three of them walk into the house this afternoon. “A rare but lovely sighting of my eldest.”
I grin. “Don’t get used to it. I’m leaving in a minute.”
His face sours. “You’re never home anymore!”
He’s not wrong. I turned eighteen three months ago and have spent most weekends at Ronan’s apartment since then. Combine that with college classes and my parents’ full-time jobs and they only catch the occasional glimpse of me, usually in passing.
“I was home all day,” I say. “I helped Mom brine the turkey and I baked three pies from scratch, including your favorite pecan pie.”
A smile brightens his expression. “I just wish you’d spend more time with your family, Kitty.”
I shrug. “I’d be home more if you weren’t so mean to Ran.”
“I’m not mean to him.” He crosses his arms over his chest, eerily reminiscent of a sulking child.
But he knows I’m right. While my dad doesn’t outright argue with Ronan, he’s not what I’d consider even lukewarm.
On the rare occasion Ronan does spend time with my dad—only when absolutely required, like for my eighteenth birthday dinner with both our families—my dad purposely ignores Ronan, speaking to him only through me.
It's exhausting, and even though Ronan takes it in stride, I know it gets to him. How could it not?
“Okay, then let Ran sleep over.”
On cue, my dad’s face contorts. “Not a thought I’m going to entertain.”
I smirk. “Letting Ran… sleep?”
“In the same bed as my daughter,” he says stiffly.
“You know that’s already happening, right?” I say, then take a bite out of a leftover Granny Smith from my pie prep.
“Not under my roof it’s not,” he huffs. “You’re eighteen. I can’t stop you from spending the night with your boyf… with Ronan, but I can put limitations on where you guys… sleep,” he says, his tone gruffer with each word.
“Because location magically changes the fact that we’re… sleeping?”
My mom exhales noisily. “Oh, for crying out loud. You two need to—”
“Ignorance is bliss,” my dad says.
My mom shoots me a look—the kind that begs me to take the high road.
I swallow my bite of apple. “Fine. Your house, your rules. But if you could try being nice to Ran tomorrow, that would make me happy. And in return, I’ll spend the night at home.”
“I’m always n—”