Chapter Tuesday, December 20th #3
“If it makes you feel any better, Cat,” Tori says, “when Shane told me about Ran this morning, he didn’t seem concerned. He said Ran really just looked and sounded like he needed to help out a friend. Just like Ran would drop everything to help one of us out.”
Shane wanders over to our table with a smile. “Hey, guys,” he says, then kisses Tori’s head.
“Shane, what the hell is up with Ran driving to Tennessee to meet up with his ex?” Vada asks.
Shane frowns. “Woah, why the hell are you so aggressive?”
“Because I find it weird that he’s still in contact with this chick.” Vada crosses her arms in front of her chest.
Shane narrows his eyes at her. “Are you sure you want to be starting shit again? I very vividly remember the fight you and Steve got into earlier this year after you told Cat that Ran’s ex is easy.”
“Seriously, nobody thinks this is weird?” Vada asks, looking around the table.
“No,” Shane says. “Because we all know Ran. We all know that he wouldn’t do what you seem to think he’s capable of doing.
You really need to consider your audience and who the fuck you’re talking about here, Vada.
Fuck, I mean, Ran worships the ground Cat walks on.
Don’t tell me you seriously think he’d cheat on her. ”
“Well, no, but…”
“But what?” Shane dares her to continue.
“But we don’t know anything about his ex. Why the hell would she call Ran? Why not someone else?”
“Because she doesn’t have anyone else,” I say.
As far as I know none of my friends know about Miranda’s history or her strained relationship with her dad.
Ronan is an exceptionally private person—he barely talks about his own shit, and definitely won’t gossip or talk about other people’s private details.
Vada exhales a noisy huff through her nose. “Okay, well, if you’re all okay with this, then I’ll just shut up and mind my own business.”
“That seems like a viable strategy.” Shane gives a single nod before turning his attention to me. “Cat, Ran was super forthcoming with me this morning. I could tell he’s just concerned about helping out a friend. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“I know. I trust him.”
If only I trusted Miranda with him.
Ronan
The sun has long set when I finally pull into the small parking lot of Miranda’s motel in Pikeville.
The town itself doesn’t strike me as much larger than Redtail Ridge—the small town closest to my grandparents’ ranch in Montana—and traffic was virtually nonexistent the last twenty minutes of my drive.
I briefly look around for the familiar baby-blue ’88 Chevy Silverado—Randi’s truck—until I remember it was taken by “him.”
The parking lot is empty except for a beat-up white Ram truck parked in front of what must be the lobby, and I pull into a spot right next to it. I clamber out of my Mustang, then stretch my legs. My back and neck crack as though sighing with relief.
I look around briefly, noting not a single soul, then lock my car and walk into the small office of the L-shaped motel. The moment the door’s creak announces my arrival, a heavy-set, older gentleman looks up at me.
“Checking in?” he drawls, giving me a skeptical once-over.
“No. I’m meeting a friend who’s staying here. Miranda Jackson.” I come to a stop in front of his counter. “Can you please call her room and let her know I’m here? My name is Ronan.”
The guy raises an eyebrow, looking me up and down. He’s probably wondering what my business is with Miranda, but he picks up the phone and dials a number.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he says into the receiver. “There’s a young man here asking for you. He said his name is…” He looks at me expectantly; he obviously already forgot my name.
“Ronan.”
He repeats my name. “Would you like to meet him here or should I send him to your room?” The man nods. “No problem. Have a nice night.”
He hangs up, taking his sweet time before looking back at me.
“Ms. Jackson is in room seventeen. Across the parking lot, second-to-last door on the right.” He points in the direction of Miranda’s room.
His face makes me think he suspects my motives aren’t necessarily PG, especially if he saw her arrive with someone else.
Judging by the condition of this lobby and the motel’s exterior, I bet he sees his fair share of guests paying by the hour.
It’s probably on the tip of his tongue to tell me that this is a respectable family business, but he just sizes me up with a disapproving scowl.
Then again, maybe that’s just his face and the dude couldn’t give a rat’s ass why I’m here. I nod curtly, then stride back outside and down the narrow walkway, past a number of doors and my car.
I stop in front of a white door with the number seventeen in large numerals and knock twice.
“Oh god, Rony!” Miranda opens the door, throws her arms around my neck, and buries her face against my chest.
“Hey Randi.” I wrap my arms around her. Still tiny.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says into my jacket, her voice cracking. I can tell she’s crying; her small frame shakes with each sob. So I hold her against me for a few minutes, not saying a word until she finally releases me and takes a step back.
Her blue eyes are watery, red, and puffy. She’s obviously cried a lot, which is so unlike her. Miranda has experienced her share of terrible things in life, and like me, she’s developed an extraordinary ability to swallow heavy shit. Until something happens that completely unravels her.
“What happened?” I ask as she holds the door open for me to enter the small room.
It’s run-down. The brown carpet is stained, and the wooden wall panels have definitely seen better days.
There’s a single queen-size bed pushed against the right wall, opposite a small round table and two wooden chairs.
A crappy TV is mounted to the wall across the bed, and the two lamps on the nightstands on either side of the bed are the room’s only source of light.
“Rony, I’ll explain everything, I promise. But… can we get something to eat?” she asks, looking up at me.
It dawns on me that she probably hasn’t eaten all day, seeing as she has no money. “Oh, shit. Yeah, of course.” I pull the door open again. “Do you have a jacket? It’s kind of chilly outside.”
Miranda is dressed in a pair of light blue boot-cut jeans, a white tank top—the fabric of which is so thin her black bra is clearly visible through it—covered by a red-and-black plaid flannel, but nothing else.
Miranda shakes her head. “No. He took everything. Including my clothes,” she says, despair etched into her face.
“Okay, no problem.” I shrug off my hooded leather jacket. I fully expect her to fight me on taking it, and I grin when she tries to wave me off. “Just take it, Randi.”
She relents with a sigh, then slips her arms into the too-long-for-her sleeves before walking out ahead of me.
I walk next to her, leading her to my car.
“That’s your car?” she says, admiring my satin-black Mustang.
I smile proudly while I hold the passenger door open for her. “Yep.”
“Nice,” she says before sliding into the seat.
I get into the driver’s seat a moment later. My back immediately protests the cramped conditions so soon after escaping them. “So, what do you feel like eating?” I ask as I maneuver out of the parking lot.
She melts back against the leather seat and sighs deeply. “Anything.”
“Helpful,” I say dryly. “What’s around here?”
“Not much—probably just fast food. Most places are already closed. But if I remember correctly there’s a twenty-four-hour diner in Dayton, about half an hour west of here.”
I look up the place on my phone, then start driving down the deserted highway.
It’s silent in the car. I know her well enough not to push her into talking.
She’s just like me when it comes to stuff like that—we have a tendency to shut down if we’re forced to talk about crappy shit too quickly.
I figure she’ll talk when she’s ready. So I just let the music play quietly in the background and wait for Miranda to make the first move.
She finally breaks the silence, though her eyes are shut. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You sounded pretty desperate.”
She turns her head to me but doesn’t respond to my comment. “When did you get back to New York?”
I briefly meet her gaze before focusing back on the road. “Mid-April.”
“Did you end up testifying at the trial?”
My chest tightens at the recollection. Those ten hours of being in the same room as my mother, talking about all the beatings I took and watching a year’s worth of surveillance of every time she hurt me cracked me wide open. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, Rony. I bet that sucked.”
“It did,” I say with a nod. “But it was also cathartic.”
Her lips tug into a smile. “I told you you needed to talk about it. Remember what I said: it sucks in the moment, but afterwards you—”
“Feel a little bit lighter.”
She nods. “Yeah. Do you feel lighter?”
I shrug. “In some ways, yeah. I don’t have to lie so much anymore. Don’t have to come up with excuses or stories…” The shit that weighs me down now is the fear of… myself.
I don’t need to look at Miranda to know her gaze is locked on me. I feel her eyes boring into my head. “And your mom? What happened to her?”
“After she made me sit through ten hours of testimony, she changed her plea to guilty and made her case to the judge,” I say in an unaffected manner.
I note the dip of her eyebrows out of my periphery. “I didn’t know that was an option.”
“Well, it is. She ended up getting three years.”
Miranda recoils as if I just zapped her with electricity. “What? Three years? After… after putting you into a god damn coma?”
I just nod.
“Jesus, that’s… completely fucked up,” Miranda huffs. “She tortures you for seventeen straight years and only gets three years?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest and gets back to analyzing my profile. “Are you angry about it?”
“I don’t think so,” I say with a tiny shrug and a quick shake of my head.