Chapter 7 Wednesday, December 21st #2
I pat her back as she buries her face against my neck, her hot tears rolling down my skin. “I wish I could do more, but—”
Miranda pulls away from me, shaking her head. “Are you kidding me? Rony, I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate this. You’re incredible,” she says, wiping her tears.
“So I looked, and there’s a flight going from Nashville to Missoula tomorrow morning. It leaves at five. I haven’t booked it yet because I obviously wanted to get your okay first, but if you want to go, I can get it lined up right now.”
More tears escape Miranda’s blue eyes. “Okay.”
I smile. “Alright, go eat.”
She sits down to eat her breakfast while I take care of the details, then call my grandmother back to give her an update.
“You’re all set,” I tell Miranda after hanging up the phone. “I figure we’ll check out of this fucking dump and then just head to Nashville. I reserved a hotel room by the airport for the night. We’ll get you some essentials today—you obviously need some clothes and a bag, and probably a phone.”
Miranda shakes her head at me, her eyes full of emotion.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re such a good guy, Rony,” she says. “You always were, but really, you’re amazing. I wish…”
I raise my eyebrows at her, waiting for her to continue.
She sighs. “Nothing.”
But the pause lingers. And the way she looks at me? It’s familiar in a way that makes my spine tighten. I shift away slightly, not enough to be rude, just enough to make it clear that those kinds of wishes can’t live here anymore.
Cat
I reach for my phone, feeling desperate. The sight of Ronan’s name on my phone this morning settles something in me.
I did not have a great night. As much as I want to convince myself that Vada’s words didn’t feed into that seed of jealousy in my chest, I can’t deny that it jabbed at my insides throughout the day.
I keep telling myself that I don’t have anything to worry about, but the fact that Ronan just up and left to see Miranda irks me a little.
Or a lot. Maybe it’s because of what Vada said, or maybe it’s because I know how Miranda feels about Ronan.
Is it normal for a guy to drop everything, drive hundreds of miles, and sleep in a motel room with a girl he hasn’t spoken to in months if there’s truly nothing between them?
I want more than anything to believe that Ronan is just being Ronan.
I’ve always known he’s exceptionally giving to the people he cares about.
It’s one of the many things I love so much about him.
But I’ve never met Miranda and, yeah, maybe I feel threatened by what she has with Ronan, especially because I still don’t understand what exactly that is.
Obviously she still has a some kind of hold on Ronan’s heart.
I tried to push my doubts out of my mind.
After all, Ronan has never, ever given me a reason to question his love for me—but my efforts were marred by visions of Ronan and Miranda spending the night together.
I kept reaching for my phone, checking if Ronan had sent me a message before bed or throughout the night, until I finally fell asleep from exhaustion.
To say I woke up grumpy is putting it mildly.
But the second I see the notification—and Ronan’s text message that he sent me hours ago—a smile breaks across my face.
Elation floods me; he has a plan and promises to come home tomorrow.
A familiar little flutter expands in my chest when I read that he misses me and my body.
Stop being so damn insecure, Cat. Not once has Ronan given me reason to doubt his love for me, even with the gaggles of girls vying for his attention every waking moment, and during his five months in Montana.
***
“Hey Jack,” I greet the Murphy’s bartender with a giant smile.
I braved the city this morning to hunt down birthday gifts for Vada and Zack, then swung by Murphy’s to go over plans for their New Year’s Eve birthday bash.
Honestly, how cool is it to have a birthday on a day that’s always guaranteed to have a party?
Jack gives me a bright smile, his white teeth an exquisite contrast to his tawny skin and the dark stubble on his cheeks.
“You’re in early,” I say. Jack usually tends the bar in the evenings.
“We’re short waiters. You know, people take time off to be with family or run off to Tennessee. So I work doubles,” he says with a grin.
I return his smile. “Ah, so you know about Ran?”
“Only that he ditched us for a couple of days to, you know, run off to Tennessee. You’re not with him?” Curiosity twinkles in his brown eyes.
I shake my head. “Nope. He just had to… take care of some business,” I keep it purposely vague. “But hey, is Shane around? I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.”
“That’s probably because he forgot his phone.” Jack grabs something from the counter, then holds up Shane’s phone with a chuckle. “He’s picking up some supplies we ran out of last night. Did you need something from him?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until I see him.”
Jack nods, then motions his head just behind me. “So, there’s a lady sitting in the booth behind you just to your right. I just overheard her ask Casey if Shane was in, and then she said something about Ran,” Jack says, the smile vanishing.
I turn and spot a dark-haired young woman sitting in a two-person booth, studying the menu. “She asked about Ran?”
Jack nods. “Yeah. I didn’t catch the whole thing, but she asked if Shane was in.
Casey told her he wasn’t, that he was expected back and that she could wait.
When Casey was leading her away to the booth, I overheard her saying something about Shane being friends with Ran.
That was all I could make out, but I definitely got the impression she wanted to talk to Shane about Ran. ”
Well, that’s… odd. I study her from across the room.
She doesn’t look much older than me, maybe about Jack’s age—early twenties.
Her black hair is tied up in a loose bun atop her head, and her expression is studious on the menu through her black-rimmed glasses on her nose.
So she’s waiting for Shane so they can talk about Ronan?
“Do you know her?” Jack asks, his gaze also directed at the woman.
I shake my head. “Never seen her before.”
“Huh,” Jack grumbles, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he cocks his head to the side.
Fuck this. There are entirely too many random women coming out of the woodworks for Ronan. I make my way over to the small booth, coming to a stop right in front of her table.
It takes her a second to notice me. “Oh,” she says, startled, and lays her menu down. “I’m not quite ready to order.” She gives me a tentative smile.
“I don’t work here,” I say, but don’t move from my spot.
Her lips part as if to speak, then her eyes narrow. “I’ve seen you before,” she says, and her eye widen with delight. “Oh my gosh, I’ve seen you before,” she says, louder. Alright, well, this is taking an unexpected turn.
She pulls open a large black bag and rummages through it before pulling out a manilla folder stuffed with papers.
She retrieves a single piece of paper. “You’re her, right?
” She taps her index finger on the paper.
“You’re Ronan’s girlfriend? Or at least you were back in November.
This was the last photo I could find. I think I pulled it from Shane’s profile.
It’s the last image I was able to find of you with Ronan.
He doesn’t have social media, so it’s hard to confirm relationship status.
And yours is private, so…” She pushes a paper printout across the table toward me.
I recognize the photo. It was actually taken last summer here at Murphy’s.
It was the last time all eight of us were together before Zack and Summer left for California and Vada left for Philadelphia.
In the picture I’m standing next to Tori, and Ronan is just behind me, his left arm draped over my left shoulder and across my chest.
“I can’t quite figure out if you’re still together and how long you’ve known him.
Your yearbooks don’t have any photos of the two of you together.
It looks like you maybe only started attending East Bay High during your senior year?
Gosh, I can’t believe I’d run into you here. I was coming to chat with Sha—”
I blink at her, trying to find my way through the onslaught of information and questions, then finally find my voice. “Who are you?” I ask with a shake of my head.
Her eyebrows shoot up as though she’s only now realizing how strongly she’s coming on.
“I’m so sorry.” She stands and reaches her hand out for me to shake.
I don’t take it. “I’m Rashana Yates. I’m a grad student at Columbia.
I’m getting my M.A. in investigative journalism and I’m working on a piece involving abuse cycles in families and the shortcomings of the criminal justice system.
I did a bunch of initial research over the summer, you know, trying to come up with a good idea for a story, and I came across Rica Soult’s case.
It immediately spoke to me. It’s kind of the perfect example of cyclical violence, you know?
So I’ve been doing my sleuthing”—the word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth—“and I’m going to incorporate it into my story,” she says with such enthusiasm that I have to take a step back from her.
My mind is made up. I don’t need to hear anything else, don’t need to learn anything about Rashana, couldn’t care less about her background and accolades. I don’t like her.
“You’re… You’ve been researching?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around everything she just said.
She nods.
“And you’ve been searching social media?”