Chapter 10 Friday, January 20th
Ronan
Me:
Stay with me tonight.
I text Cat while I grab a quick bite to eat at one of the campus coffee shops in between classes. Break’s over, and both Cat and I are back to our regularly scheduled programming of trying to squeeze in some quality time between our class schedules, Murphy’s, and Cat’s new job.
If you asked her, she’d tell you her job isn’t a real job, but it definitely is.
Yeah, she may be working for her mom three days a week for a few hours in the mornings, but it’s honest, paid work.
I also think Shane would very much disagree with the assessment that just because you’re working for your parents, means you’re not working a real job.
Cat’s mom broached the idea with her when both our families were gathered at my dad’s on Christmas Eve. She explained that her receptionist asked to reduce her hours in the mornings due to some childcare issues and that this might be a good opportunity for Cat to get some experience.
“Plus, you need something to do other than your boyfriend,” Cat’s dad said.
It was meant as a jab—he hardly ever talks to me directly and often will just refer to me as “Cat’s boyfriend”—but Penny and Steve’s snorts of laughter quickly made him realize that his statement came out different than he meant it.
“I’d prefer she stick to doing her boyfriend,” I muttered under my breath, earning me a nudge from Cat, although the grin on her face gave her away.
Cat’s dad didn’t pick up on my comment and just continued to grumble. “You used to play softball and hang out with your friends.”
“Sure,” Cat said with an unimpressed shrug.
“But I’m not in high school anymore, and my girlfriends are busy.
Vada is in Philly, Summer is in California, and Tori is either with Shane, at school, or at work.
And I do hang out with them whenever they’re around.
” She turned her attention to her mom. “But I would absolutely love to help you, Mom.”
So since the beginning of the new year, Cat has been working at her mom’s office three mornings a week—answering phones, scheduling appointments, and keeping patient records.
From what I can tell, she loves it, which makes me love it in turn.
I love that she has something that’s entirely her own, something that gives her purpose outside of school and me, I guess.
And she’s definitely bubblier, her mood boosted after I know I’ve done—or maybe not done—some things that have led to tension between us.
I’ve been fucking up. I’m aware. I’m always aware.
Nothing bothers me more than the knowledge that my actions negatively affect the girl I love more than life itself.
All I ever want is to make her happy, to keep her safe.
It's just that sometimes those things are mutually exclusive, and, fuck, I’m struggling to figure out a way to give her everything, because she deserves everything.
Cat:
Only if you’ll promise to wake me the way I like you to wake me…
The grin on my face is instantaneous. I know exactly how she likes me to wake her when I get back from Murphy’s in the middle of the night.
It’s those stolen, quiet hours when the rest of the world sleeps that feel especially intimate.
Sex with Cat is always completely consuming, but when my body melds with hers in the middle of the night, it might as well be only us in the entire damn universe. Nothing and no one exists but us.
Me:
I wish it was tonight already so I can (a)rouse you properly.
Cat:
Why is it that just reading your words, I can feel your hands on me, sweet boy. I miss you.
I’m about to write back that I miss her, too, that I want my hands and mouth all over that delicious skin of hers—preferably right fucking now—when I note movement out of my periphery.
I glance up and tense when my eyes meet Rashana’s. I groan—partially frustrated, partially resigned. I can’t escape her.
“Hi Ronan,” she says, more reserved than the last few times she’s accosted me and spouted off like a damn waterfall.
“I’m still not talking to you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Especially after you invaded my sanctity and talked to my girlfriend.”
“To be fair, she started talking to me.”
I cock an unimpressed eyebrow at her. “Fine, but you tried to talk to my best friend, and I have no doubt you would have hunted Cat down eventually. She just got to you first.”
Rashana gives me a sheepish shrug. “Fair.”
I consider her for a moment. I don’t know if it’s her calmer, less intrusive approach today, or the fact that those closest to me know about her now, but those brick walls that sprang up from the ground the first few times she talked to me are slower to assemble themselves today.
I exhale deeply. “I assume you’re not here to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee.” I nod at her empty hands. “You trying to get me to talk about my life growing up?”
She shrugs. “It’s a compelling story.”
There’s that word again—compelling. Zack used it, too.
And yeah, maybe it is. There are plenty of people who don’t make it out the other side, plenty of people who die at the hands of their abusers.
But there are just as many people who do live a life after the violence, some more, some less successfully so.
What I have yet to figure out is if those people are truly the lucky ones.
I shrug. “Maybe. But it’s also painful and private. It’s not just a story—it’s my life. It’s… my entire childhood. Seventeen years.” I really want to put this into perspective for her.
Rashana nods. “I’m aware of that. Ronan, I’m not trying to tear open old wounds or retraumatize you. But… I mean… is there any chance at all I could convince you to sit down with me?”
I lean against the back of my chair, forcing my shoulders to relax, then shake my head.
“I can appreciate what you’re trying to do.
This is obviously an”—I search for the right words but come up short—“interesting story for you. I get it. There’s a reason true crime documentaries do so well.
People get invested in other people’s drama.
But… look, I’m not trying to be difficult, okay?
My refusal to talk to you has nothing to do with you personally. ”
She looks at me doubtfully, and I chuckle.
“I’m serious,” I say with a nod. “One of my best friends just asked me if he could do a story about me and I told him no. I’ve known this guy since I was three years old.
We went to preschool together. He’s like family and still I told him no.
” I’m really trying to soften the blow. “And you know what, I could sit here and explain my reasoning to you again—how my ‘story’ isn’t just a story, that it’s my whole damn life, that it’s painful and that I still have a really hard time talking about it.
Maybe I could tell you that I’m sorry for shutting you down like this, but I’m finally learning that I have a right to set boundaries, that I have a right to protect myself.
For so long I had no agency over my life, over the things that were done to me.
And I’m just getting to a point where I get to say no without having to brace for pain.
I empathize with you about how this affects your work.
I’m sure it sucks, but I don’t feel bad.
I’m not sorry for not setting aside my own needs, my peace, so you can write a story. ”
Rashana takes in my words. Then she nods. “I figured you’d say that, but I thought I’d shoot my shot one last time.”
“Consider it shot,” I say, a hint of a smile on my lips.
“There’s nothing I could do to convince you, huh?”
Jeez, relentless.
“You could tell me what you know about my uncle… and what you meant when you talked about my mom’s sister,” I say with a small shrug, careful not to change my facial expression. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s maintaining a poker face. Thanks, Mom.
Her eyebrows rise hopefully. “And then you’ll talk to me?”
I chuckle quietly. “No, but you have information about my family. You dug into my past. I think it’s only fair that you share.”
She studies me, her eyes bouncing between mine. Then she nods. “Okay. Mind if I sit?” She nods at the chair across the small table from me.
I give her a shrug-nod.
The chair scrapes against the floor when she pulls it back. She takes a seat, shoulders slumped forward.
The low hum of people chatting around me falls away like a curtain.
“Is it bad?” I ask, a definitive, fearful edge to my voice.
“Well, you have to understand that a lot of it is conjecture, you know? Facts, like puzzle pieces, that would need to be pieced together, but…” She hesitates, eyes flicking to mine before dropping to her hands. “It’s… yeah. I think it’s probably not good. I’m sorry, Ronan.”
I nod, warring with myself. I want to know and not know; I’m curious and simultaneously terrified of what I’m about to learn.
Before I can stop her, Rashana dives in. I let her.
By the time she finishes, all I can think is I should’ve walked away.
I should’ve never asked her to tell me what she found out.
Because now, all I can see when I close my eyes is blood and lineage, rage passed down like inheritance.
And in just a few weeks, there will be two newborn babies in my family.
Brand-new, innocent lives. And I’m suddenly convinced that I cannot be trusted around them. After all, I’m descended from monsters.
Cat
My eyes flutter open, but the smile that wants to take up residence on my lips at the sight of a sleeping Ronan next to me doesn’t get the chance to blossom.
I didn’t hear him come in or feel him slip beneath the covers.
And he didn’t wake me the way he usually does—fingers, lips, that slow seduction in the dark.
His face is contorted, pained, lines sharp in the shadows.
I can tell by his erratic breathing, his tossing and turning, the clamminess of his skin, that he’s in the throes of a night terror.
He's been having them more frequently lately, though I’m not totally sure why. He first told me the nightmares had started up again after his grandmother’s visit in November. But unlike the last flare-up back in August, this time they aren’t tapering off. They’re getting worse.
“Ran?” I say quietly, my hand on his chest. He’s drenched in sweat yet cool to the touch; his breath rises and falls fitfully. I’ve witnessed him have these nightmares several times since the trial, know how distressing they are to him, especially when he’s unable to come out of them by himself.
“Sweet boy, wake up,” I say, a little louder.
I move my hand away from his heaving chest and to his cheek.
I’m surprised when my skin is met with wetness.
I lift my head to find tears staining his face.
He’s crying in his sleep. I’ve never seen that before, not like this.
Not silent tears slipping down his face while he fights some invisible terror.
What in the world has him so freaked out?
“Ran, come on, wake up,” I say, wiping his tears away, but they keep coming.
There’s so much pain on his face, it guts me.
I sit up and kiss his lips gently. “Ran, wake up!”
He gasps and startles awake, shooting up on his elbows, breathing labored as his eyes dart over the room. When they land on me, they’re full of despair.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry.”
I reach for him, my hand against his cheek. “No, it’s okay.” I move my left hand to his chest. His heart is hammering against his ribs at a brutal pace. “Are you alright?”
He takes a second, then nods, though the crease on his brow doesn’t soften and the sadness in his eyes remains.
“Nightmare?” I ask simply. He nods again.
I analyze his face a moment longer, desperate to make him feel better, to distract him from whatever pulled him into the darkness of his night terror. I know what he needs. Not words, not logic. He needs to feel safe again. And if I can give that to him, even just for a little while, I will.
I pull my shirt up and over my head, discarding it on the floor.
Relief floods me when the tension bleeds from his face. “Baby,” he breathes and pulls me into his lap. I straddle his hips, then dip my head and ghost my lips over his, doing the one thing that I know will take him out of his head, out of his pain, out of this world.