Saturday, April 1st #6
“Yeah, keep it going!” Erin chimes in from our table.
Ronan exhales dramatically. “Oh, fine,” he mutters, then starts playing a slow, haunting melody. Miranda joins him seconds later.
The song is nothing like the upbeat one from before.
This one is stripped down, raw, with lyrics about pain, loss, and survival.
I’ve never heard it before, and something about the way the words shift when Miranda starts singing the second verse makes me realize she and Ronan wrote the song together.
Ronan has lived an entirely different life with Miranda, a life I know close to nothing about.
When they finish, Shane hollers, “Way to go, Rony!”
Ronan’s full lips curve into a sly smile, just like in the photo of him at two years old. Mischief incarnate. “Okay, you’re asking for it. Get up here, asshole!”
Shane folds his arms across his sturdy chest, shaking his head with a laugh.
Ronan looks to Miranda. “Randi, we need a drummer, don’t you think?”
“What? SheShe plays the drums?” Miranda says into the mic, teasing.
Tori lets out a delighted screech at the brand-new nickname.
“Yep, SheShe plays the drums,” Ronan says, biting back a laugh. “Come on, get up here, SheShe.” That does it. Ronan busts up laughing.
Shane stands and flips Ronan off with both hands. Still, he makes his way to the stage, feigning irritation.
“Alright, SheShe, what are we playing?” Ronan asks, his voice still shaking with laughter. It’s always been one of my favorite sounds.
“You made your point,” Shane grumbles and takes a seat behind the drum set at the back of the stage.
“Okay, Rony? SheShe? Ready?” Miranda asks, smiling at them both.
“Man, you really know how to emasculate a guy,” Shane huffs, though there’s no real heat to his words.
Miranda just laughs and strums her guitar again. It takes no time at all for Ronan and Shane to fall into rhythm beside her.
I watch as a familiar ache curls inside me. Seeing Ronan like this—laughing, playing, surrounded by the people he loves—it’s like witnessing a memory I’m no longer part of.
And even though I’m sitting right here, it’s never felt more like I’m on the outside looking in.
Ronan
My dad ends up calling it a night to collective boos from…
the damn adults in the room. Where those of us well under the age of twenty-five appear to be stone-cold sober—or at least aren’t stumbling to the bathroom like Cat’s mom did a few minutes ago—the parentals are either tipsy or straight-up plastered.
Only my dad’s gait’s steady, his eyes sharp as he scoops a dazed-looking Penny into his arms and starts ushering the crowd out of Sterling’s just before midnight.
“Alright, Stevie: you take Cat, Thomas, Elias, and Miranda. Strike that—take Cat, Jen, and Bobby back to the ranch. Ran, you’ll drive Seamus, Tori, and Shane.” He nods once, like he’s giving orders to his squadron at the Air Force. “Randi, are you okay to drive?”
Miranda nods. She isn’t lying; all she’s had tonight is water.
“Good. Take Martin’s truck and take him, Erin, Thomas, and Elias back. I’ll take Penny and her sister,” he finishes like the lieutenant colonel he is.
Miranda nudges me as she brushes past, aiming a wicked grin my way. “See, your daddy doesn’t mind a threesome,” she whispers with a naughty eyebrow wiggle.
I groan. Loudly. Then follow everyone out of Sterling’s like her little comment didn’t just result in a cringe-worthy visual.
It’s a clear night, and only fifty minutes later I drop my passengers off at their cabin.
“You still gonna try to get Cat alone tonight?” Shane asks as he opens the back door, ready to hop out of my truck.
I inhale slowly, nodding. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to walk into a war zone and I don’t even know which side I’m on.
Shane nods, then reaches for my shoulder to squeeze it. “You got this, man. Just… feel. It’ll be alright.”
I park my truck next to my grandpa’s. Neither my dad nor Steve are back yet, their spots empty.
Not a shocker. Shane, Tori, Seamus, and I were the first ones back on the road—probably because none of us were fall-over drunk.
There’s no telling how long it took to coax my giggly aunt or Cat’s barely awake dad back into the respective vehicles.
I trudge the fifty yards to the house, my path illuminated by the motion-sensor lights that clicked on with my truck’s approach.
My understanding is that Cat’s siblings are spending the night in the one remaining upstairs bedroom, while my baby brothers are in my grandparents’ bedroom.
I decide to take a seat on the front steps and wait for Steve and Cat to get here.
It’s early April and, not surprisingly, the Montana chill cuts right through me.
It takes only minutes before my hands are buried deep inside my jacket pockets and my jaw’s clenched tight to keep from shivering.
The lights shut off with my lack of movement as I sit in the cold, quiet dark.
But the second I spot headlights making their way up the long drive, the cold evaporates under the heat of instant panic.
I watch as Cat and Steve get out of the truck and start toward me.
My heart lurches into my throat. I feel the hectic thing slamming against my chest. I swear it makes the spots where my ribs were broken not quite two years ago ache.
My mouth is dry, and my shirt sticks to my low back with cold sweat.
Weird how my physical reaction now is the exact same it always was when my mother called me into the kitchen. When I knew she was going to hurt me.
And yeah, I’m aware how fucked up that is. Laying myself bare to the love of my life is nothing like getting the shit beaten out of me by my mom. But that’s what it feels like—this tight, sick fear in my chest that I’m walking straight into something that is sure to wreck me.
And I’m going anyway.
I stay seated, focusing on my breathing until they’re halfway to the house.
I stand, wiping my clammy palms on my jeans.
I must have gone unnoticed to Steve and Cat until now, because suddenly Cat folds her arms tightly across her chest, her posture stiffening as her pace slows and she begins to trail half a step behind Steve. Almost like she’s wary of me.
My brother’s cheeks lift with a knowing smile, his eyes warm, encouraging. Much like everyone else, he’s made no secret of his dismay over our breakup.
“Hey,” I say, my voice rough from cold and nerves.
Cat doesn’t answer. She just looks at me. It’s not icy. Not exactly. But it’s not warm, either.
Steve walks past me up the steps, but Cat stops six feet from me. The physical distance stings.
Her eyes flick past me to Steve.
He glances between us, eyebrows rising expectantly. “You two good if I head in?” he asks, his tone casual.
I nod. “Yeah. Just… wanted to talk to Cat for a sec.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Steve says under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. He bumps his shoulder against mine, then disappears into the house with a quiet click as the door shuts behind him.
Now it’s just us.
Cat stands there, arms still crossed, her frame backlit by the lights mounted to the barn. She looks tired, like she’s been carrying something heavy. Like maybe I’m the weight.
“Can we talk?” I ask her, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” she breathes, matching my volume. The single word brings immediate relief. She’s not rejecting me outright.
I take the few steps that separate us like I’m approaching a skittish animal.
She doesn’t flinch or walk away, and instead lets me take her hand in mine, lets me lead her some yards away from the house.
My grandparents and brothers are sleeping downstairs.
I don’t want to wake anyone, don’t want to risk anyone overhearing.
Cat follows me without a word, and I keep her hand in mine like I have so many times in my life because she is what anchors me.
And anchoring is exactly what I need right now.
I’m about to give life to the darkest, ugliest parts of myself—parts no one knows, parts I’ve spent months—hell, years—burying deep, deep inside me.
And I’m scared shitless. And maybe not so much of the telling, but of the look I’m convinced she’ll give me after.
The one that says whatever’s left between us can’t survive the truth.
Cat
Ronan’s hand in mine is warm, familiar in a way that guts me. It’s like muscle memory. I stare at our joined hands, revel in the steady current that runs from my palm directly to my heart. It’s the first time we’ve touched in months, but the sensation is just as powerful.
Ronan stops maybe thirty feet from the house, then turns to face me. He lets go of my hand to shove both of his into his jeans pockets. Already, I mourn the loss.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
At first, I nod. But he deserves honesty.
Heck, I deserve honesty. And not just from others, but from myself, too.
It’s something I’ve learned about myself these past few months.
The catalyst was the breakup, but the revelation came only days ago when I was knee-deep in my research.
And suddenly, it all made sense. My past with Adam, my own behavioral patterns, my mom’s “apropos” statement. I have codependent tendencies.
Looking back, it’s obvious. The signs were all there.
Lack of satisfaction or purpose outside of the relationship. Check.
Preoccupation with the other person’s thoughts or feelings. Check.
Unwillingness to state needs or desires due to fear of conflict. Check.