Edge of Unbroken (Halfway Broken #2)

Cat

Thursday, December 2nd

Five weeks. It’s been five weeks to the day since Ronan left for Montana. Five weeks and one day since I last spoke to him, last felt his lips on mine, last told him I loved him. Five weeks that may as well be five years because that’s how it feels.

I haven’t spoken to him because that’s what his therapist ordered. Ronan’s dad Frank told me, the day after Ronan’s departure, that Doctor Seivert decided to treat Ronan as though he was admitted to an inpatient rehabilitation facility, which would come with strict rules around contact with anyone on the outside.

Steve threw a fit, complaining how ridiculous this was because it’s not like his little brother is being punished.

“This is such bullshit. He’s not in prison, Dad. He’s supposed to be healing!” Steve said while he paced in the living room of their house.

I had tried to call Ronan when I got out of school the day he left for Montana but had been unable to get ahold of him, reaching only his voicemail. My texts to him were left unanswered, too, and eventually I decided to call Steve, who told me that Ronan wasn’t allowed access to his phone. My heart hurt at the prospect of not getting to speak with him until his therapist decided he was ready.

“Yes, exactly. He’s supposed to focus on what he needs to do to get better, and right now, Doctor Seivert thinks this is the best way to go about it,” Frank said, his voice steady and calm.

I know Frank is dealing with a lot. Not only did he have to send his youngest son to live with family in Montana after it turned out he had suffered lifelong physical abuse at the hands of his mother, but Frank also had to quickly rearrange his home and work lives while still providing stability and support for his oldest son.

“Doctor Seivert will let us know when she thinks Ran’s in a place where we can slowly start exposing him to possible triggers, but now isn’t the time,” Frank said sternly. “Ran’s not okay. Can we just agree to trust this process?”

Steve stopped pacing then, a look of defeat on his handsome face. He exhaled deeply, then nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Dad.”

So, this is how I’ve been getting my updates—mostly from Steve and Frank. From what they’ve told me, Ronan has been struggling.

I saw him withdraw before he left for Montana. He spent less and less time with his friends and me, and it doesn’t sound as though he’s doing all that much better in Montana. I’m aware he has almost constant night terrors that make it impossible for him to get rest. My mom explained to me that Ronan is unable to regulate. Because of the trauma he has experienced throughout his life, his amygdala—which is part of the brain—constantly activates his fight-or-flight response, even now when there’s no longer a threat to his safety. But he has been so conditioned, has experienced so much pain, that any small thing can hijack his nervous system, and that ultimately results in him being unable to rest and heal. It’s incredibly stressful for the body, and so the best thing to do was remove Ronan from the place that was never safe for him.

I know Doctor Seivert was right to suggest Ronan live with his grandparents for a while. I want Ronan to get better. I want him to heal, but god, I miss him so much. I’ve been trying to distract myself by spending most of my time outside of school with my friends. It’s safe to say that we’re all equally miserable.

“I hate that we can’t fucking talk to him,” Steve said against gritted teeth when we were all hanging out at the beach house the weekend before Thanksgiving. “I hate that I have no idea how he is. My dad gives me these vague updates on Ran, like, ‘He’s had a rough couple of days’ whenever he talks to my grandparents, but, you know you can only tell how someone is really doing by talking to them? I need to hear his voice.” He ran his hand through his dark hair, just like Ronan does when he’s frustrated.

“I’m with you, man,” Shane said. “This shit about not being able to talk to Ran is driving me insane. I just don’t see how it’s helpful to Ran. And honestly, it’s not helpful to us, either. I’m fucking worried about him.” He looked at me. “How are you holding up, Cat?”

I sighed. “Don’t ask.” I knew if I began to talk about how much I miss Ronan I’d probably break apart.

My friends have been an incredible support system. I spend a lot of time either at Vada’s place or at Shane’s, though I do spend a good chunk of my time at Steve’s. When I do, I always sneak up to Ronan’s room and lie in his perfectly made bed, inhaling his scent still lingering on his pillow.

A few days after Ronan left, Vada and I stopped by his house, and I took the opportunity to rummage through his closet. To the amusement of Steve and Frank, I borrowed a couple of Ronan’s shirts and sweaters, including that dark-green one he wore when I first met him. It’s been my favorite thing to wear. My mom almost has to pry it off my body to wash it.

I truly miss everything about Ronan—the sound of his voice and laughter, his scent. I miss his love, the comfort he provides, how my heart flutters in my chest when I see him.

And I miss Ronan as my protector, as my emotional buffer from the terror my ex-boyfriend, Adam, has continued to inflict on me.

I thought it was over. I thought Adam was finally done playing his games, would leave me alone after he showed up here in New York in August and got his ass kicked by Ronan. For a while it was pleasantly quiet. After weeks of random messages from Adam blackmailing me into sending him more and more compromising pictures of myself—a fact that, as of yet, nobody knows about—Adam stopped contacting me.

It was a relief, like the weight had lifted off my shoulders, and all thanks to Ronan, who, from the moment I met him, helped me heal from the emotional wounds inflicted on me during my past relationship. Ronan made me believe it was possible to trust again and not get hurt.

But the respite didn’t last. Adam contacted me again. His messages, as always, came from an unknown number and, though sporadic, were more menacing than before his violent encounter with Ronan.

At first, I did what I’d tried to do when Adam first began his extortion campaign—I simply ignored his messages, hoping he’d leave me alone already. Didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. So one day about two weeks ago, I replied to Adam’s message pretending to be someone else—a guy who just got himself a new phone and a new number. I hoped this would make Adam believe I’d changed my number, like I did after the last time Adam became violent, after he was arrested and put on probation, after the threatening calls and messages from Adam’s seemingly hundreds of close friends and allies began blowing up my phone.

So far, it’s working. There has been radio silence from Adam. I just hope it stays this way. I hope he stays away from me for good and I’ll never have to come clean about my transgressions.

Luckily, I didn’t have to go back to North Carolina for Thanksgiving. Both sets of my grandparents still live in New York and my dad and siblings came here to spend the week with my mom and me instead of us having to make the trip. It was a relief. I didn’t want to risk running into Adam who, it’s my understanding, is back in my small North Carolina hometown attending classes at the nearest community college and working part-time for his dad’s Mercedes dealership while he awaits his next court hearing—the hearing that will determine what consequences Adam will have to suffer as a result of his “visit” to me in August.

The entire week of Thanksgiving, I had to listen to my dad grumble about how slowly this process is moving, how long this thing is getting dragged out. I’m in no hurry, though. I worry that if Adam has to go back to jail or his probation is extended, it’ll set him off and he’ll make good on his threats and expose me to the world. I’m terrified of those closest to me finding out how stupid I was in allowing myself to lose control to the point of letting some guy take nude photos of me.

I know it wouldn’t go over well, and I have little hope that, even if I explained myself, my dad would be able to see past my failure to live up to the expectations he has of his children, and especially of his oldest daughter.

As a high school teacher, my dad is privy to a lot of the “teenage drama,” as he calls it, and frequently shares stories with my mom.

“One of my AP students just gave birth,” my dad told us at dinner one evening. “Tenth grade. A sophomore! Fifteen years old,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you even believe that? Babies having babies. Talk about a decision that will haunt this poor girl for the rest of her life. She was a straight-A student. Really smart with a bright future ahead of her, and now… poof.” He shook his head. “Oh, and did you hear about that orgy that got broken up at a homecoming dance at some school in New Hanover County?” he asked with an exasperated expression. “Does nobody raise these kids anymore? Is there no more common sense?” He turned to me. “I hope you have more self-respect than that, Kitty.”

My heart squeezed painfully in my chest because I very obviously don’t.

My mom tried to deescalate the rising tension. “Jeez, Bobby, of course Kitty has respect for herself. What happened with Adam wasn’t her fault.”

My dad wasn’t convinced. “Perhaps not, but Cat also didn’t tell us about what he was doing to her for weeks. This could have been nipped in the bud the moment he turned on her,” he said with a huff.

I knew my mom wanted to provide me with backup when she began playing devil’s advocate, when she made excuses for my failure to protect myself, but it only resulted in my dad leaving the dinner table early, unwilling to compromise.

So, yeah, the thought of my dad finding out that I’ve sent nudes to a boy terrifies me.

All my life I was the “good girl,” the girl who did exactly as her parents told her, never broke curfew, always let her parents know where she was and with whom. I never got into trouble except for one time when I gave in to Julie’s dare to ditch school during my freshman year. My dad taught math at the same school, so of course he found out. He gave me an exhaustive lecture about my future and how bad it looked to have his oldest daughter skip out on classes.

That feeling when he told me how disappointed he was in my judgment and my poor choices was awful. I grew up knowing, without a shadow of doubt, that I’d never be one of those “bad kids” my dad talks about—the ones who, according to him, make increasingly bad decisions until they’re forced to drop out of school to raise babies or to make money working minimum wage jobs to support drug habits or simply survive.

And I largely succeeded, until it all derailed.

The more often my dad talks about the Adam issue, the more ashamed I feel. I wish I could just ignore it away, could find some reprieve from the constant worry about what Adam might do with those photos and how devastating that would be for me and my family. I can vividly imagine the photos getting passed around my old high school—through the gym, every single classroom, and the teachers’ lounge. I feel nauseated at the thought of my dad seeing them. His baby girl lying on some bed, drunk and passed out, her breasts exposed. Or worse, the full-frontal selfies I took in front of my bedroom mirror.

And, obviously, I worry about Ronan’s reaction. I keep swinging between convincing myself that he’d break up with me the second he found out what I’ve done—especially while he and I were already dating—or that he’d be nothing but supportive and understand that I didn’t have a choice but to acquiesce to Adam’s demands. I have these pendulum swings several times a week, but the thing I’m completely certain of is that with everything Ronan has been through, he’s the last person on this planet who deserves a lying, cheating girlfriend.

I keep thinking about how Ronan beat the crap out of Adam, how Ronan protected me and kept me safe, how he called what Adam was doing to me “abuse.” Yet he had been enduring his own abuse—really pervasive, violent abuse, as I’ve slowly been learning since Ronan left.

Steve told me that Frank has been reviewing the security footage from the last year, stored on a server online. Honestly, I wasn’t even aware that Frank had surveillance inside and outside the house until Steve pointed out the tiny, strategically placed cameras. They’re seemingly everywhere except the bathrooms and bedrooms, although there are two upstairs, one of which provides a view into both Ronan’s and Steve’s rooms when their doors are open.

“Do you remember the day your ex showed up at Murphy’s?” Steve had asked me. The tension in his shoulders was noticeable.

“Of course,” I said, and looked at Steve expectantly. He had just shown me the cameras in the house.

“After Ran dropped you off at home, he came here to change into a fresh shirt, I guess.” Judging by Steve’s body language, I could tell he was about to lay something heavy on me. “He had a run-in with my mom as soon as he got home,” he said through gritted teeth, “and she dislocated his right shoulder.”

I gasped and clasped my hands in front of my mouth. Details like these tend to send me into a tailspin. I kept replaying the day in my mind, the black eye and bloody lip Adam gave Ronan; Ronan dropping me off, then heading home, then back to work, and picking me up after. He didn’t say anything at all, showed no signs of being hurt beyond the bruise under his eye and the split lip. He was so attentive to me that night. I remember him making sure I was alright, how he talked to me about Adam’s abuse not being my fault. And I remember him carrying me into that bedroom at Shane’s, caressing my skin, his lips on my body, how he made me forget everything for a little while. All while he kept so much suffering and pain locked away inside him.

“How much is there?” I asked Steve. “Did she hurt him a lot?”

Steve nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah, she did. It’s bad, Cat. Fucking horrible,” he groaned. “My dad’s going through his stuff one day at a time. I guess the cops downloaded everything and the D.A. gave my dad a heads-up that there’s a bunch of really good evidence. So, my dad started going through it himself. I’ve seen a few things, including what I just told you, but, honestly, it’s too hard.” Steve looked like he was weighed down by a thousand boulders. “It’s really affecting my dad. I keep telling him maybe he shouldn’t watch it, but he’s pretty insistent. I think he needs to do it for himself; he needs to know what happened to Ran. He said Ran shouldn’t have to shoulder it all alone. I just… I feel like shit that I didn’t know what was going on,” he said, working hard to keep his emotions in check.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” I urged him. “Did you ever see her hurt him?”

He shook his head. “No. I mean, not since we were little. It looks like my mom only really laid a hand on Ran when I wasn’t home or when I was asleep, but… I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the damn signs,” Steve said, looking at me almost apologetically, as if he was seeking my forgiveness. But there’s nothing to forgive. Only one person did anything wrong, and that’s Ronan and Steve’s mother. Yet I understand Steve’s feelings well because we all struggle with similar emotions.

Shane deals with the guilt of knowing—at least to some extent—what was going on, and the rest of us have a hard time comprehending how we could’ve missed the signs, which, in retrospect, so obviously pointed to what was happening to Ronan.

Needless to say, the past few weeks—months, actually—have left their mark on those of us closest to Ronan. My friends—especially Steve and Shane—and I are deeply and obviously affected by what Ronan has endured and his ensuing physical and emotional struggles. We’re all just trying to take it day by day, much like I imagine Ronan’s only able to take it one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

***

Today’s the second day of December, and it’s positively freezing. The sidewalks are coated with a light layer of snow and the streets are wet when Vada drops me off this afternoon after school. We typically drive to school together. Vada picks me up every morning so I don’t have to walk in the frigid temperatures, and she always drops me off at home at the end of the day.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Kitty Cat,” Vada says as I clamber out of her car, trying not to slip on the icy sidewalk while swinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Sounds good. Tell Steve I said ‘hi.’” I wave at her and carefully walk up the stairs to the front door.

My mom pokes her head out from the kitchen when I walk into the house. “Hey Kitty, how was school?”

I drop my bag, then take off my sodden shoes. “Normal.”

School has been less than enjoyable for me these past few months. Since the start of my senior year at the end of August—when Ronan was in the hospital, in a coma—rumors about what happened to Ronan have been stubbornly persistent. Most everyone is aware he got hurt somehow, though no one, except those of us closest to him, know the exact circumstances behind Ronan’s lengthy hospital stay and his subsequent, rather sudden departure from New York.

Ronan missed roughly two months of school, then attended classes for only two weeks before Frank yanked him out and sent him to Montana to recover not only from his physical injuries, but the emotional pain of his mother’s lifelong abuse. Even during the two weeks Ronan attended school with the rest of us, it was clear he wasn’t doing well. He rarely was able to make it through an entire day of classes, frequently having to leave after the second or third period when his body and mind became too tired to sit and focus for hours. He just wasn’t in a place to do anything but try to heal. All that, however, and our consistent unwillingness to fill people in on what truly happened to Ronan, has provided the perfect fodder for outrageous rumors about Ronan and his relationship with me—which is, by now, very public information.

The most stubborn rumor is that our summer fling turned dangerous when Ronan had to defend me from another guy and got his ass kicked so severely that he hovered on the brink of death, and the real reason Ronan left is because his parents sent him away to keep him safe. I guess that rumor is at least partially true—the part about Ronan defending me from another guy—though one is obviously not even remotely related to the other. Whatever the rumor is, though, I’m usually somehow to blame for Ronan’s injuries, and I deal with more than my fair share of nasty looks and whispers whenever I walk down the school halls. Life is just… draining right now.

I hang up my coat and make my way into the kitchen. “You’re home early.”

“My last patient cancelled, so I thought I’d run some errands. How about lasagna for dinner?”

“Sure,” I say, and fill a glass with water to take up to my room.

“Great. I’m going to run to the grocery store,” my mom says, already on her way out the door.

Up in my room I change out of my jeans and t-shirt and into my pajama bottoms and Ronan’s hoodie. Even though it was freshly laundered when I borrowed it and has since been washed, I still catch traces of his scent in the fibers as I bury my face in the soft fabric. I sigh deeply, the ache of missing Ronan so pronounced and getting stronger each day.

I pull out my phone and text Ronan, knowing full well that, even though his phone is with him in Montana, he doesn’t have access to it. It’s apparently under lock and key until the therapist gives the word, which I hope will be any day now. But I figure, if and when he gets his phone back, he’ll have all these mushy messages from me he can read through, and maybe that’ll provide him some comfort.

Me: