Saturday, December 25th
Ronan
My grandfather doesn’t rouse me today, and I wake up to the sun streaming through my bedroom window. It’s a crisp morning, and it’s cold in my room—exactly how I like it. I did manage some semblance of meditation before bed yesterday, and, to my surprise, I had a restful night. For the first time in almost four months, there were no nightmares. There was no startling awake, no racing heart, no fighting for air. Instead, the most beautiful blonde-haired, long-legged girl finally appeared in my dream. Cat’s perfect smile is still visible in my mind’s eye, and I’m content lying in my bed this morning, warm underneath my comforter. I feel better than I have in a long time, even though my heart aches for Cat.
If only I could see her. Hell, at this point I’d even settle for just hearing her voice. The only pictures I have of her are on my phone, which I haven’t had access to since I came to Montana.
I wasn’t aware of the restrictions Doctor Seivert would impose when I originally agreed to leave New York for a while, and only learned of my inability to talk to Cat, my friends, brother, or dad when I woke up the first morning back on the ranch. My phone was gone, confiscated by my grandmother, who—very gently and carefully—filled me in on what limits Doctor Seivert had placed on my communications with anyone from home. Let’s just say I took it less than well, but Doctor Seivert remained firm. And, honestly, I declined so drastically, sleeping twenty hours or more a day, that I didn’t have the energy to fight or probably even talk to anyone on the phone. I barely managed one-word responses, let alone full-blown conversations with my grandparents. I even missed a few therapy sessions because I couldn’t gather enough strength to do anything beyond breathe.
But things seem to be stabilizing a bit; I don’t feel so damn drained all the time now, although it’s clearly not enough for Doctor Seivert to let me have my phone back. So I try to recall Cat’s perfect face, her gorgeous body, her sweet voice, but I miss her more every day. I wish everyone understood how much Cat eases the load for me and that talking to her, I’m convinced, would help me heal rather than inhibit my progress.
And, yeah, I worry about what she’s up to. We haven’t been together that long—just under seven months—and a huge chunk of that time I was either incapacitated or gone. It would be laughable of me to say that I was a good boyfriend to Cat the last four months. And really, more than half of our relationship consisted of me being an even lesser version of the Ronan who somehow managed to convince this perfect creature that is Cat that I could be good enough for her, even as broken and fucked-up as I already was when we met.
Cat’s smart, funny, kind, and fucking stunning. I’ve seen the way guys look at her. I notice how she stops a room full of people when she walks in—all damn eyes on her. I can’t blame them. She’s just… She glows like she’s the sun herself. And I can drive myself mad with thoughts of someone vying for her attention—irrational, unfounded rage turning the world red whenever visions of some other guy touching Cat force themselves into my thoughts. I just hope that Shane, my brother, Vada, Tori, and my other friends keep an eye on things while I’m gone for who knows how long.
I really couldn’t fault Cat if she decided this was all too much for her. I’ve always known she’s too damn good for me, and I admit that a not-insignificant part of me believes what my mom told me time and time again—that sooner or later, Cat is going to figure out how worthless I am, will realize she deserves way better. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t completely own my heart and that I wouldn’t fight like hell to be with her.
After lying in bed a few minutes longer, thinking of Cat, I finally get under the shower, then get dressed and make my way downstairs where everyone else is already gathered for a giant breakfast spread.
“Ran, come with me, please,” my grandfather says after we eat. To my grandmother’s delight, I was able to force myself to eat everything on my plate. She takes my plate from me with a content smile before I follow my grandfather into the mudroom where we put on our boots and jackets.
“Were you able to get some rest last night?” my grandpa asks casually as we make our way outside and begin trudging through the snow, which still slows me down significantly.
“Yeah, I slept really well, actually. No nightmares,” I say, taking careful steps to avoid any wrong movement with my knee, or, worse, slipping and doing some new damage.
“I’m so happy to hear that, Ran. Come to think of it, I haven’t had to wake you from a nightmare in a few days now.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off the snow. “Yeah, I’m mostly able to wake myself up now, which is nice. I hate disrupting everyone’s night.”
Right before I left for Montana, the night terrors were so bad that my dad or Steve had to wake me several times a night. My dad would resort to sleeping on the floor next to my bed because there was almost no point in him crawling back into his own bed. We were all so fucking exhausted and the sleep deprivation was something else, causing me to fall asleep in class once I finally went back to school, to doze off when I was with Cat and my friends. It was almost impossible to concentrate.
Things have improved over the last couple of weeks. I still have nightmares, but not to the same extent, and I manage to come out of them myself a lot more frequently than before.
“I know, Ran. I know,” my grandfather says earnestly, patting my back. He comes to a stop and motions toward a brand-new, shiny-black Ford F-250 truck. “Merry Christmas.”
“What’s this?” I ask while my grandfather grins at me.
He holds his hand out to me with the truck keys dangling off his right index finger. “Your truck; figured you’d need one while you’re here,” he says with a clap on my shoulder. “This may also be Erin and your grandmother’s way of trying to convince you to stay forever, but you didn’t hear that from me,” he says with a low chuckle.
“Athair, this is too much,” I say as I pull open the driver’s-side door and let my eyes sweep over the black leather interior of the crew-cab. The truck smells like it just came from the factory, and I inhale deeply. Man, that new-car, clean-leather smell has always been one of my favorites. Until Cat came along. Her scent makes my senses go straight into overdrive.
My grandpa waves me off. “Nah, Thomas has been bugging me to get another truck, and now that you’re more mobile, I thought it would be a good idea. Got a great deal on it, too, so don’t overthink it,” he says dryly. “I promise, it’ll be put to good use while you’re gone and it’ll be all yours whenever you come to visit.”
Never in my life have I received a gift this big. Even my Mustang was paid for with my own savings—and three months’ worth of unpaid labor at Murphy’s—whereas Steve got his Challenger from my parents when we moved back to New York.
Christmas has never been big in my house. My dad was only home a couple of times, and my mom usually worked, so the last two years I’d spend the day with Shane’s family while Steve hung out with Zack and Vada. But Christmases were always nice whenever we lived in Montana. My grandmother and Erin would spend days decorating the main house, and the food my grandmother prepared was usually the best I’d eat all year.
***
“So, do you like your truck?” Erin asks me casually when I finally get back to the house at just after four in the afternoon. My grandfather and I spent much of the day dropping hay in various spots on the pastures since the thick snow blanket makes it impossible for the cattle to graze. By the time we walk back into the house, it’s dark outside and I’m freezing cold and achy.
“Fuck yeah, I love the truck,” I say wholeheartedly while I take off my muddy boots, still feeling weird as hell at having received such an outrageous gift from my grandparents.
“Ronan, language,” my grandmother calls from the kitchen where she’s in the process of peeling what appear to be several hundred potatoes for the Christmas dinner she’ll be serving in just a couple of hours.
“Sorry, Morai,” I apologize quickly, and make my way into the living room while Erin chuckles under her breath.
“Ran, why don’t I give you a quick haircut?” she says out of the blue, eyeing me from her spot on the sofa.
“That’s a fantastic idea,” my grandmother chimes in, peeking her head out from the kitchen, and I frown. “Your hair’s getting a bit shaggy, baby boy. And you could use a shave, too.”
“I don’t know,” I say, unconvinced. It’s not that my aunt and grandmother are wrong—my hair is getting too long. I usually keep it tightly cropped on the sides and the back of my head and neck, but I haven’t gotten it cut since before I came to Montana almost two months ago.
Part of the reason for my neglect is, of course, that we live pretty cut off from most everything and I had been too immobile to get to the nearest town an hour’s drive away to get a haircut. The other part is that, honestly, I barely managed to keep myself showered every day. It was a giant effort to drag myself out of bed, step under the shower, and brush my teeth. I did it, but it took everything out of me. I didn’t have anything left for anything else. Depression is a huge drain on energy.
“What, you don’t trust me?” Erin asks. “I cut everyone’s hair around here.”
I grin. “Yeah, I know.”
“Oh, okay, I see how it is. My skills aren’t up to city boy’s standards,” she fires back with mock offense. “I know my way around clippers, Ran. I promise, I can handle a little fade.”
“Ronan, let Erin cut your hair, please,” my grandmother calls from the kitchen, making it very clear that this is no longer a negotiation.
“Jesus, fine,” I huff. “But can we do this somewhere I can put my knee up?”
“What’s wrong, baby boy? Are you alright?” my grandmother asks, once again popping her head out of the kitchen to study me.
I rub my knee. “Yeah, just overdid it a little bit, I think.” Now that I’ve had a minute to slow down my knee has begun to ache, getting stiff from this morning’s strenuous activity.
“I’ll tell you what, you go take a warm shower and I’ll get us set up in the kitchen. I’ll pull up a chair for you to put your leg up while I cut your hair,” Erin says warmly, and I nod.
I make my way upstairs where I shower, shave the four-day-old scruff off my face, then change into a fresh pair of jeans and a navy-blue hoodie.
“Alright, let’s see what you got,” I say when I sit in a chair in the kitchen, my right leg propped up on yet another chair while Erin drapes a towel over my shoulders.
“The good news is that your girlfriend’s a couple thousand miles away and can’t see you, so even if I mess this up, it’s not going to affect you too badly,” Erin jokes.
I make a face. “If this is your attempt at making me feel at ease, I have to disappoint you.”
Erin laughs out loud and gets started clipping my hair. To my relief, she actually does a pretty decent job and only about twenty minutes later, my hair is neatly trimmed on the sides and back. It’s longer on top with strands falling onto my forehead.
“Huh,” I say as I move the small handheld mirror from side to side, examining the tight fade on the sides of my head.
“Not bad, huh?” Erin says from behind me, her hands on her hips.
“Not bad at all.” I earn a pleased smile from her. “Okay, I guess I underestimated your skills. Thanks, Erin.” I run my left hand through my hair, messing with it until it falls just right.
“You’re welcome, Ran. Feeling a little more human?” she asks, her eyes warm.
“Yeah. Day by day,” I say, feeling my body relax. I sense my grandmother’s gaze on me when the front door opens and Thomas comes trudging in followed by Elias. The two of them drove into town to grab the mail from the post office box my grandparents rent. Because of their remote location, my grandparents don’t get mail delivered to the ranch and instead make the twice-weekly trip into town to run errands and retrieve any and all mail. We’ve been snowed in, though, and it’s been a couple of weeks since anyone made the two-hour round-trip.
Elias kicks off his boots before joining my aunt, my grandma, and me in the kitchen. “Ran, you got a letter.” He places the mail on the countertop, then hands me a padded envelope.
I immediately feel something hard inside it. “It’s from my dad,” I say, noting the return address—home—and my heart aches. I adjust the pillow my right leg had been resting on before I tear open the envelope. My heart skips a few beats when I pull out a small box and an envelope bearing my name in Cat’s beautiful handwriting. “Do you mind if I go up to my room?” I ask my grandmother, already getting up off the chair. I want to read Cat’s letter in private.
My grandma nods, and I waste no time limping upstairs where I situate myself on my bed before quickly opening the envelope to retrieve Cat’s handwritten letter to me.
Hey Sweet Boy,
I love you. Just thought I should get that out of the way first. Now, stop reading, please, and open my present. Then you can come back to this and let me explain.
Even though I want nothing more than to keep reading her beautiful words, I feel compelled to follow her directions. Smiling, I put down her letter and take her gift into my hands. It’s a small box, neatly wrapped in dark-blue paper. Recalling how carefully Cat unwrapped my birthday present to her in August, I do the same—slowly taking off each piece of tape holding the wrapping together before I open the box, revealing a thin gold necklace with a single, round pendant. It’s another saint, though definitely not St. Michael, the saint embossed on the necklace my grandmother gave me on my fourteenth birthday to protect me, and which I left with Cat in New York.
I hold the necklace in my right hand and pick up Cat’s letter with my left.
I bought this necklace at the same small jewelry store where my parents bought their wedding rings (no pressure, Romeo). The pendant is of Saint Raphael. He’s the patron saint of healing. Since you left your necklace with me—which I wear around my neck around the clock—and I don’t want to leave you unprotected while you’re away from me, I decided this is the best I can do for now. I hope it brings you some comfort, because your necklace is like a little piece of you that I get to carry around with me all the time.
Ran, I miss you so much. It feels like a huge part of me went away, but I know why you had to go, and I wish, more than anything, that you’re healing. I want you back home with me. I want to be in your arms, feel your body against mine, your lips kissing me, your hands on my skin. I want to hear your voice and smell your scent. I want to hear you laugh. I just want to be with you. It’s so hard not even being able to talk to you, and I miss reading your messages.
Everyone here misses you. Shane’s like a lost puppy without you. He’s been super mopey. Even Tori has commented on it. Zack and Vada keep telling him to throw a party, but Shane doesn’t want to. He says it’s not the same without you. He also said he had to hire someone to temporarily fill your spot at Murphy’s and that this guy “is about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” The first time he said it I almost died laughing. Steve’s also having a hard time. I’m not telling you these things to make you feel bad or anything. We all just miss you, and we’re so worried about you. It’s just not the same without you here. There’s a huge gap. Shane barks at anyone who tries to sit in your spot on the sofa out on the deck, except for me. He allows me to sit in it, which is sweet. Shane and Steve have been great to me—a little overprotective, but great. I think they’re wanting to make sure I’m safe, which would mean they’re also protecting you in a way. Such big brothers.
Cheyenne has been so nice, too. It’s kind of freaking me out a little bit, but I guess I’ll take it. School’s the same, but I’m definitely acing my history class, thanks to your tip about schmoozing with Mrs. Jennison. Oh, I have to tell you something funny. Vada was telling me that Mr. Sampson keeps calling on you in your Calculus II class, even though you obviously haven’t been in class in forever. Vada gets such a kick out of it. Apparently this has happened more than a couple of times now. You obviously make an impression on people. I know you’ve made an impression on me.
Ran, I wish I could talk to you. I have so much I want to tell you, so many thoughts in my head. I miss your voice. I honestly can’t wait for you to come home.
I hope you have a good Christmas and New Year’s, sweet boy. I’m thinking of you constantly. I love you.
Cat
Holy fuck, my heart aches with how much I miss her. I read Cat’s letter twice more before I finally fold it up and put it back in its original envelope, which I slide under my pillow. I have no doubt I’ll read it several more times before I eventually fall asleep tonight. Maybe I should write her a letter, too. Why the hell didn’t I ever think of that?
I run my right thumb over the pendant on the necklace before I finally put it around my neck. It’s the first substantial, tangible thing to remind me of Cat in two months, and once again I frown at the fact that I’m not allowed to use my phone to call her or even just stare at pictures of her. It’s maddening. I spend a lot of time in the evenings lying awake and recalling Cat’s beautiful face in my mind’s eye. I try to picture her soft lips, the exact color of her hazel eyes, and the curves of her perfect body, how she smells and tastes, how damn soft she feels. That last part usually ends in me getting all worked up and having to relieve the pent-up tension.
“What did Frankie send you?” my grandmother asks from the kitchen when I make it back downstairs to the living room.
“It was a letter and a gift from Cat,” I say, smiling as I situate myself on the couch next to Erin and Riley, carefully propping my knee back up on a couple of pillows. I’m seriously considering grabbing some painkillers, or maybe at least some ice to get this throbbing under control.
My grandmother walks into the living room where she places a plate with Christmas cookies on the rustic wooden coffee table that forms the centerpiece of the large open living area. “I bet she misses you.”
I nod. “Yeah, and I miss her, too.” I admit with a sigh. “She sent me this.” I touch the necklace around my neck. “I left my necklace with her before I came to Montana, so, she got me this one with a pendant of Saint Raphael.”
“Oh, the patron saint of healing,” my grandmother exclaims, a huge smile on her face.
I nod again. “Yeah.”
“Gosh, I love that girl,” she says, her brown eyes warm.
“Me, too,” I say more to myself than anyone else. “I wish I could talk to her.”