Friday, March 31st
Ronan
“Wanna just keep driving and get shit-faced by the creek?” Miranda asks.
The cabin of my truck is dark, but the moon does a good enough job illuminating the interior that I immediately notice the smirk on her face.
I grin back at her; this aspect of my life, at least, has remained the same.
Miranda still doesn’t give a single fuck about anything, including the fact that we’re both expected to be up and at ’em in only a few hours.
“Dude, I’ve been back on the ranch for exactly four hours and you’re already trying to get me in trouble.”
I arrived back in Montana this afternoon and the moment I stepped foot on my grandparents’ ranch the ache on my heart eased a little. It still throbs with the reality of my breakup from Cat, but still, being here has the same effect it had a year ago—all the heaviness is just a little less so.
I slow the truck in front of Miranda’s cabin.
She’s already in the process of opening her passenger door.
No patience. “And I will once again remind you that I’ve never cared about the rules,” she says, and hops out of the cabin the second I throw the truck in park.
She waves at me to follow suit. “Come on, Rony, you gotta walk me inside to make sure some mountain lion isn’t going to eat me in the next five seconds. ”
I chuckle. My grandma insisted I drive Miranda to her cabin after dinner this evening because they’ve had an unusual amount of mountain lion activity on the ranch.
The cattle are always at risk of falling prey to Montana’s natural predators, like grizzlies, coyotes, and mountain lions—that’s just life out here—but my grandpa told us that they spotted a mountain lion roaming awfully close to the barn about fifty yards from the house only two nights ago.
“Maybe you need to get a little bigger so the mountain lions see you as a threat rather than their evening snack.”
She giggles, bouncing along ahead of me, her light brown braid swaying. “I could eat all the food in the world and I’d still be a damn snack, Rony.”
Walked right into that one. I laugh while Miranda blows me an air-kiss over her shoulder, her eyebrows wiggling. “So, about getting shit-faced.” She steps through her unlocked front door and waits for me to enter behind her before locking it.
I raise my eyebrows. “Am I your hostage now?”
She raises her hand to pat my shoulder. “Pretty sure you know how to unlock a door, Rony. Stop ignoring my question.”
I shuck off my jacket. “Fine. What do you got?”
She scoffs at my question. “Whiskey and soda water.” She tosses her jacket onto her couch, then meanders the ten feet to her small kitchen.
I fall back onto her sofa. “Perfect.”
Miranda joins me on the couch a minute later, handing me a glass half-filled with deep amber liquid. I cock an eyebrow. “Did you forget the soda water, or are you trying to get me drunk?”
She shrugs and raises her glass to her lips, which does nothing to hide her grin. I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, she did suggest we get shit-faced tonight.
I take a small sip, the familiar burn of the whiskey heating my throat as I work it down.
“So, I never thought I’d say this, but your dad holding both your baby brothers after dinner tonight? Panty-drenching.” Miranda fans herself with her free hand.
The frown on my face is instantaneous.
“I mean, sheesh. Your dad’s like… a Daddy,” she says. “Made my ovaries—”
“Fuck, Randi!”
She snorts. “I’m serious. Your dad’s always been hot, but there’s something about seeing a mountain of a man holding a baby.
It’s sexy. Big and strong, yet soft and gentle.
” She pauses, deep in thought. “You know, your dad’s not all that much older than me…
” Her eyebrows begin to dance mischievously.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip with a deep growl. “Don’t fucking go there, Randi. That’s an image I’ll never be able to get out of my head.” My imagination has always been too vivid. Already my face contorts.
“Oh no? You don’t want the girl you used to fuck fucking your daddy? Or better yet, you and your dad both? At the same time? A Soult sandwich, so to speak. Wait, Stevie is getting here tomorrow, right? You know, I do have three holes to stu—”
Holy shit. I throw my arms up. “Nope.” I get up off the sofa, ready to walk out on her.
She grabs at my sleeve, pulling me back down with a laugh.
“I’m just kidding, Rony,” she wheezes, her eyes shimmering with tears. She inhales sharply. “I don’t like butt stuff, so maybe just you and your da—”
I yank my arm free and make to stand once more.
Miranda reins in her guffaw. “Stop, Rony. I’m totally joking. I’m joking!” She pats the seat next to her.
With a shake of my head, I retake my spot.
“Are you sure you don’t want kids one day? Because I’ll guarantee you, you’ll have the same effect as your dad has on the female folk. Just, woof.”
“I’m sure.” Cat’s face flashes through my mind, her sad eyes when I told her I don’t want kids, the tears rolling down her cheeks when I ended things. I’ll never be like my dad because I refuse to become like my mother.
Miranda doesn’t let off the pain point. “They look really happy. Your dad and Penny. Your dad’s, like, glowing with love,” she says with a contemplative nod.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad this happy before.”
Miranda watches me while my gaze is glued to the patterns of the wood fibers on the coffee table.
She scoots closer and hitches a leg onto the sofa cushion, facing me. “You deserve that, too,” she says. “You deserve to be happy like that. Like glowingly, stupidly happy.”
I sit back, sinking into the cushions with a deep sigh. “I have a feeling that’s not in the cards for me.”
“It takes a long time, you know?”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “What does?”
“Unlearning the negative things that have been hammered into your head all your life,” she says, her voice heavy.
“You keep thinking there’s something wrong with you that you can’t just tune out your abuser’s voice in your head telling you, like a fucking chant, that you’re not good enough.
You’re not alone in that, Rony. I still struggle with it, too. ”
“Do you believe it?” I ask her. “Do you believe the things your dad’s voice tells you?”
Her blue eyes hold the weight of the world as she nods. “Sometimes. Some days it’s easier to tell that voice to shut up. Journaling helps. I get it all out of my head, and when I read it back, I always realize that none of the shit my dad said holds water.”
My gaze falls to my hands. “I believe it. I believe the things my mom’s voice says—the things my own voice tells me.
I don’t know how to stop it.” Miranda doesn’t respond, watching me instead, her eyes soft.
“I wish I could shut it off. I wish I could believe, like truly, honestly believe that I’m enough. That I’m not destined to…” I swallow.
Miranda’s fingertips graze my chin. “Rony, look at me.”
I lift my eyes.
“You wouldn’t ever hurt anyone,” she says with a conviction I’m envious of.
“You’re good, Rony. So damn good. You deserve happiness, and love…
” The last word comes out breathy and a subtle blush heats her lips, then her cheeks.
I notice her eyes flitting to my mouth, feel the tension between us rise, and I know what’s going to happen before it does.
I do nothing at all to stop it.
Not this time.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my body moves before my mind catches up, because I’m tired of fighting the ache that never lets up.
Miranda’s lips are on mine a fraction of a second later, my tongue meeting hers.
Her hands glide underneath my shirt, her fingers outlining my abdominal muscles as she slowly pushes up the fabric.
“Randi, I…” I mutter against her lips. I want this to mean something. Or maybe I just want it to feel like something. Anything.
But it doesn’t.
Not really.
Still, I let her pull my shirt off. I let her guide us back through old, familiar motions. Her touch is soft, warm, even reverent in its own way—but I’m already aching with the knowledge that it won’t be enough.
She slides off her flannel and I follow, lifting her tank top over her head, my hands moving automatically. Her bra is on the floor a moment later, my left hand cupping her breast, my thumb carefully grazing over her taut nipple. Muscle memory.
With my right hand on her back, I pull her toward me, shifting us to feel her bare skin against mine.
I know what Doctor Seivert would tell me.
That this is unhealthy coping. I’m reverting to old patterns of dealing with pain.
But what does it matter? Why should I stop this now?
Randi and I are both lost in this world, drowning in our fucking pain, our loneliness.
Why not provide each other with an hour where we can get lost in each other?
Where we can get pulled into a void of sex rather than more darkness?
At least we’re not strangers, some random hookup.
We know each other, know that we’re safe and healthy.
It’s familiar. It’s easy. It’s all physical and completely unemotional.
I go through the motions with Miranda, letting her touch me as I touch her.
No sweet nothings are exchanged as we undress each other.
We’re merely following the steps it takes to reach the few seconds of pure fucking ecstasy drowning out our sorrow.
That’s all. There’s an endgame to this, and it’s not happily-ever-after.
Miranda takes me into her mouth, tastes me like she used to when we were together a few years ago.
She sucks and swirls her tongue over my cock, but loses patience quickly, just as she always did.
No one’s ever gotten me off with oral sex, and I have no illusions about tonight.
This is not some declaration of love, not even true intimacy.