Friday, March 31st #3
I knew they were talking about me when I walked in. This is an intervention-style, middle-of-the-night gathering, and I bet that baby in my arms is my family’s way of ensuring I don’t just run out of this kitchen. Ugh. I crease my brow. “Morai, please don’t meddle.”
Her face settles into a rigid frown. “Ronan Perry Soult, you leave me no other choice.” Jeez, always with the government name. “I’ve had enough of watching you punish yourself for what your mother did to you.”
I flinch at my grandmother’s words. Few people so brazenly bring up my mother in front of me.
Most everyone avoids talking about anything that even remotely hints at my mom or her violence, but not my grandmother.
She’s a huge proponent of facing the bull head-on and reminding me that none of what happened to me was my fault.
It’s a constant refrain in our bi-weekly phone calls, though I’ve admittedly been avoiding her these past two months.
The bricks around my heart begin to cement themselves. “I’m not punishing myself.”
Her hands find the curves of her hips, fortifying her small frame.
Unlike my grandpa, my grandma is a tiny thing—over a head shorter than me—but holy Jesus, I don’t know anyone who’s willing to mess with that woman once she gets going.
“You know what, you can keep trying to convince yourself of that. You can lie to your friends, to your dad all you want, but trust me when I say none of us are buying your crap. Good god, baby boy, we all see what you’re doing.
The problem I see, though, is that you’re not only hurting yourself, you’re also torturing this lovely, beautiful, smart, kind, wonderful girl who is just so perfect for you. ”
I’d rake my hands through my hair if I wasn’t holding a sleeping baby. So I settle for chuffing out a verbal reply. “But I’m not perfect for her, Morai.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No,” I say sheepishly. “But I know it to be true. There are things that Cat wants—that she deserves—that I can’t give her.”
“And what would those things be?”
“She wants a family. I don’t. I don’t want kids, ever.”
“Because you’ve got yourself convinced that you will abuse your children like your mother abused you?”
That woman does not mince words.
“Exactly.”
My grandma raises her eyebrows at me. “So, you’re worried about being a good dad.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Ronan, abusers don’t worry about being good parents,” she says matter-of-factly.
My brow knits. Before I can argue, my dad says, “Ran, can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” I say like a smart-ass.
He just nods. “You told me you and Cat fought, right? After Kellan and Dean were born?”
I nod.
“Did you yell at each other?”
I break his eye contact, shame washing through me at the memory of how I lost my shit with Cat, how I raised my voice at her, how I walked out and slammed the door behind me. “Yeah.” My voice is tiny with the admission.
“She yelled at you?”
I nod again.
“And you yelled back at her?”
My jaw hurts with how tense it is. “Yeah.”
Despite his interrogation, there’s not a hint of accusation on my dad’s face. “Would you say you were angry while you two were fighting?”
“Yeah. Shit, Dad, why are you—”
“And what did you do?”
“What?” I huff out.
“What did you do? When you and Cat were fighting, when you felt angry at her. What did you do?”
“I… I told her to stop. She didn’t. She was so pissed at me. Rightfully. So… I walked out on her. Slammed the damn door.”
“You walked out on her,” my dad says, his tone conclusory.
Is that a smile I see dancing in his eyes?
“Yeah.”
“You walked out on her,” he repeats.
“Yes!” The edge in my voice is audible now. I don’t need him reminding me of how much I fucked up.
“Ran, did you have even the slightest urge to hit Cat while you two were arguing?”
My frown deepens, making my forehead hurt. “No.”
“How about right now, bud?”
“What about now?”
“Well, I’d say this is a pretty agitating conversation we’re having with you.
I hear it in your voice how much you’d like to shut this down.
But I’m looking at you, evaluating your posture, how you’re holding that very vulnerable, fragile baby in your arms, and I detect not even a hint of volatility in you.
In fact, you’re doing everything you can not to wake Kellan,” he says with a nod at my chest—against which the baby is cradled, sleeping soundly.
It’s only now that I realize I’m gently bouncing my brother in my arms, and while my shoulders are tense, I’ve subconsciously, made sure that my arms remain soft and relaxed rather than rigid and flexed.
My dad lessens the distance between us, a smile on his face. “Buddy, you are so damn scared of repeating Rica’s cycle of violence that you’re blind to the fact that you’ve already started breaking it. You’re already doing it, Ran.”
His right hand moves to my cheek, his thumb softly sweeping over my scar as if to erase it.
My grandpa sets the coffee mug he’s been sipping from down, then squares his shoulders while his arms fold across his sturdy chest. Like my dad, that man is a damn beast—6’5” and all corded muscle honed by a lifetime of hard, heavy ranch work. “You’re feeding the wrong wolf, Ran.”
I’m not sure if it’s the late hour or the Mount Everest-sized lump in my throat, but his words make no sense to me. “What?”
He chuckles. “You’re feeding the wrong wolf.”
“Okay, repeating the same words doesn’t help me understand what you’re saying, Athair.”
His brown eyes bore into mine. “The Cherokee believe that inside each man live two wolves. One dark, the other light. One represents our anger, our anxiety, our fears. The other represents love, kindness, hope. The question is always: which wolf wins? The answer—”
“The one we feed,” my dad says quietly, his eyes on my grandfather.
A whole lot of nonverbal communication happens between them; their gazes stay locked on each other for a moment before my grandpa’s eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips curve into a smile.
He gives my dad a proud nod, then turns his attention back to me.
“The one we feed,” he says with a slight tip of his head.
“And Ran, you’re feeding the wrong wolf. ”
My grandma nods. “Ronan, you have to try to heal. If you never heal from what hurt you, you will bleed on people who didn’t cut you. And right now, you’re bleeding on Cat.”
I take a deep, settling breath. “Okay, let’s say Cat and I fix things”—that’s if she’d even consider taking me back—“but then, later down the road, Cat starts to resent me because I don’t want children.
What then, Morai? We had one fight about it and she literally made out with some random guy at a party.
What does that mean for us?” I ask, the hurt resurfacing.
Every time I recall seeing Cat kiss that dude at the party, my heart threatens to shatter all over again.
“Maybe you’ll change your mind about having childr—”
“I won’t.”
My grandma pinches off a sigh between her lips.
“Fine. But, Ran, she made a mistake. Your grandfather kissed another girl once to make me jealous after we had a vicious fight. Forty years later and he still randomly apologizes for it,” she says with a smile.
“Relationships aren’t easy. We all make sacrifices; it’s constant work, a constant give-and-take.
And as for you giving me great-grandchildren: you are young.
You don’t have to decide right now. And even if in a decade or two you decide you really don’t want children, then you should allow Cat to decide what to do with that.
Or maybe you’ll end up changing your mind, which, quite frankly, I hope you do, because you two would make gorgeous babies,” she says and I frown again.
“You have to trust that Cat is capable of making her own decisions and telling you what she needs.”
“You sound exactly like Shane,” I say, exhaling loudly. Kellan stirs but doesn’t wake.
“Shane’s a great friend,” she says with a smile.
“He is.”
“Ran, you’ve shouldered a lot of pain in your young life. We know you’re one hell of a fighter. You’re strong. But I speak from experience when I say you’re even stronger with Cat by your side. Now, answer this question for me: do you still love Cat?”
I don’t need to think about this one. “Of course I do.”
“And do you want to be with her?”
“Yes, but—”
“Great, then I expect you to fix this. And you better do it fast because, girls like Cat don’t stay single for long. Don’t let her get away, Ronan! Stop bleeding on her. She didn’t cut you.”