Saturday, April 1st #5
Instinctively, I turn. And just like that—like that one unforgettable night at the beach house—our eyes meet.
Except, it’s painful now. Because I know her.
I know the sound of her laugh, the sigh she makes when she finally gets that bite of food she’s been craving.
I know what she looks like when she sleeps.
I know her, but I’m not with her when I should be.
She’s so beautiful. God, that hair, those eyes, that mouth.
She stands there, thunderstruck, blinking at me. Her hazel eyes are wide, filled with something I can’t quite name. Pain? Longing?
“Hey,” she says softly.
I don’t move. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
I’m drunk on her. “Hey,” I say, still clutching my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the floor.
Her gaze flicks to my bare chest for the briefest second, then her cheeks flush.
It makes the corners of my mouth twitch, but I rein in the selfish thrill.
She still feels something, and as much as it kills me, it also sparks a dangerous flicker of hope: that maybe I haven’t completely suffocated what once was.
“How was your flight?” I ask, stupidly. Really, I just want to hear her voice again. One more second of her.
“Really good,” she says sweetly.
Fuck, I want her back.
I open my mouth, but don’t get the chance to respond.
“You ready to go, Cat?” my brother calls from down the hall.
Cat turns her head toward his voice, then looks back at me, her eyes full of emotion. “I’ll see you in a little bit?”
Am I imagining things, or do I hear a note of hope?
I nod. “Yeah.”
She flashes me the tiniest, shyest smile, then walks out of my sight.
I exhale deeply, trying to shed the tension gripping my shoulders. God, I need to find a way to talk to her alone before the day is over. I can’t hold off much longer.
Cat
Steve chauffeurs me to Sterling’s. I’m seated in the backseat next to Elias while his dad, Thomas, rides up front, barking directions at Steve—who keeps reminding him that he used to live here.
It makes me giggle, and for a few blissful minutes I don’t think about that brief, heart-stopping encounter with Ronan.
But only five minutes after I sit down at the long, buffet-style table already occupied by Frank, Penny, Seamus, my parents, Frank’s sister, and his brother-in-law, the doors to Sterling’s open and in step Shane and Tori, followed by Ronan and—I swallow—Miranda.
It’s like my heart has a GPS locked on Ronan and doesn’t care that it’s supposed to be in recovery. Doesn’t care that he shattered it. It thuds traitorously in my chest, fast and desperate, and all I’ve done is look at him.
He’s laughing at something Miranda says—soft, natural, completely unguarded—and I feel the ache of missing him settle into my bones, just like it did an hour ago.
Not just the boyfriend part of him, but him.
The version who used to know how to make me laugh when I didn’t want to.
The version I used to trust with all the quiet, crumpled parts of me.
He hasn’t seen me yet. Good. I need a second. Maybe five.
I force my gaze away and inhale deeply, squaring my shoulders like armor.
Tonight is about celebrating Penny and Frank.
Tonight, I’ll pretend I’m fine. Pretend I don’t want to memorize the way he looks at me like I’m the only girl in the whole world.
Because tonight, Ronan doesn’t get to know that he still owns my heart.
Doesn’t get to know I’m still desperately, unconditionally in love with him.
I notice Ronan take a seat at the opposite end of the table, as far away from me as possible.
I’m simultaneously elated and hurt. This is so confusing.
Tori, however, plops down in the wooden chair next to me, her face alive.
I’m so glad I have her, and Shane, and Steve.
Their presence softens the sharpest sting of my separation from Ronan. At least a little.
“Hey,” she sing-songs, squeezing me quickly while Shane nods at me from catty-corner across the table—right next to his best friend. Miranda sits on Ronan’s other side. Of course, I notice.
“Hey,” I say, my eyes locked past her, watching Miranda.
There’s an ease between her and Ronan, undeniable chemistry.
Her face lights up when she looks at him.
She’s angled toward him, smile unwavering, her posture open and familiar.
Even a stranger would be able to tell that the two share a history. Maybe even a present. My heart squirms.
Tori follows my gaze, then looks squarely at me. “Cat?”
I jerk my eyes to her. “What?”
“They’re not a thing,” she says calmly. “Not a thing.” I can’t decode the smile dancing in her eyes—whether it’s amusement or reassurance.
My shoulders sag with relief. He may not be in love with me anymore, but at least he’s also not in love with her. I don’t think I could handle seeing Ronan be affectionate with her. It would crush me.
“Hey, Randi,” Ronan’s and Steve’s aunt Erin calls from the other end of the table, snapping Miranda—and everyone else—to attention.
I take the chance to look at Ronan unabashedly, drinking him in.
Those beautiful, masculine features. His full lips and green eyes that always have a way of looking directly into my soul.
“Yeah?” Miranda calls, a bright smile on her pretty face.
“Why don’t you get up on that stage and sing something?”
Miranda’s gaze drifts to the small, currently unoccupied stage.
“Sure!” She pushes up from her chair without a second thought.
Jeez, if someone had asked me to randomly perform on a stage in front of everyone, I would’ve turned beet red and bolted for the nearest exit.
Miranda, on the other hand, looks like she was born for this.
“Hey, Reagan,” Miranda calls to the young woman delivering round after round of tequila shots. The tip of my mom’s nose is already pink, like it gets when she’s had a little too much to drink. “Mind if I get up there?”
“I never mind!” Reagan grins. “Let me turn down the music for you.”
The country music fades, and Miranda climbs the stage, lowering the mic stand to her height and reaching for one of the guitars. She slips the strap over her shoulder and strums a few lonely chords.
“Okay, people,” she says into the microphone, her voice smooth and soulful. “Happy or sad?”
“Start with something happy,” Erin calls.
Miranda thinks for a second, then begins plucking gently at the strings. Her eyes close. The first lyrics spill into the room, and just like that, the crowd goes still.
She plays one song after another, switching things up—happy tunes, then heartfelt ballads, even sliding between genres with ease—while Reagan keeps the drinks flowing.
“Okay,” Miranda says with a laugh between songs, taking a sip from the glass of water Reagan left near her feet, “I know it’s a small stage, but it still feels too big for a little girl like me.” Her voice is playful, self-aware.
Then she grins directly at Ronan. “I’m getting kind of lonely up here.”
He immediately shakes his head, the crease between his brows deepening as he presses his lips together in a clear don’t you dare expression.
“You know you want to come play with me, Rony,” she teases, drawing out the nickname.
Ronan stands no chance against the eruption of cheers, whistles, and applause—not just from our table, but from just about every other one in the room.
Finally—and obviously reluctantly—Ronan stands, pushing his chair back with a sharp scrape against the floor. He grits his teeth and gives Miranda a look that could kill, but still, he joins her on stage.
“Fucking trouble, Randi,” he mutters, eliciting laughter.
He picks up the second guitar and adjusts the strap. “Just warning you all, this is going to suck,” he says to the crowd, drawing more chuckles.
“You got this, bud!” Frank calls out.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Ronan grumbles, then turns to Miranda with an exasperated look. “Fine. What are we playing?”
She only grins and begins to strum.
It takes mere seconds for recognition to light up Ronan’s face. His lips twitch into a smile, and before I can brace myself, his fingers are moving, joining hers effortlessly.
Their voices blend in perfect harmony. Ronan’s is raw and soulful—low, rich, and magnetic.
I realize, with a sharp pang, that I’ve never heard him sing or play before.
I knew he could—he told me his grandfather taught him a few chords—but in our nearly two years together, I never actually saw it for myself.
He’d always downplayed it. He sounds incredible.
I don’t fight myself. I watch him—really watch him—with an aching heart as he and Miranda perform like they’ve been doing it for years.
She is radiant, open, completely turned into him.
Her love for him is so obvious. Maybe Tori was wrong.
Maybe Miranda and Ronan are something. Maybe he’s keeping it a secret, like Steve and his mysterious relationship.
Even now, none of us really know anything about the girl.
I just don’t know anymore.
I reach for the tequila sitting, untouched, in front of me and throw it back. I shouldn’t have come to Montana. Being near Ronan again is like pouring salt into infected wounds. I miss him so much. I want him back. But watching him on that stage, I’m certain I’ve lost him for good.
Miranda and Ronan finish their song to roaring applause from the bar patrons. As the last notes fade, Miranda leans her head against Ronan’s shoulder, a warm smile on her face as she strums the final chords.
“Oh no, you’re not done,” she says quickly, blocking Ronan’s attempt to set his guitar down.
“Come on, keep playing, Rony!” Shane calls out, grinning.
Ronan shoots him a withering look. “Keep it up and reap the consequences, man,” he says, his voice dry.
Even I can’t help but smile at Ronan’s obvious dislike for the moniker. It would be a cute name if Miranda didn’t come up with it.