Tiny fractures, p.24
Tiny Fractures, page 24
***
We drive fifteen minutes to a small Italian gelateria, where Benny’s and Sam’s eyes become huge when they see the variety of ice cream flavors. Despite their tiny statures, each picks two giant scoops of ice cream.
“Could I get a scoop of strawberry?” I ask the girl behind the counter, and she places a perfectly round blob of pink ice cream in a cone for me. “How about you?” I ask Ronan, but he shakes his head. “Wait, don’t you like ice cream?” I ask, my right hand resting on his forearm; I’ll take any chance to have physical contact with him, regardless of how small.
“Not really,” he admits.
I cock my head to the side. I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who didn’t like ice cream. “Really?” I question as I take my cone from the girl behind the counter. “Oh no you’re not.” I stop Ronan as he’s in the process of paying for the ice cream.
He laughs. “Why not?”
I shake my head vehemently. “Because I’m an independent woman who can pay for her own things. You’re not paying for anyone’s ice cream today, sir!” I pronounce with a grin, and pull some cash out of my jeans pocket and hand it to the girl.
“Oh, okay, sorry Miss Independent,” Ronan laughs while I take my change and shove it into my pocket. Ronan and I wander to the table Benny and Sam are already occupying. The two of them are absolutely devouring their ice cream and I remind them to slow down, but I might as well be speaking Chinese with a cow. I start eating my scoop of strawberry gelato, and it gets quiet for a minute before I feel Ronan’s eyes on me.
“What?” I ask, noting the mischievous grin on his face.
“I have to say, I enjoy watching you eat your ice cream,” he says in a suggestive tone.
But two can play that game. “What, like this?” I sensually lick the melting ice cream off the cone before closing my lips over the scoop, then lick the ice cream off my lips.
Ronan narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting between my eyes and my mouth. “Yeah, like that,” he says, his voice gravelly.
My heart flutters in my chest. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a small taste?” I ask, and take another lick of my strawberry ice cream before I lean into him and part my lips.
He doesn’t need to be asked twice. With his left hand under my chin, he angles my face up before brushing his lips against mine. His tongue carefully enters my mouth as he tastes me, then licks my lips before he pulls back.
“You guys are so gross,” Benny exclaims with chocolate ice cream all over his face.
“Dude, come talk to me again in ten years,” Ronan chuckles, and I watch him take a napkin and wipe Benny’s face clean. I’m so taken aback by Ronan. He is so different from the guys I’ve known before, and certainly a complete one-eighty from Adam.
***
We finish our ice cream and clamber into Ronan’s car. Back at my house, Benny and Sam ransack the kitchen, tear open a bag of chips, and make themselves at home in front of the TV.
“Do you really not like ice cream?” I whisper into Ronan’s ear after I crawl onto the couch next to him.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me toward him. “No,” he says, his tone neutral. “It’s not something I grew up with.”
I look at him, trying to decipher if he’s joking. “What do you mean? You didn’t eat ice cream as a kid?”
He shakes his head. “No. No ice cream, no candy. It wasn’t really available on my grandparents’ ranch, and here…”
I scan his face. His green eyes are unfocused. “Here what?”
He swallows hard, then seems to snap out of it. He focuses his attention on me and smiles. “My mom just isn’t a fan of junk, so she didn’t let me have it growing up.” Though that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, I feel like there’s more to his story.
“But wait, I’ve seen Steve eat plenty of junk at Shane’s, and at the movies he definitely chowed down on a huge package of red vines.” I remember Vada joking to me that Steve has even more of a sweet tooth than she does, which is saying a lot.
Ronan only shrugs, and I get the distinct impression he no longer wishes to talk about this. I put an earmark in this conversation, determined to come back to this; it just doesn’t make sense to me.
“What time are you guys heading out tomorrow?” he asks, and I can tell he’s eager for a subject change.
I oblige, hoping to relieve the tension that has seized his shoulders. “The bus leaves at seven,” I wince. “I’m still not an early bird.” I close my eyes as Ronan kisses my head, and I snuggle against him, enjoying his arms around me and the warmth of his body. How does he always manage to make me feel so safe?
“But you’ve been coming to the gym with me in the mornings,” he says.
I nod into his chest. “Yes, but getting to see you first thing in the morning is a much better incentive than getting on some bus for a seven-hour ride to Buffalo.”
Ronan chuckles. “Fair enough.” He lifts his arm to look at his watch, then sighs. “Baby, I have to get going. I still need to change and then get to Murphy’s.”
He pulls me in tighter, kissing my head again before he lets go of me and gets to his feet. “Hey, little people,” he says to Benny and Sam, who turn their attention from the TV to Ronan. “Be good to your sister; she’s pretty awesome. I’ll see you guys later,” he says, making me smile a stupid happy smile.
I follow Ronan into the hallway, where he turns to me, gently places his hands on my hips and pulls me into him again. “What are you doing to me?” he sighs, and even though I don’t think he actually expects an answer from me, I feel the need to provide him with one.
“Hopefully the exact same thing you’re doing to me,” I say, and for some reason there’s a knot in my stomach. I know it’s ridiculous; we’ve only been seeing each other for a little over three weeks, and I’ll only be gone for five days, but I can’t help the way I feel about him. I just don’t want to be away from him.
He searches my eyes, and I detect sadness in his, so I angle my face up and kiss his lips softly.
“I’ll miss you,” he says against my lips, “but I hope you have fun.”
“I’ll miss you, too, and I’ll try really hard to have fun. I promise.”
He smiles at me, then kisses me deeply before letting go of me and heading out the door.
Ronan
I know exactly what Cat is doing to me. She’s breaking down every wall I’ve ever built, my carefully constructed cocoon meant to shield me from vulnerability, and she’s making me fall hard and fast in love with her.
Being with her is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Even when I was with Miranda—the only other serious relationship I’ve ever had—it was nothing like being with Cat. Granted, I was fourteen, and Miranda was my first everything. We were together the whole year I lived in Montana. She was forbidden: two years older than me; the daughter of the pastor whose church my grandparents, and by extension I, attended religiously every Sunday; a freaking rebel, hell-bent on defying her father’s stiflingly strict rules. So we started sneaking out together, getting high on pills and weed, drinking, having sex in the backseat of her truck or the pew of her father’s church after Sunday service when everyone was in the mess hall having lunch. It was exciting and dangerous, but it wasn’t a relationship meant to last. It was an escape for both of us, each from our own private hell.
After Miranda, there were only random one-night stands, hookups, and meaningless sex to scratch the itch, but I never allowed it to go further than that. But with Cat it’s all different. I feel seen with her—truly, deeply seen—which scares the shit out of me because I worry about what’ll happen when she sees all of me and realizes how broken and fucked up my life is. How broken and fucked up I am. So part of me waits for the day she’ll recognize that I’m not enough for her, just like I’m not enough for my mom.
Sometimes I get the feeling Cat knows something is off by the questions she asks. Like the ice cream thing today. The truth is that my mother never allowed me to have any of it, but not because she’s against junk food per se. She let Steve have it. It was just a way for her to withhold something I wanted, so I learned to just not want it.
***
The drive back home from Cat’s house takes me less than five minutes, and dread overcomes me the second I spot my mom’s car in the driveway but not Steve’s. I bet he’s spending his evening with Vada, soaking up as much time with her as he can before she leaves for the better part of a week, just like I had wanted to do with Cat.
I park on the curb in front of my house, shut off the engine, and take a few deep breaths. I hope my mom is in a good enough mood and that any interaction I have with her today will be civil. But the moment I step foot in my house, I pick up on the negative vibe and my body tenses.
My mother is in the kitchen, pacing left to right across the tiled floor, her shoes click-clacking. She’s holding her phone to her ear, talking loudly, arguing. The second she makes eye contact with me, her eyes livid, I know who she’s arguing with—my dad—and that I better get my stuff and get the hell out of here. I contemplate my strategy; all I need to do is get upstairs, change into my work clothes, and leave. Simple.
“No, your responsibility is to your family, Frank,” I hear my mother hiss into the phone. “You think it’s easy raising two teenage boys alone while you’re off living the life you’ve always wanted, only coming home whenever the fuck you feel like it? You’ve been coming home less and less, and I’m tired!”
I hurry upstairs, listening intently to my mother’s voice, which becomes louder by the second until she’s yelling into the phone. In my room, I kick off my shoes and yank open my closet door, desperate to find my shirt. It takes me way too long to retrieve the black long-sleeve with the Murphy’s logo, but when I finally do I hastily pull it over my head.
Then I realize that my mother’s shouting has stopped.
I stop in my tracks, hoping she’s still on the phone, but I don’t hear anything else. No voices, no pacing. Get a move on. I slip my arms through the sleeves, pull the shirt down over my torso, and put on my black ballcap.
I’m not fast enough, though.
My mother is leaning against the fridge in the kitchen as I step off the staircase and reach for the doorknob, almost tasting the fresh air.
“Ronan.” My mother’s voice is sharp as she says my name, and my breath gets trapped in my chest. Anxiety claws at me, and I close my eyes, willing my feet to move me forward. Finally, I turn my head toward the kitchen. She’s not looking at me, but I can tell by the sound of her voice, her posture, the way her thumb is spinning the simple silver wedding band on her ring finger, that whatever she has to say to me isn’t going to be good.
Her voice comes out clipped. “Get over here.”
I wish I had it in me to just defy her, take the three steps that separate me from the outside world, and drive away to safety. But that’s not what I’ve been conditioned to do. Instead, my body betrays me. My legs carry me to the right, down the hallway, and to the doorway to the kitchen where I stop. My shoulders hurt with the tension seizing my muscles, anticipating what comes next, bracing for pain.
“I thought I told you to clean out the fridge yesterday, did I not?” my mom says against gritted teeth.
“You did.” My voice is feeble, which pisses me off. I’m not small by any means. I’m over six feet tall and weigh maybe 175 pounds. I’m muscular—lean and conditioned. But in my mother’s presence I feel tiny, weak, and like I’m five years old. She’s the reason I work out as much and as hard as I do. I had the honest belief that if I got stronger, bigger, she would back off a little, but it’s almost like the complete opposite has occurred. She just hits me harder now.
“So why did I find moldy bread in here this afternoon?” She points to a loaf of bread on the counter.
“I haven’t had a chance to do it yet, Mom. I had practice yesterday and then I worked last night,” I try to defend myself, knowing it’s useless. I could be running a fortune one-hundred company, and all she would see is the fact I didn’t do what she told me to do.
She pushes off the fridge, facing me. Her face is contorted with anger. “So did I, Ronan. I work every god damn day to make sure that you—spoiled, ungrateful little brat—have a roof over your head, food on the table, and gas in that fucking car of yours. And you repay me by dodging your responsibilities, not doing your chores, giving me lip, and not following the rules. And I’m really fucking tired of your shit and your weak excuses, Ronan. You’re not the only one who lives in this house!” Her voice is pitchy as she yells at me. “You are such a fucking failure, Ronan. All I ask is for you to contribute at home, but you can’t fucking do that because either you’re too fucking lazy or too fucking stupid. Which one is it, Ronan?” She puts her palms against my chest and pushes me backwards. “Which one, Ronan? I asked you a god damn question. Are you stupid or are you lazy?”
She shoves me again when I don’t answer.
“Or is it both? Answer me!”
What am I supposed to say? Her words aren’t meant to elicit a response; they’re meant to injure. And they hit the mark, slowly eroding my self-worth, wiping out any trace of confidence and self-respect left after years of being told I’ll never be good enough.
She walks back into the kitchen where she grabs the broom off its hook, and I know without a shadow of doubt what’s going to happen next. This has been her go-to form of punishment lately.
“Come here!”
I don’t move.
“Come. Here!” Her tone is authoritative, militant.
I blink, calculating my options and the odds of getting out of this unharmed. Absolutely zero. I’ve learned not to beg, not to ask her not to hurt me; it makes her angrier and draws out the punishment.
“I’m only going to tell you one more time, Ronan. Come. Here. Now!”
I walk into the kitchen, stopping in front of her, and she points to the counter across from her.
“Turn around and put your hands on the counter!”
I do as she says, closing my eyes as I brace my hands on the edge of the counter. I hold my breath, waiting for the first impact.
It comes a fraction of a second later. The pain is blinding when the metal handle of the broom connects with the right side of my back. I inhale sharply through my teeth but make no other sound. If I just shut up, it’ll be over faster.
The first hit is followed by another, and then another in short succession. Each time she pulls back and then lands another blow to my back, just below my right shoulder blade. A groan involuntarily escapes my mouth on the ninth hit, and I grip the counter like it’s my lifeline, knuckles white, keeping my knees from buckling under the pain.
After the fourteenth and final strike I slowly open my eyes, my head lowered, my breathing ragged. Yet I don’t dare retrieve my hands from the counter. I wait for more pain, never knowing when it’s over, when I’m safe.
It’s quiet with the exception of my heart hammering in my chest and my blood rushing through my head, drowning out any outside noise.
“Get out of my sight,” my mother says, sounding drained, like it was me hitting her.
I straighten up slowly, loosen my death grip on the countertop, and walk out of the kitchen. I’m deliberate in my movements so as not to show weakness, so she doesn’t see how much pain she inflicted. I don’t look at her as I pass.
Outside, I ease myself into my car, flinching when I make contact with the seat back.
***
“You’re early,” Shane states when I show up at Murphy’s fifteen minutes later, but his face falls when he sees my expression. “What’s wrong, man?”
I nod for him to follow me to the office, and he looks at me expectantly as I close the door behind us.
“I had a run-in with my mother. I just need you to tell me how bad it is,” I say, feeling so damn sore. It’s the first time I’ve been this forthcoming with him—or anyone, for that matter—about what my mother does to me. I’m not totally sure why I feel the need to share with him today of all times that my mother has hit me, but without further warning, I turn around and pull up my shirt.
“God, what the fuck?” Shane steps closer to me, carefully touching the throbbing area on my back. I flinch and take a sharp breath in through my teeth. Even the slightest touch elicits a sharp pain.
“This looks terrible, Ran,” he says as I lower my shirt and turn toward him. “What the fuck happened?”
“She was mad because I forgot to clean out the fridge.” I shrug.
“You need to get this checked out, dude. Does it feel like she cracked a rib?”
I shake my head with a frown. “You’re joking, right? I can’t walk into a doctor’s office like this; what am I supposed to say?”
“The fucking truth!” Shane says, as if his answer is the obvious choice.
I shake my head. “No. I just need some ice.” I sit down in the creaky chair, feeling stiff and exhausted. The adrenaline coursing through my body just minutes ago is finally wearing off, and all I want to do is sleep off the pain. “And a shot. Ice and a shot. Can you do that for me?” I ask, lifting my eyes toward my best friend.
I can tell he’s not happy with my refusal to rat on my mother, but he leaves nonetheless, only to return a minute later with a bag of ice and a double shot of tequila.
I take the shot, then gingerly hold the ice against the bruise. “Thanks.” My voice is raspy, and I close my eyes as my raw skin becomes numb from the ice.
“Why don’t you just hang out in here a bit? Come out when you’re ready. There are some painkillers in the top right drawer of the desk,” Shane says.
I don’t tell him this enough, but he’s an amazing friend.
“Okay. I’ll be out in a few.” I lean back, careful not to put any more pressure on the sore.
“Take your time. Seriously, take some pain meds, it’ll help.” Shane looks at me a second longer—his eyes a mixture of pity, worry, and anger—before he leaves, closing the door behind him.
