Page 100 of Tiny Fractures
“Nah, I only want Cat making eyes at me,” I say, then get to work.
Thursday, August 12th
Cat
July was an insanely hot month, and August hasn’t been much better. I’m used to humidity and heat, but that’s in a small town in North Carolina, and man, heat and humidity in the city are a whole different ball game. My days are spent either indoors or at Shane’s mom’s beach house. I even end up dragging Sam and Benny with me a few times when my mom has an emergency patient. Vada, Tori, Summer, and even Cheyenne completely dote on my younger siblings, which is really nice because they don’t get bored while we hang out with my friends, and my little sister Sam still appears to have a huge crush on Ronan. I can’t blame her; every day I spend with him my feelings for him grow more intense.
Ronan has been extremely busy with work and hockey practice for both his club and varsity teams, spending hours every day at conditioning, which throws off his daytime schedule a bit, but we still see each other just about every day. At some point I started sending him text messages every night before I go to bed. It’s usually something short, just meant to let him know that he’s my last thought before I drift off to sleep. And then I usually wake up in the morning to find a text from him—typically sent in the middle of the night—telling me he got home and that he misses me.
But it’s not just Ronan’s sweet messages I get to read in the morning. Adam has been calling and texting me randomly, too, always from an unknown number, which makes it impossible to block him. I’ve made the mistake of picking up his calls a handful of times when my fingers were faster than my brain, and I hit the answer button before I could remember that the unknown number most likely meant Adam was about to terrorize me again.
It’s always the same with him—he’s usually drunk when he calls, the phone ringing at the most random hours of the day and night. His tone is always accusatory, even when he texts me. A couple of times he said he should just come and take what he deserved all along. I know he doesn’t know where I live, but it still makes me uneasy. The fact that he somehow got my number is concerning enough, and I wouldn’t put it past him to get ahold of my address.
And then there are the pictures; the evidence; the proof of my promiscuity, my missteps. Adam wasn’t satisfied with the one photo I sent him when I was in Buffalo, and has forced me to send him new ones. I feel sick to my stomach each time I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, exposing my breasts to the camera, my hands shaking as I take a picture only to delete it the second I hit “send.”
And then, two weeks ago, things went from bad to worse when Ronan was at my house, spending the rare evening with me when he didn’t work.
I was cuddled up against Ronan on the couch, watching a movie I already can’t remember, when my phone notified me of a new text message. My stomach dropped when I read Adam’s words.
Unknown: Your tits are nice and all, but I think it’s about time I get to see the rest of your tight little body. You strung me along for almost five months, Cat, and I don’t think I need to remind you of what you did to me…
“What’s wrong?” Ronan asked, immediately alarmed when I clambered out of his arms, feeling pallid, my heart racing in my chest. “You don’t look so good,” he added, looking me over.
“I don’t feel good,” I said, my throat dry. “I feel really sick. I think… I think maybe I should go to bed.” I felt awful about ending our night so suddenly, about asking him to leave when all I wanted was to stay on the couch with him, to feel his body against mine and spend time with him.
“Okay,” Ronan said, obviously taken aback, but he got up off the couch nonetheless. God, he is always so considerate of me, so respectful, which made this entire thing even worse. “Are you going to be alright?” he asked, a crease on his handsome brow. His concern for me—my fake reason for cutting our evening short—tore at me. The building tears made the back of my eyes sting, but I nodded nonetheless.
I felt my phone vibrate again. I knew it was going to be another message from Adam and ushered Ronan out of my house, not daring to look at the text until I had closed the front door.
Unknown: Do I need to remind you of what will happen if I don’t get a picture of you right now? Don’t try me, Cat! Picture. Full frontal. Now.
I hurried up into my bedroom, locking the door behind me before I undressed and positioned myself in front of my floor-length mirror, feeling so, so ashamed. I always feel like that when I comply with Adam’s demands, when I send intimate pictures of myself to him, when I betray Ronan. But I felt even worse that night, felt even more violated than before.
All I kept thinking while I snapped the picture of my fully nude body, then quickly attached it to my wordless response to Adam, was that Ronan had never even seen me like this—completely naked—even after more than two months together, and I was sending pictures like that to some other boy after lying to Ronan. Granted, I don’t think I really had a choice but to obey Adam’s orders—not unless I was prepared for Adam to make good on his threat and post my body on the internet for all to see—but that didn’t take away from the avalanche of guilt crushing me in that moment.
It took only seconds for Adam to respond.
Unknown: Shit, that’s even better than I could have hoped for. If only you hadn’t held back on me.
I began to sob then, overwhelmed by guilt and shame. I pulled on my pajamas and climbed into bed, where I cried myself to sleep. I didn’t pick up when Ronan tried to call me a little while later, didn’t respond to his text messages checking in on me, and I didn’t visit him at Murphy’s while he worked the next day. I just couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t see his face; I was too afraid that he would hear the betrayal in my voice, see it in my eyes.
I haven’t told anyone about Adam’s phone calls or text messages; nor have I told anyone about the photos he took of me while we were together, the ones I sent to him, the ones he’s now using to blackmail me into providing him with new pictures. Nobody knows—not my parents, not Julie, and definitely not Ronan. In fact, I haven’t shared anything about what happened between Adam and me with Ronan. And all of this is beginning to weigh heavily on my chest as our relationship grows. Ronan and I spend so much time together talking about everything under the sun, but I hold back every time he asks me anything remotely related to my relationship with my ex. I’m so terrified of what Ronan would think of me if he found out that not only did I lead on my ex, but I reported him to the police when he lost control and I ruined his future. And I’m convinced that my relationship will end the moment Ronan learns about the photos I sent Adam.
Like I did in the past, I erased any trace of my interaction with Adam, once again ignoring the glaring red flags, and I resolved to go about my days pretending none of this had happened. I hope Adam will tire of his game soon, will finally forget about me, will move on. What else can I do? Nothing at all. Defying Adam is too risky. God, I would die if Adam posted the pictures on the internet, if my friends founds out about them, if Ronan saw what I’ve done.
***
It’s another scorcher of a day; the temperature outside is a blistering 108 degrees Fahrenheit, and while the A/C is running around the clock, I still have a fan going in my room. I’ve been hanging out at Vada’s house the majority of the day, hiding away from the heat. Zack has been in and out of the house all day. I know he went to work out with Shane, Steve, and Ronan this morning, and although I love joining them and ogling Ronan while he gets all pumped and sweaty, today is not the day for physical exertion.
It’s around four when Zack walks into Vada’s room with Summer in tow.
“Hey, hey,” Summer chirps. She joins Vada and me on Vada’s bed, where I lie, stomach down and feet up, thumbing through a glossy sports magazine.
“What are you guys up to?” Zack asks, stepping into Vada’s room; as always, his camera is balanced in his left hand. It’s seriously impressive how the constant filming seems second-nature.
“Not much.” I smile at Zack, who stands there looking a little lost without the guys as his backup to all the estrogen in the room. “Just trying to stay cool. Is it still miserable outside?”
“It’s hotter than hell,” Summer answers for Zack, who nods wholeheartedly.