Page 11 of Unreasonably Yours

Toni

“What're your opinions on drummers?” Lucy asks once we're outside.

“I don't know if I have one.” Laughter colors my words, and my cheeks are genuinely starting to ache from smiling.

When my date didn't respond to my earlier text, I had to admit I was relieved.

I'd rather spend the evening people watching and sketching while sipping on a gin cocktail than field the real-life version of his attempts at conversation.

In no way did I expect I'd happily find myself on the arm of Cillian's best friend, letting her take me to a show.

“You will after tonight,” Lucy declares.

“Whether or not that will be a good thing...” Oliver says, walking backward to better show off his cringe face.

Lucy slows our pace. “Cillian, will you take over escorting our guest? I need to shove a drumstick up Oliver's ass.” Laughter pings off the walls of the buildings flanking the side street we'd turned down as Lucy brandishes a drumstick like a switchblade, slashing at Oliver.

“I am so sorry about them,” Cillian says. Despite his words, a warm smile glows on his face .

“They're kind of delightful.”

“Don't tell them that. They'll never let it go.”

I recognize the small parking lot we enter as being the one behind Two Sons. Cillian's car even sits in the same place. It hits me that I actually have no idea where this show I’m being dragged off to is.

“Is the venue far?” I ask.

He looks confused for half a second. “Oh! No, it's...just the bar.” He huffs an awkward half-laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“That's convenient,” I say, kicking myself for how uncomfortable I sound. “To have a place to play whenever you want, that is.”

He shrugs. “It's easier than playing other places, that’s for sure. Which we do sometimes.”

No one could be blamed for assuming we'd never spoken, much less had wildly fantastic sex a couple of weeks ago. Neither of us seems capable of making eye contact, our bodies tense, leaning away from one another.

This was a bad idea.

“I don't need to tag along,” I say. My attempt at nonchalance falling flat. “If you'd rather I didn't, I totally?—”

“No!” Cillian says so suddenly, it surprises me. “I mean, if you don't want—I know Lucy can be a bit of a steamroller and?—”

A laugh bursts from my lips before I can stop it, the absolute absurdity of this exchange catching up with me. Cillian, rather than looking offended, joins in.

“Jesus Christ.” He wipes a tear. “I'm sorry. I promise I'm capable of half-decent communication most days.”

“Personally, I can't make those kinds of promises.” I catch my breath.

“I'd like you to stay for the show. If you want.”

I study him for a beat, trying to find any lie, any indication that he was just being nice. All I find is that the smoky black liner he wears makes his eyes even more beautiful.

“I do want.”

“Good.” He opens a metal door, and I realize Lucy and Oliver had already headed inside. “Temper your expectations, though. We're just a cover band.”

“My only expectation is that Lucy will blow me away.” I blow her a kiss as I walk in. She catches it, pressing her closed fist to her chest.

“Don't let him be humble,” Oliver says. The two of them sit on a sagging old sofa against the far wall of, what I assume, is the bar's office. He leans his ear to the acoustic guitar in his hands, turning the knobs. “The man has perfect pitch.”

“Had,” Cillian corrects him. He pulls a chair from beside the desk for me.

Lucy scoffs. “Cillian, you got blown up and still have a better ear than most people.”

“I'm sorry, what?” The question comes out before I consider the implications. Lucy looks apologetically at Cillian and regret stirs in my gut.

Cillian clears his throat. “It's fine Lu.” He looks at me. “I was, um, in the military for a bit.”

“For too long,” Oliver says, not looking up from the guitar.

“Not gonna argue with that,” Cillian says.

I hadn't dwelt on the scars I'd noticed when Cillian and I were together. They could have been from any number of things. However, military service hadn't even crossed my mind. He just didn't seem the type.

Which, in retrospect, was ridiculous. The only real 'type' I knew of was people who lacked generational wealth.

Plenty of kids I grew up with wound up either in the military or married to someone in the service.

Less out of patriotism and more out of sheer desperation.

Given the choice to rot in a single-wide or be treated like cannon fodder, many chose the latter; at least that had benefits.

It just seemed like a path I only attributed to those who grew up without access to public transportation.

The door to the bar opens, filling the small space with a flood of noise, chasing out any discomforting silence.

“We got 'em warmed up for you kids!” An older man with a head full of salt and pepper hair and a softened Irish accent announces.

“Mickey!” Lucy cheers.

“Hello, sweet Lulu!” The two embrace. Oliver sets the guitar aside and accepts his own warm hug.

As a couple of other older gentlemen filter in, I stand and move to hover beside Cillian, unsure where I should be. It's not something I have to consider for long.

“And who is this?” Mickey asks, catching me in eyes that match his son's.

“Dad, this is Toni. She's a new friend, just moved,” Cillian introduces me.

“Mickey O’Sullivan.” He extends a warm handshake. “Pleasure to meet you.” When most people say that, it feels hollow, just an empty platitude. When this man says it, you know he means it.

“Likewise.”

He leans in, mischief tripping off his words. “Now, anything this one may do to bother you, don't go blamin' me. All the bad comes from the other side.”

“I heard that!” A tall, bald man says. “Don't listen to a damn thing he says.”

“I assume he's from the other side?” I ask.

Mickey taps his temple. “Smart girl.” He looks up at his son. “What's she doing hanging out with you lot?”

“Thanks, Dad,” Cillian snarks. Mickey just laughs, patting Cillian over his heart .

“Alright, you kids go get set up, don't want to leave people waiting,” Mickey says.

“You not staying, Mick?” Oliver asks.

“Not this time. Promised my Kitty I'd be home at a reasonable hour.” He turns back to me. “You tell my niece to take good care of you at the bar.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Smart and respectful!” He declares. “Darling, you are too good for this lot.”

“Hey!” Oliver and Lucy object in unison.

Mickey waves them off. “You know I love ya. Have a good show!”

“Bye, Dad,” Cillian ushers his dad and the other men out.

A surprising portion of the crowded bar cheers when the trio takes the stage.

“Wow,” Cillian says, pulling his hair up into a messy knot. “That was fuckin’ pathetic.” The crowd laughs, some cheer even louder, while others hurl insults at the stage. “Better. Still shit, but better.”

Instead of continuing the banter or even giving an introduction, they dive right into a cover of Dropkick Murphys “The Gang's All Here.” An excellent choice, seeing as the entire place joins in.

Cillian beams at the crowd as the music fades. “Now that we've got your attention, here's how this works for those who've never been to one of our shows: We've got some songs we're gonna play and we'll play some requests.”

“If you feel like it,” someone in the crowd yells.

Cillian nods. “Exactly.”

“And if you ask for ‘Freebird,' you will not get your wish and you will be buying the band a round,” Lucy says.

“Any questions?” Cillian doesn't wait for a response. “Good.”

Oliver begins playing the opening notes of Coheed and Cambria's “Welcome Home” on his acoustic guitar, Cillian joins on bass, and Lucy falls in on the drums. It's a stripped-back rendition, but when Cillian begins to sing, it doesn't feel like it.

Clearly, he'd been holding back before.

I watch slack-jawed as he takes control of the entire room. It isn't just the way Cillian's voice flows, with seeming ease, from impressive heights to rumbling lows, but his entire presence. He fills every corner of the space with the force of his performance.

The room erupts with applause and cheers when they finish, while I remain gobsmacked.

“Wicked talented, isn't he?” Cillian's cousin Ginelle appears behind me at the bar, a knowing grin on her face.

I nod. “He should just be doing that. And only that. All the time.”

“I know.” She sighs, her hands making a drink with the skill of someone who could do it in her sleep. “He had a full ride to Berklee, ya know?”

“In California?” I ask, accepting the fresh gin and tonic she passes to me.

She shakes her head. “The music school in Boston. A bunch of famous musicians went there and shit.”

I look back at the man on the stage, working the crowd like it was second nature. It’s as if the clouds of doubt and self-consciousness leave him when he’s behind that microphone, allowing the audience to enjoy the full force of his light.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Bad luck,” she says as though it's an acceptable answer.

As the set progresses, I continue to be impressed and not just by Cillian. Lucy and Oliver were great at working the crowd as much as their respective instruments. Their arrangements of familiar songs were creative and refreshing, and it was clear they were all having an absolute blast.

“Sweet Caroline,” a song I barely know but that the entire bar seems to—everyone singing so loudly I swear they hear us all the way in downtown Boston—closes the set.

By the final note, fueled by the high of a great show and possibly a smidge too much gin, I'm beyond ready to make a few ill-advised choices. No matter how irresponsible or unreasonable they may be.