Page 15 of Unreasonably Yours

Toni

Words fail me as I stare up at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum’s pink stucco walls.

Striking is the only word for it. The way the foliage takes on a jewel-like quality, the play of shadow and light, all set against the unique architecture. It feels like something outside of time, a little magical bubble of inspiration.

This was right here, a train ride away, all these weeks.

I'm too happy to let guilt take root and ruin the beauty before me. But it’s still there all the same. A small voice chastises me for not getting out and discovering this on my own.

“Not what you expected?” Cillian asks.

“Definitely not. Pink courtyard isn't the first thing that comes to mind when I hear 'we're going to a museum.'“

“Good.” He passes me a brochure, I take it, but he doesn't let go. “Important question: Are you a museum sprinter or marathoner?”

“This feels like a question you should ask before buying the ticket.”

“Too late for that. We're in this together. What's your approach? ”

A part of me wants to deny him the answer just to see what he'll do. I've never considered myself a brat, but, God, something about him makes me weigh the merits of giving it a go.

My desire to see the rest of the museum proves to be stronger.

“Marathoner. Long distance.” It's why I hated going to museums with other people. They always wanted to move too fast, annoyed by my desire to linger over one piece or visit an exhibit more than once.

David and I went to the MFA in Houston exactly one time. He spent the entire visit bored and grumpy, grumbling about not 'getting it', despite insisting he wanted to come with me. It was a miserable time all around.

“Thank god.” Cillian releases his hold on the brochure. “Shall we?”

Over the next two hours, we wander the blissfully eccentric halls of the museum. Each room has a distinct theme, brimming with art and ephemera, with every detail, from the floors to the ceiling, carefully curated.

“This might be my new favorite place,” I say, giving the courtyard one final study.

“In Boston?” Cillian asks.

“Anywhere.”

“That has to be at least 500 points in my favor, right?”

I look up at him. “We never agreed on a point system.”

“How else can we ensure a fair and unbiased outcome? I got a lot on the line here.”

I lay a hand on his chest, my face a parody of sincerity. “Trust.”

He covers my hand with his, narrowing his eyes. “I don't know. You seem shifty.”

“Me?” I scratch at my nose with crossed fingers. “Never.”

Cillian's hand settles on the small of my back as we work through the crowd of late afternoon commuters. I can't tell if it's a gesture meant more for him or me, but regardless, I enjoy the warm pressure of his presence.

“What train are we taking?” I ask.

“Huh?” He tilts his head toward me, eyes not quite meeting mine. Instead, they scan the crowd with methodical precision. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Tension rolls off him like heat waves off concrete.

“Not a fan of crowds?”

“Sorry.” With visible effort, he pulls his attention away from our surroundings. “I'm not...I just...” He trails off.

“Don't like crowds.” I finish for him. “Nothing weird about that.” He didn’t have to spell it out for me to put the pieces together, and besides, people without his history had plenty of reasons to prefer not being trapped with the masses.

“Kinda depends on the crowd.” He looks up as a train pulls in. “This is us.” We luck out, snagging two seats near the back of the car with a bit of breathing room. The small win doesn't seem to do much to relax him.

“What would be an acceptable crowd?” I ask as the train starts moving.

“On a stage or behind a bar.” Once again, I watch as his eyes scan every person in range. “Those are fine. Usually.” He shifts beside me. “Places with clear and easy exits. Crowded train station underground? Not my favorite place to be.”

“Do you have one? A favorite place that is?”

Maybe if I can get him talking about something positive, his mind will wander to those better places and distract him from the present circumstance.

“In the world or in Boston?”

“Both. ”

“Haven't been many places in the world, to be honest. At least not for pleasure.” His fingers move in a rhythmic beat against my thigh. “I have a place in New Hampshire. Nothing fancy, just a shitty little cabin on a lake. But it's peaceful.”

“No crowds,” I gently tease.

“Nope—unless you count the wildlife,” he chuckles. “As boring as it is, that is one of my favorite places to be.”

“That’s not boring. What about in Boston?” I ask. Some of the tension has left his shoulders.

Cillian doesn't answer immediately, looking at the display showing the stop. “Would you want to see it?”

“Now?” He nods. “Sure.”

We get off at the next stop and walk up the pedestrian lane of a bridge spanning the Charles River.

“Here?” I ask, looking up at him, confused.

“Yup.” He gestures to the view.

“Oh . . .”

Verdant green trees line a river dotted with the red and white sails of early afternoon boaters. Just beyond, in strong contrast, the city rises in brick and glass. There is texture, color, and life everywhere you look.

“You should see it at sunset,” Cillian says. He rests his forearms on the railing, looking out.

I join him. “Why this place?”

“Honest answer or easy one?”

“Honest. Always.”

He drags in a deep breath. “About nine years ago, I was...” He studies his palms as if they hold a script. “It was my fourth alive day?—”

“Alive day?”

“It's a...military thing. The day you should've died but didn't.” His gaze settles on the distant buildings. “I wasn't in a great place. Needed to clear my head, so I just started walking— something that I wasn't sure I was gonna be able to do for a while there.”

Before I can ask, he pats his left thigh, “Shattered femur. Wrecked the muscle, nerves, the works.”

“Shit.” Lucy mentioned he’d gotten ‘blown up’ the other night, and I'd noticed the way the skin there puckered under his tattoos. I just hadn’t imagined the damage had been that bad.

He nods. “Yeah. By the time I got here, my leg wasn't having it. I was in so much pain, I had to stop. The bridge was undergoing refurbishment, so it was kind of a mess.” He rubs the area, whether from habit or need, I can’t tell.

Concern floods me. We’d done quite a bit of walking today, and that couldn’t be kind on a bad leg. I blurt, “I don't mind getting a car back. We've done a lot of walking today, so?—”

Cillian directs one of those disarming smiles at me.

“You're sweet, but I'm good. It's...well it's still a massive pain in my ass, but I've learned how to deal with it.” My disbelief must've shown on my face.

“Promise.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him pull me back against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head as we both take in the view.

“So you and the bridge were kindred spirits.” I prompt him to continue.

His chest rumbles behind me with a soft laugh. “You could say that.”

I relax into him.

“Something about the hum of traffic, the combination of the river and the city, and everything. It grounded me.”

“I get that.”

“Now, when I need to recenter, this is where I come.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” I say, so quietly I worry he might not hear me above the sound of the cars behind us.

“Thank you for asking.”