Page 16 of Unreasonably Yours

Cillian

I haven’t even put my keys down on the kitchen table when my phone rings, 'LITTLE MICKEY'—my older brother’s hated childhood nickname—in big letters flashes across the screen.

“No,” I say instead of hello.

“You have to.” Michael's voice doesn't hold an ounce of humor.

“What happened?” Monday's weren't dead, but they rarely got rowdy.

He sighs heavily. “I had to send Joey home.” My stomach drops. “Which means, either I can work the grill or you can, but I need another body.”

My leg gives a throb of protest. “I'll take the grill.” At least if it wasn't too busy, it would be easy enough to get off it here and there. “Let me unload my groceries.”

“I'll fill you in when you get here.”

We don't get the chance to talk until I lock the doors at 11:15 pm.

“Go home, Sean,” I tell our little cousin. He’d balk if he knew I still thought of him as little; the kid was 18 and almost my height.

“You sure?” he asks. The tub of clean glassware clinks in his skinny arms as he watches me limp my way over to a chair.

“Yeah.” I swallow a groan as I sit. “Give Ginelle something to do tomorrow.” Streaks of searing pain tear through my thigh as I prop my leg on another chair.

“I'm telling her you said that.” He pulls his phone out to text her. “I am not getting yelled at for some stupid shit twice in twenty-four hours.”

“If she's pissed she can take it up with me,” Michael says. He pats Sean on his shoulder. “Good job tonight.”

Sean lights up as Michael hands him his tips, the combination of cash and the approval of his older cousin—something I’m convinced we never quite grow out of—working their magic. “Thanks.” He clears his throat, “Joey...”

“Keep that between us, yeah?” Michael asks.

“Yeah,” Sean nods.

As soon as we hear the back door shut, Michael grabs a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“You wanna stay there or move to the couch?”

I press my fingers into the screaming muscle, silently begging for any break in the pain. My voice cracks, “If I get on that couch, I won't be getting off it.”

Michael nods, taking the other chair and pouring us each a drink.

“Has it been bothering you?” He asks.

I shake my head, dragging in a wobbly breath. “Spent the day in the city.” I keep the bitter, And I didn't plan on being on it all night, to myself. It would only make both of us feel like shit. Besides, it wasn't Michael's fault.

“Doing what?” He nudges my glass toward me.

“Showing a new friend around.” I try to focus on the whiskey. The taste. The pleasant burn down my throat. Think about how good it felt to look out over the city with Toni in my arms. Anything else but the pain.

“This friend wouldn't happen to be a pretty redhead?” My focus shoots to Michael, a smirk plastered on his face. He chuckles into his glass, sounding so much like our dad it's almost eerie. “Dad mentioned meeting her. Had nothing but glowing things to say.”

“Would it kill this family to mind their own fucking business?”

“Maybe. Too risky at this stage to try and find out, don't you think?”

I shrug, “I don't know, might be worth it.”

“Nah. I'd rather my kid have all their family members around.” Michael's wife Camille was just entering her second trimester. Come December or January, there would be a new little O'Sullivan in the world.

I never wanted to be a dad, but a cool uncle? That was a role I couldn't wait to fill.

“All? Let's try not to traumatize the next generation too much.”

“Ok. Most.” He sighs, “Speaking of . . . Joey.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.” Michael finishes his whiskey and pours us both a bit more. “Sweating liquor, jumpy, started yelling at Sean for no fuckin' reason. Threatened me.”

“God dammit,” I say under my breath.

“I know he's family, but...he's a liability. I really don't know if we can?—”

“Would you say the same if it were me?” I snap .

“It's not you.”

“It could be.” My voice sounds tired, even to my own ears.

Michael looks at me for a long moment. “But it isn't. And you've fought damn hard to make sure it isn't.”

“That doesn't make me any better than him. Just luckier.”

“Lucky? Cillian, you think—” Michael runs a hand over his face as if he could erase his frustration. “Whatever. How the fuck are you gonna feel if he hurts himself, or hell, someone else back there because he's too drunk or too...”

“Too what?” I practically spit the question.

He takes a deep breath. “Look, I understand that?—”

“You don't, though. You have no fucking idea.” He couldn't. There was no way for him to understand how hard just existing could be, how getting through the most basic actions could feel like moving through wet sand, how fucking loud it could be in your skull.

And I wouldn't want him to understand any of it, neither would Joey.

I just need him and everyone else to be willing to cut the man some slack.

My brother looks at me not with pity—Michael never did and I loved him so much for that—but with sad acceptance. “You're right.”

“He just needs someone to help keep him afloat. That's all. He'll find his stride again.”

“Maybe.” His tone shifts, determination hardening his features. “But Cillian, I won't let him pull you under.”

Michael had kept me afloat more than a few times over the years. Hell, he was the sole reason I hadn't spent the last decade in a wooden box, written off as a statistic. I couldn't blame him for being a bit overprotective.

He continues, “And I won't let him put anyone else at risk either. One more night like tonight and I'm bringing in Dad to make the call.” We ran things for the most part, but Dad was still the final call if we needed him to be.

“Fine.” I throw back the rest of my whiskey .

We finish closing, and rather than follow Michael’s taillights from the parking lot, I sit in my dark car. With the engine off, the most distinct sound is my breathing, the world outside muffled and far away.

Placing one hand on my stomach and the other on my chest, I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, focusing on the feeling of the air in my lungs and the movement of my body. I do the same on the exhale and repeat until the warm air in the car feels uncomfortable.

I can’t say I feel better, but perhaps a bit more settled in my body.

Given the pain in my thigh, I’m not sure if I appreciate that.

I fish around my bag for my cigarettes. The irony of doing that after a breathing exercise isn’t lost on me.

But what had Toni said about vices and functioning?

If the worst things I put in my body were nicotine and whiskey, I had improved greatly.

Before I find the familiar rectangular box, a rolled-up piece of paper teases my fingertips.

I unravel it, revealing a sketch of the view from the bridge, Toni's signature scribbled at the bottom. She must've done it on the quiet last leg of our ride back and slipped it in when I wasn't paying attention.

If I didn't know it was something she did quickly, I wouldn't believe it. All the life and texture were there in graphite. With just her pencil, she managed to capture the unnamable spark I felt in that place.

Looking at it, for just a moment, I feel grounded.