Page 24 of Unreasonably Yours

Cillian

Hey. Just making sure you're ok?

Regret blazes through me the moment I hit send.

Sure, Toni and I have been exchanging at least a text a day over the past month and a half or so, but that doesn't mean she owes me a text or a check in or anything.

But there was always the chance she wasn't okay. Maybe things had gone a bit too far the last time we'd been together. Yeah, that was almost a week ago, but sub drop could hit late sometimes, and I hate the thought that she could be feeling bad due to something I'd done.

I blow out a breath, setting the phone face down. She could just be busy. Possibly even busy with another person?—

My stomach drops.

Stupid to care if she was. She should meet other people. It would be best if she met other people. She deserved that. Someone with less?—

“You look like a caged animal,” Michael says. He and Ginelle stand in the office doorway, observing the mindless circuit I'd begun to pace around the bar.

“I—” My phone dings.

Ginelle taps into her track and field roots, moving at a lightning pace to grab my phone before I make it a few steps. “It's Toni,” she taunts.

Michael grins, “What'd she say?”

“Give me that!” I try to pull it from her hands, but she darts behind my brother, who blocks my way into the office. “Michael. Move.”

“It is so cute how you think you can intimidate me.”

“Aww!” Ginelle says.

“Gin, give me my damn phone,” I snarl over Michael’s shoulder.

“She says she's sick.”

Michael finally drops his arm, clearing the way for me to barrel into the office and reclaim my phone from Ginelle, who holds it over the desk for me. The screen is already open to Toni's text:

Toni

Sorry, been a bit under the weather, which has made me slightly narcoleptic the past couple days.

“Remind me to change my password,” I grumble, sinking onto the couch.

Ginelle laughs. “You've been saying that for years.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off as I type a response, only to erase it.

“That sucks. Tell her we hope she feels better.” Michael hops onto the desk, facing me.

I nod absently, finally landing on the most basic response.

You don't need to apologize. Can I bring you anything?

Toni

I'm ok. Thank you, though.

I don't buy that for one second. The woman wasn't exactly an open book, but it didn't take much perception to clock that she wasn't a fan of asking for help.

My leg bounces as I consider. “Michael, remember how you owe me a shift?”

He groans. “Seriously? There's a game tonight.”

“There's a game tonight,” Ginelle mocks. “Baby.”

Michael sneers at her before turning back to me. “You sure you wanna cash that in now?”

“As long as Camille doesn't need you.” I wanted to be there for Toni, but not enough to pull my brother away from his pregnant wife.

“Nah,” he hops from the desk, “she's got her book club tonight.”

“Then yes, I'm cashing in that favor.”

“Fine.” He holds out his hand to shake.

“Thanks.” I leverage his grip to pry myself from the couch.

“Oh. Have you invited Toni to Sunday supper yet?” Michael's question draws me up short, pausing my hand on the drawer with my wallet and keys.

“I think that's a no,” Ginelle says.

Michael sighs. “Mom is mad she's the only one who hasn't met her.”

“She can stay mad,” I say, not looking at my brother or cousin as I grab my stuff.

“I will pay you $100 to say that to her face and let me watch,” Ginelle bribes.

The thought almost makes me shiver. “I'd rather chew glass. ”

“You can't put her off forever,” Michael says over his shoulder as he heads back behind the bar.

“I can try.”

Michael just shakes his head in response as the door shuts behind him.

“Why don't you want Toni to meet Kitty?” The question once again catches me off guard, both because of Ginelle's surprising sincerity and my lack of a sensible answer.

It wasn't as if my mother were some tyrannical harpy.

She could be a bit intense—unsurprising, given that she was the middle daughter of a large Italian family—and didn't share my dad's jovial nature.

But my mother was kind, the 'feed the neighbors in tough times with gallons of Sunday sauce' brand of kind.

“We're just friends, Gin.” That half-assed answer lands just as poorly as I thought it would.

“People let their friends meet their parents. Especially if they've already met one of them.”

“She's probably moving in December anyway.” I avoid looking at my cousin as I pull my denim jacket off the coat rack.

Still, I can feel Ginelle's eye roll as she says, “All the more reason to humor your mom.” I don't respond. “But whatever. Your funeral.”

“Don't bring lilies,” I say as I open the door. “Too cliché.”

I knock on Toni's door a little over an hour later, arms loaded with bags of soup, meds, and snacks.

Whatever doubts and anxieties I'd been harboring around this mission flee once Toni cracks open the door. Her button nose is a painful shade of red while her typically rosy complexion is concerningly pallid. She stares up at me with a mix of shock, disbelief, and maybe a dash of horror.

“I've brought provisions.” I lift both my arms, bags hanging from them. Admittedly, I may have gone overboard a little—or a lot.

“I see that.” Her voice is rough. “But—” She casts a wary glance behind her.

“If you've already got someone?—”

She scoffs, the sound turning into a cough. “Not unless you count the delivery drivers who've kept me alive.” I feel a twinge of regret for not reaching out sooner. “It's just my place is...”

“Toni.” Those big brown eyes flick back to me. “Do you think I give a damn what your apartment looks like? You're sick.”

“Yeah. Let's blame that.” She huffs a sigh, moving to the side to let me in.

If I didn't know better, I'd think this was the apartment of someone who recently moved in.

Boxes still sit at the perimeter of the living room, one clearly serving as the coffee table.

No art adorned the walls, though I clock several canvases in the dining room turned studio as Toni leads me to the kitchen.

She gestures for me to put the bags on the kitchen island. “You didn't need to bring all of this.”

“I know.” I take out two pints of chicken noodle soup from the deli. “Saucepan?” I ask.

“I can handle that.” She takes the pints from me, setting them on the counter with a huff. “Seriously, you brought all this, you don't—” I catch her wrist before she can reach to unpack a single item. Her skin feels too warm and a bit clammy.

“Don't you dare.”

She pulls away, hands settling on her hips. “I'm fine, Cillian. ”

“Really? So you're always burning up?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but instead of words, she coughs hard enough to make my own chest ache. I pull a water bottle from the drying rack beside the sink, filling it for her.

Once she catches her breath and downs a few sips, I cup her cheek, pulling her focus to me. “Here's what's going to happen. You're gonna take that water and sit down. I'm going to start heating some soup and bring you some meds. Ok?”

“But the saucepan,” she croaks.

“I'm sure I can find it.” She gives me a skeptical look.

“I'm not.”

“Please, go sit the hell down before I carry you to the living room.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Without Toni's help, it does take me longer than I anticipate to locate the right size pan. Although seeing as it was still in a box under some Tupperware, I doubt she would've been able to find it any faster. I set the soup to warm on the stove, the comforting smell quickly filling the air.

If the location of the pan was any indication, there hasn't been much cooking going on in this kitchen since Toni moved in.

Coffee prep, though? I shake my head at the significant portion of counter space taken up by one of those $300 drip coffee makers, a small espresso machine, and several accessories I can't name.

With an impressive setup like this, I'm shocked she'd ever bother ponying up the $7 for a latte from Jac.

The cabinet above the collection reveals an equally impressive assortment of mugs, clearly curated over the years. I pick two and pull out the tea I'd brought. She'd balk, but I was fully prepared for that battle.

I unload the rest of my haul: a fresh baguette and a couple of salty-sweet baked goods from the same deli as the soup, meds, snacks, and...the silk at the bottom of the bag brushes against my fingertips, cool to the touch. I set that one aside for now and check on Toni.

I'd half expected to find her frantically unpacking a box or trying to order the artistic chaos of her studio space. But to my surprise, she's curled up in a nest of lush jewel-toned blankets on her blush pink couch. Right where I told her to be.

What isn't surprising is the mug of coffee clutched between her palms.

“Have you even had water today?” I ask. She looks up at me, the diffused light coming from the bay windows behind the couch making her red hair glow.

My heart and my lungs clatter together in my chest. Even in this state, she was a goddamn wonder.

“You saw me?—”

“More than three sips?”

She shrugs, looking at her mug. “There's water in coffee.”

I pluck the mug from her hands and replace it with the water bottle I sent in here with her. “Drink this.”

She pouts. “I'm going to text Lucy and tell her you're being mean to me.”

I smirk. “Do that and she'll be over here in five minutes.” I pass her a box of cold medicine. “And if you think I'm bad, you've never seen Lucy in mom mode.”

“That feels like a threat somehow.”

“It will be if you keep fighting me.” I point to the water. “Drink.”

“I knew I shouldn't have let you in,” she says after taking a sip.

“Can't take it back now.” I grab an empty box of cold medicine and a few other things that could be tossed from the makeshift coffee table.

“Cillian,” Toni says as sternly as she can manage. “Put the trash down.”

“Toni,” I mirror her tone. “Take your meds. ”

“I'm being serious, I don't need?—”

“You didn't need to come work a whole shift at the bar—for free, mind you—but you did. So unless you want to be a hypocrite...”

She groans and falls over into her nest.

I laugh softly at her dramatics. “Friends take care of each other, right?” Setting the bits of trash aside, I coax her upright by her shoulders. “Right?”

“I guess.”

“Good enough. Now, do you want to keep arguing with me, or would you like some soup?”

She sighs. “Will saying yes to soup get you out of my apartment?”

“It will certainly speed the process along.”

“Soup it is,” she concedes.

“Good.” I plant a kiss on her warm forehead.

I bring her a small bowl with a bit of the baguette. “Don't worry about finishing it.”

While she eats, I inspect what appears to be the only other furniture in the room, a console with a record player on it and two of those cube shelves filled with records.

“Holy shit.” I run my fingers along the alphabetized tabs. “This is?—”

“Too much. I know.” There’s a bitterness in her answer I don’t like.

“I was going to say impressive.” And I mean it. A collection like this takes years and dedication to build. I can’t help but wonder who made her feel like it was a negative. “May I?” I gesture to the player.

“Go crazy.”

The collection contains a wide spectrum from classical to metal. No single genre appears to take precedence, though one artist does have quite a chunk dedicated to her work.

“Are you a Swiftie?” I ask .

“What gave me away?”

“Oh, nothing, just the multiple pressings of the same album.” I pull three nearly identical albums from their place.

“They're not the same,” she insists. I raise a brow at that. “They're different colorways and they each have different bonus tracks.”

“Right,” I tease.

“Careful, I am sickly and bleeding. Blatant Swiftie hate might push me over the edge.”

“No judge would convict you in these circumstances, you're right.” I slide the records back in their place. “How's the soup?”

“Incredible, actually.”

I tell her about the deli, seeing that it's only a few blocks away, as I continue to peruse her collection. “I also brought you some salty snacks and sour candy. Wanted to cover all bases.”

“I'm suddenly less mad about letting you in.”

“Thought you'd say that. Stick to the soup for now, though.”

I settle on a classic, Fleetwood Mac's Rumors. The crackle of the record is oddly comforting.

“Oh, good choice,” Toni says in approval.

I nod, letting the opening song play for a beat. “My mom is the biggest Fleetwood fan. She says the only reason she gave my dad a chance is because his name is Mick.”

“So you owe your existence to Mick Fleetwood?”

“I'd rather not think about it too hard.”

Toni sets her empty bowl on the makeshift coffee table.

“You want more?” I ask.

Toni tries to stop me from picking up her empty bowl. “You don't need to take?—”

“Do. You. Want. More.” I emphasize each word.

“No,” she huffs.