Page 27 of Unreasonably Yours

Cillian

My leg bounces against the cracked booth, making the tea in my mug vibrate like that one Jurassic Park scene, a warning of something big and vicious close by. Except, rather than a T-rex, it’s my wrecked nervous system threatening to send everything to shit.

My phone vibrates. For once, I'm grateful Joey is a goddamn hour late, so there’s no one around to notice how something as small as a message from Lucy is enough to make me flinch.

A picture of Toni holding up an almost too perfect apple, damn near the size of her face, dimples popping with her bright smile fills my screen.

Lucy

Baby's first apple.

That's where I should be. Enjoying the sunny fall day. Eating apples until my stomach hurts with my friends and my...and Toni. Not in this drab diner, drinking mediocre tea .

Across the restaurant, a toddler shrieks, their plate clattering to the ground.

My pulse is too loud in my ears.

Tension pulls every muscle in my body tight enough to snap.

I want to scream, maybe at the kid or with them, I don't know. But it’s the only thing I can think of that might get this misdirected, senseless rage out of my body.

Get out. Need to get out. Out!

I slap a $10 on the table, not caring that it equates to essentially a $7 tip. Better to lose out on a few dollars than losing so much more by ripping this booth from the fucking wall.

Early October air pours into my lungs with each desperate breath I force into my tight chest. I should count, hold the air, let it out with some semblance of control, do any of the things I've learned over the years to bring myself back to center. The best I can do is breathe.

There will be times when all you can do is take one breath, and if you're lucky, another after that. Allow it to be enough. I let that nugget of wisdom from my first therapist play in my head over and over again until my heart rate slows down. Until I can begin a count.

In... 2, 3, 4 ? —

“You about to hurl or something?” Joey's voice cuts off my count.

“Yeah.” I hadn't fully registered until this moment that I'd crouched down, elbows on my knees, and head in my hands. “Move a little closer so I don't have to aim.”

“Very funny.” He reaches down, grabbing my upper arm as if to pull me up.

“Don't fucking touch me,” I snap, pushing him away with far more force than necessary.

Joey makes a knowing sound. “So it's that kinda day.” It isn't a question. “Here,” he holds out a cigarette .

I take it. Joey smoked the shittiest menthols money could buy but I almost appreciate the way the smoke sizzles into my lungs. Almost.

“If you mean the kinda day where I sit in a shitty diner waiting for my asshole cousin to show. Then, yeah, it’s that kinda day.”

He takes a long drag, his too thin cheeks sucking in further, before crushing the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “We going in?” He doesn't wait for my answer.

“Dick,” I say, smoke streaming from my nostrils as I follow.

“Welcome back,” the same waitress greets me once I settle into a different creaky booth. “Another tea, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Maybe my previous tip would earn me a less shitty cup.

“Coffee,” Joey adds.

“You got it.”

He leans across the table a bit, lowering his voice, a shit eating grin on his face. “Think I should tell her you called this place shitty when she gets back?” Instead of words, I land a kick to his shin under the table, garnering something between a hiss and a chuckle.

“You look like shit, man.” I know it’s harsh, but it’s also not a lie. Besides, I'm still bristling.

“If I wanted a fucking crayon eater's opinion, I would've asked,” he grouses. The waitress deposits our mugs and takes our assurances that we’re good for now.

“Crayon eater?” I hadn't heard that particular jab in a while. It insinuated that all Marines were more brawn than brains. “You can do better than that.”

He snorts into his coffee. “For your information, some of us had to take a third shift gig because we got fired.”

My hackles rise. “Maybe you wouldn't have gotten fired if you showed up on time every now and then. ”

“Yeah, I'm sure that would've kept you from giving me my pink slip.”

“I didn't fire you.” I can hear my voice tilting a touch too loud and try to rein it in. “I went to bat for you more times than I should've.”

“You want another fucking medal?” he spits.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Tense silence falls between us, the diner's sounds seeming to grow louder with each moment.

“Why'd you wanna talk, Cillian?”

I shrug. “Wanted to check in.”

“So you can tell my sweet sister how great I'm doing?” Bitterness drips from his words.

“What the hell, Joseph?” I can't pretend that shit doesn't sting. “I've never?—”

“I know,” he waves me off. “That kinda day—” He sighs. “Month, year...life for me, too.”

That wasn't true. For several years after he got out, Joey seemed good. He got a job and a house—did the dad and husband thing. In comparison to the absolute dumpster fire that was my life after discharge, his was what most of us dream of—a vision of stability.

But at some point, the wheels started to come off.

“You talk to anyone?” I ask, eyes on the tea bag floating in my mug.

He scoffs. “What, so some PhD can tell me how fucked up I am? No, thank you.”

“Plenty of therapists don't have a PhD,” I say into my mug. Unfortunately, my tip had done nothing to improve the quality of the brew.

“Smartass.”

“Thought I was a crayon eater.”

“You can be both.”

I could keep this going. Settle into the easy, if shallow, back-and-forth—nothing but me and my cousin shooting the shit. But Joey’s bloodshot eyes and gaunt figure won't let me.

“I wasn't talking about that, anyway. There's a group?—”

“Cilli,” he groans. “I'm fine, man.”

Bullshit.

“I'm not.” I didn't admit that to many people, it was easier than worrying them with shit they couldn't fix. Even saying it now, to someone who would understand more than most, feels like turning my back on a firing squad.

Concern knits his brow as he studies me with a fresh intensity. “If you're using again, I?—”

“Fuck no.” I shake my head. “I'm good there. It's just...” I tap my temple. “Loud. Louder than usual.”

“It's the fuckin' weather.” He takes a swig of the coffee, grimacing, before reaching for the sugar. “Always makes shit worse.”

“Yeah,” I agree. The thing is, as a kid, I loved the cooler months. They ushered in the joyful chaos of Halloween, holiday breaks, snow days, and my birthday. But ever since I was 17, it felt like this time of year was cursed or something.

“That's why I wanted to ask you to come with me,” I say.

“Since when have you needed me to go with you to shit like that?”

“I didn't say need. Just thought it would be better than going alone.” I don't add, for both of us.

Joey lets out an exasperated sigh, the kind you'd direct at an annoying kid. “Cillian, if you wanna sit in a circle and listen to a bunch of guys?—”

“There are women there,” I interject.

“Veterans,” he corrects with a bit of snark. “Bitch about their feelings, more power to ya. It's not my thing.”

“Nah, your thing is downing a fifth of cheap whiskey before breakfast,” I say it like a joke, but I'd smelled it on him the moment he walked up earlier .

“Like I said, late night,” he tries to deflect.

“And the times before?”

“Sometimes you just need a little something to get through it, ya know? I'm not some drunk sleeping on the street or nothing.”

“Maybe not but going around smelling like the morning after St. Paddy's isn't exactly a good thing.” I didn't need him to fully admit to having a problem, just accept that maybe he'd been hitting it a little harder than normal. It would be a start.

He settles back into the booth, looking smug. “Better a little whiskey stink than a needle in my arm.”

The immediate urge to punch that fucking sneer off Joey's face turns my hand into a fist in a split second. But I keep it on the table, barely managing to pull in a breath.

“Good talk.” I toss another $10 on the table and get up.

He doesn't follow me, and I don't bother to look back.

Even though the group session was helpful, I'm grateful to be closing down the bar tonight. The familiar space, the white noise of patrons, the methodical nature of the work keeping my hands busy; it's exactly what I need.

Just after last call, I lift my head up to find a small bag of apples on the bar.

“I will have you know I kept myself from making a 'how 'bout them apples' joke,” Toni says, hopping up onto a barstool.

“You deserve a reward for your incredible display of self-control.” I try, and fail, to restrain the smile that just seeing her brings to my face.

“Can the reward include gin? I feel like I need gin.”

“Oh no. What did they subject you to?”

“Ye of little faith. Ooo, Negroni,” she coos. I chose that over her usual gin and tonic since the color goes with her mini dress and cardigan. “Thank you.” She takes a sip, looking pleased. “They subjected me to a picture-perfect day.”

“So why the need for gin?”

She sighs. “My fucking ex called me.”

My hackles rise. “The one you asked to have no contact with until December? That ex.”

“Yup.” She drags the word out, popping the 'p.'

“One second.” I close a few tabs and set Sean on some closing duties. “So he called?” The question tastes foul on my tongue.

“Yeah. We'd already gotten back and were hanging by the fire pit at Lucy and Oliver's duplex.” She runs a finger around the rim of her cocktail. “It was a number I didn't know, but the area code was Houston, so I picked up, like an idiot.”

“That doesn't make you an idiot. It makes him an asshole.” She shrugs. I reach across the bar and grab her chin. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I know.” I let her go even though all I want is to gather her in my arms. “Just haven't heard his voice in a while and it was...weird.”

“I'm sorry.” I lift her hand from the bar and press a kiss to her knuckles. “If you want to talk more after we close, I'm free.” She nods.