Page 33 of Unreasonably Yours

Toni

Too much. This feels like too much.

The look in his eyes, the way his hands touch me like he's holding something precious, how fucking good this feels.

It's too easy to let myself fall into him. Into this. Too easy to get too comfortable. Too easy to say too much.

My heart stumbles over itself, tangling in my chest with all the shouldn't and can't and want.

All the things that I know I am and that I'm not.

All the ways I have ruined good things in the past.

All the reasons I know that I cannot let myself have him.

“Hey,” Cillian breathes. He pushes my hair behind my ears. “Where'd you go?”

“Nowhere.” I shift my gaze from his, too afraid that he'll see the lie.

“Look at me.” That gentle command in his tone sends tingles through my body, and I do as he asks. “Stay with me.”

I study him, wanting to untangle what he means by that.

Stay in bed? Stay . . .

Don’t. I chide myself .

I bite my lip and nod. He reaches up, freeing it and pulling me down for a kiss.

My head settles into the place where his neck and shoulder meet. I breathe him in. His fingers trace patterns on my back, and I doze, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and breath as good as any lullaby he could sing.

Better, even.

We stay like that as the sun rises higher, until we hear a mumble of voices in the living room.

Slowly, without words, we untangle and dress.

As my hand wraps around the doorknob, his appears above my head, holding the door closed.

I turn, looking up into his gently smiling face. He tilts my chin up, kissing me so tenderly.

“I’m gonna shower,” I say when he releases me.

“Ok.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll make sure there’s still coffee when you come out.”

In the bathroom, I study my reflection. The woman in the mirror should look blissed out. Instead, she looks desperate. I just wish I knew for what.

Desperate to stay?

Stay with me.

Desperate to run?

It wasn’t just my penchant for clutter that earned me the “Hurricane Toni” moniker. My twenties were littered with proof of my inability to stay anywhere for too long. I moved through people and places quickly.

A chorus of voices fill my head like static.

Friends chiding me for my inability to commit, my unwillingness to compromise on topics like children and picket fences.

Confused at my consistent dismissal of people who seemed ‘perfectly nice.’ Exes I left after a first fight, or ones who never even had the chance to become more than a fading memory of a few decent orgasms .

Then there was David. Nice, stable David. And I decided to try. I tried to be something more refined, less chaotic, less loud. Less. Because maybe everyone was right. Who could be expected to handle all my mess, and noise, and...everything?

But just like all the times before, my storm broke. My unwillingness to change, my unreasonable nature, won out in the end.

“Don't do this to him,” I whisper to myself.

Cillian said his fault lines were there—Grand Canyon-sized even—but if so, he'd managed what I never could and filled in the holes. Built reinforcements, worked on an infrastructure of healing, and found a way to cope.

If I let this continue, Hurricane Toni would rip through those reinforcements.

Lucy’s laugh cuts through the sound of the water.

Breaking things off with Cillian would also mean losing these people. Without meaning to, I’d begun to feel like they were my friends, too. And for the second time in less than two years, I’d find myself alone.

I press my forehead to the tile.

Did it have to be over, though? We were adults. Couldn’t we stay friends? Just friends. Friends who kept their hands to themselves and who didn’t have incredible, soul-moving sunrise sex.

Fuck.

Everyone but Ginelle—who heads out before I’m dressed to be back in time to open the bar—spends the morning lazily preparing to leave. Thankfully, the banter and activity keep me occupied, drowning out the low-grade panic clawing at the back of my mind.

Right up until we say our final goodbyes.

It’s just an hour and a half, Toni. You can keep your shit together for an hour and a goddamn half, I say to myself over and over .

Except, I’m not 100% convinced I can. Holding my tongue, especially with anxiety buzzing through my body, has never been something I’ve excelled at.

But I couldn’t tell Cillian, “Hey so that was amazing and you’re so wonderful and your family and friends are a delight and thank you for bringing me along but maybe we should see less of one another you know just to be safe because I’m scared I’m going to ruin your life , ” out of the blue.

An hour and a half. I repeat again as I slide into the passenger seat.

“Before we hit the road, we need to talk about something,” Cillian says, in a tone that feels perhaps a touch too serious. My stomach drops. He holds the AUX cord out to me.

A laugh bursts free before I can tone it down. It’s not entirely warranted, but some of my fear floods out with the sound.

“Don’t laugh!” he says, grinning. “This is a very serious moment of trust. I don’t let just anyone play music in my car.”

“I’ll be sure to make you regret it,” I say, composing myself.

An hour in, my concerns about loose lips have been washed away with a steady flow of early 2000s pop and pop punk. Though the last 15 minutes had been nothing but Taylor Swift.

I can’t help but stare in disbelief as Cillian sings along.

“What?” he asks as the song fades out, noticing my gawking.

“That is the fourth Taylor Swift song you’ve known almost every word to.”

“And?”

I can’t help but laugh. “And, I’m pretty sure you gave me shit when you saw my record collection.”

“No.” He tosses me a bright smile as he slows to turn. “I gave you shit for having multiples of the same album. Not for being a Swiftie. I respect it.” He takes my hand, planting a kiss on my knuckles, and slides his fingers between mine.

The next song starts but is quickly interrupted by the Bluetooth announcing a call from “Ma.”

He ignores it. “I'll call her when we're back.”

A few seconds later, another call cuts through.

Cillian's brows knit. “Sorry, I should?—”

“Don't apologize,” I reassure him.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Cillian’s mom—Kitty, as I’d heard others refer to her—answers, her accent thick. “Sorry to bother ya, I know you're on your way back but...” she fades off, muffling the mic before continuing. “Have you heard from Joey recently?”

His jaw flexes beneath his tight, cropped beard. “No. Not for a few weeks. We...We had words. Why?”

“Oh...” More muffled voices from off the line. “Will you give me a damn minute, Tina?” Cillian’s mom says to someone, frustration clear in her tone.

“Mom?”

“Hold on, sweetheart.” In the shuffling silence, Cillian and I exchange a tense look.

“Sorry, impossible to talk with my sister in the room in the best of times.” Kitty sighs.

“Tina hasn't heard from Joey in a few days. He’s not taking her calls. Julie and the kids even tried to call him and got nothing.”

Cillian releases my hand, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.

“She's getting worried. Wants to call in a wellness?—”

“Do not let her call the cops, Mom,” Cillian cuts her off.

“I know, I know. I talked her down from it...” She trails off for a moment. “He’s probably fine. Right? Just having some bad days.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Cillian pulls into a gas station .

“Anyway, just wanted to check with you. She said she wants to go over there today, so I'll just go?—”

“No.” Cillian snaps, his voice rough. He drags in a breath. “Just...tell her I'm on my way.”

“Cilli . . .”

“Mom, please.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Do not go over there. Don’t let her go over there. Let me handle it.”

There’s a tense pause before she replies. “Okay.” Cillian’s body visibly relaxes. “I’ll do my best to stall her, but she’s gonna try to get over there.”

“Give me at least an hour if you can. Tell her I’m on it and I’ll give you a call when I talk to him.”

“Alright. Be safe, sweetheart.”

“I will be.”

“I love you, Cillian.”

“Love you, too.”

As soon as the call disconnects, the music starts playing again, its poppy tune incongruous with the heavy atmosphere that has settled over the car.

Cillian turns, the volume down, his eyes fixed forward.

After the silence hangs a little too heavy, I speak. “I've got nothing else to do today. Wherever you need to go, I'm good to come along.”

He nods stiffly. “Thanks. I...” He heaves a sigh, letting his head thud against the headrest.

“You don’t need to explain.” I reach over, giving his thigh what I hope is a comforting squeeze.

He covers my hand with his, returning the squeeze, as he looks over at me. “Thank you.”

Rather than plunge us into total silence, I let the music keep playing at a low volume as we head out, hoping it can bring a bit of levity to the drive.

But as we get closer to our destination, the tension radiating from Cillian only seems to increase.

When his mother texts him, a half hour later, letting him know she and his aunt are on the way to Joey’s, the tension and our speed ratchets up even higher.

We pull onto a residential street, and he stops the car suddenly, his breathing ragged. Before I can ask if he’s ok, Cillian turns to me, gathering my hands in both of his. His expression is hard, but it's what I see in his eyes that scares me.

Fear.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says, tone stern.

I nod.

“You're going to get in the driver's seat. I'll direct you the rest of the way. When we get there, you are gonna lock the doors, and you’re not to get out of this car for any reason whatsoever.” He pulls a breath in through his nose, jaw visibly tightening.

“And if you hear anything or see anything that seems out of pocket or suspicious, you're going to leave and call the cops. Understood?”

“Cillian—”

“Promise me you will not get out of this car, Antionette. Please.”