Page 35 of Unreasonably Yours

“I know I don't have?—”

“I’ve got it.” Her voice is suddenly steady, firm in her stance on this.

“Ok, sweetheart.” Kitty gives her shoulder a squeeze.

“Mom,” Ginelle kneels at her mother's side. “You're gonna ride with Kitty. I'm gonna follow, ok?” Tina only nods blankly.

Without prompting, Cillian goes to Tina’s other side, and with tender but effective hands, he guides his aunt to her feet. Ginelle stands, taking her mother’s other side.

Kitty clears her throat, taking my forearm to draw me a little closer as the others lead Tina to the car.

“I know you haven’t known one another for very long and that this.

..has been a lot.” She looks over at her son.

When she returns her focus to me, there’s a near-desperate fire in her eyes.

“But please don't let him be alone right now.

Please. I'll give you my number, or I assume you may have Lucy or Oli?—”

I cover her hand with mine, giving it a firm squeeze. “Kitty, I'm not going anywhere. I'll stick with him, I promise.”

I've never meant anything more in my life.

The truth of what I said must've shown through because she visibly relaxes. “Thank you.” She looks over at him once more. “If it... If anything is too much, though...”

“I’ve got him.”

She gives me a warm smile, her shoulders dropping the barest bit. “Just call if you need to, ok?”

I nod, handing her my phone. Cillian walks up, as she hands it back to me, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

“You know you’re welcome to go to the house if you’d like,” Kitty says to Cillian. “Your Dad is at the bar, but I think he’s gonna close early.”

Cillian looks at the ground. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Kitty cups his face in her hands, pushing stray silver and dark brown strands from his face. “You don’t have to. If you just want to go home, that’s ok, too.”

He nods, avoiding looking her directly in the eye.

“Look at me, Cillian.” He hesitates but complies, his expression momentarily vulnerable before the hardness returns. “This is not your fault, baby.”

“Mom, don't—” He pulls away from her, but she grabs his shoulders, holding him in place as though he were a little boy and not a six-foot-three man.

“No,” she snaps, voice low. “I need you to hear me. You couldn’t have changed this, Cillian.” She drags in a shaky breath. “Do not let this undo you.”

“I won’t.” Cillian’s voice wavers. “Promise.”

“Good.” She pulls him into a tight hug. “I love you so much, my sweet boy.”

“Love you, too, Mom. ”

Kitty turns her attention to me. “I’m so sorry you had to be in the middle of this, but I’m so grateful for your help.”

“I didn’t really do anything, but you’re welcome,” I say, trying to give her a warm smile.

“If you need anything . . .”

“I'll call.”

She nods and, without warning, wraps her arms around me with the same force she applied to her son. I return the embrace, partly because it seems rude not to and also because that maternal warmth, even borrowed from someone else, feels so good right now.

Releasing me, she sighs. “And by the way, I know my son hasn’t passed along my Sunday supper invite. I’ll send you a text.” It’s a small moment of levity, but we latch on to it.

“Mom,” Cillian sighs.

She laughs a little. “You two drive safe.”

Cillian turns to me, after his mom drives off, looking at me head-on for the first time in a while. He briefly strokes my cheek, but his eyes remain cold. “Let's get you home.”

“I'm not going home unless you’re coming with me,” I say, matter-of-factly. His eyes narrow. “Cillian, I'm not?—”

His jaw clenches, neck muscles tightening. “Did my mother?—”

“She didn't have to.” It’s not a lie. I stare up at him, unflinching.

He rolls his eyes.

“Cillian, what you just went through, that—it's not something I'm going to leave you to sit with alone. If you’d prefer someone else, that’s?—”

He laughs. It’s dark and humorless. “I promise you, I sit with worse every day. I don't need a fucking babysitter.”

“Don't be an asshole.”

“I am an asshole.”

“Sure, you are. ”

“Toni,” he growls.

“I’m not arguing with you. And I don’t need anything from you. We don’t have to talk, hell, we don’t even have to be in the same room. But you’re stuck with me.”

And maybe I don't want to be alone either .

To say Cillian softens, worn down by my defiance, would be an overstatement. Still, there isn’t any malice in his tone when he says, “Fine. Let's go.”

We ride back to Cillian's in silence.

His eyes remain firmly ahead, both hands on the wheel.

I gnaw my lip until I taste copper, so I switch to chewing at the inside of my cheek and picking off my nail polish.

Despite not wanting to be alone, in the silence of the car, I consider texting Lucy and Oliver.

They'd be better equipped to deal with this than I am, and if he’d prefer their company, I could cope on my own.

But while I figured it was safe to assume they already knew, I’d rather throw myself out of the car than risk being the one to break the news of Joey’s death to either of them.

So instead, I arrive in Cillian's red brick driveway with my mouth raw and fingers devoid of any color.

Given his overall demeanor, I expect a door slam or snide remark. But there’s none of that.

“You want your bag?”

“I can get it.”

He ignores me, grabbing both our bags and the canvas.

Every move as we go through the motions of unloading the car, going upstairs, and depositing our bags in the primary bedroom feels like a step on a tightrope. On the surface, everything is calm, yet just one incorrect wobble and one or both of us will teeter over into the abyss .

When we begin to head back downstairs, I brace myself and ask, “Would you like me to stay up here, or do you want company?”

“You can be wherever you want.” He tosses the words over his shoulder. “I'm getting a drink.”

I swallow the petty retort burning on my tongue and follow him down to the dining room turned study just off the living room.

Over the past few months, I’d come to love this room.

Books—some are Cillian’s and some were left by his uncle—spill out of the built-in shelves.

Two old plush chairs face the fireplace, one of Cillian’s well-loved guitars in permanent residence beside them.

Usually, the space is the pinnacle of cozy and comfortable.

As we walk in, it might as well be a meat locker.

Cillian heads straight to the antique buffet tucked in one corner. Cut crystal bottles I’d never seen him touch sit in a cluster with a few glasses beside them. He pours a hearty amount of amber liquid into one of the tumblers, downing it in one go.

I watch his shoulders heave as he drags in a deep breath, laying his palms flat on the buffet. Several long moments pass before he pours another.

He takes a sip, his back still to me as he says, “I'd rather you not observe me like a zoo animal. Make a drink, sit down, go upstairs, anything but just standing there.”

I eye the bar as he drops heavily into one of the armchairs, tempted by the prospect of a drink, but decide against it.

Generally, I try to avoid alcohol when emotions are this high.

Sure, I’ll imbibe some sadness wine here and there, but my fear of being my father’s daughter makes me keep my distance from anything harder.

“Toni,” he prompts .

“Sorry,” I shake my head. “I'm not sure what the right thing to do is.”

He sighs, looking tired. “There isn’t a right thing. Do what you want.”

“I want to be here for you. I just?—”

“And here you are.”

I roll my eyes at that, unable to stop myself.

He looks at me, his face a blank mask, void of the Cillian I know. “Look, if you expected hysterics, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

My jaw tenses, the urge to tell him once more to not be an ass is strong. “I didn’t—” I take a breath, leaning against the thick molding around the pocket doors. “If this is how you need to process, that's fine.”

“Not to be crass, but this isn’t new for me. Plenty of people I knew have...” He trails off, letting the unspoken words hang. “He won't be the last.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“But he is—was family. It’s ok if this is harder?—”

“I don’t expect you to understand this, but the others felt a lot like family, too.”

“But you didn't?—”

“Find them?” He finishes his whiskey and makes another. “No, but a dead body also isn't something new to me.” His voice drops so low I almost don’t hear him as he mumbles into his glass, “At least I'm not directly responsible for this one.”

My breath catches, loud enough for him to hear.

Immediately, I regret it. I want to explain that it isn’t that I’m shocked; I did the math and inferred what eight years as a Marine meant. It was that my heart hurt for him, that I hated he carried this, that?—

“And to be clear, I've been directly responsible for more than a few.” There is nothing but disgust in his words. Disgust aimed solely at himself. But the way he pins me with his eyes feels like a challenge.

“Why are you doing that?”

“What?” He settles back into the chair, setting his foot on the small ottoman. “Telling you the truth?”

“Cillian . . .”

“Toni.”

“If you think this is going to scare me off, you should let that go.”

He shrugs, taking a slow sip. “I think you'll do whatever you want.”

I hold on to my composure with gritted teeth and pull the ottoman from under him to perch on. “Care to explain what you mean by that?”

“Not really.”

For several long minutes, we sit in tense silence, the settling of the old house and Cillian's methodical swallowing the only sounds filling the void.

By default, I’m good at showing up, at getting shit done, but I've never been the most nurturing person. When Belle’s husband was in his final weeks, I made sure meals were arriving at the ranch, helped her mom get the paperwork in order, and performed other similar tasks.

But the comfort portion, the parts of being there for someone that involve stillness, those I’m less adept at.