Page 39 of Unreasonably Yours
Toni
Much to my disappointment, the next sunrise doesn’t bring answers. Neither does the one after nor the one after that.
They also don’t bring any word from Cillian.
In fact, that’s how most of the month trudges on.
Clarity and Cillian both avoid me.
The latter is for the best. At least that’s what I remind myself every time I pick up my phone to send him a text—a habit I’d developed over the last few months without realizing—while with each passing day, the former becomes more and more pressing.
With Cillian around, it had been easy for me to forget the purpose of coming to Somerville in the first place. It was supposed to be a sort of self-imposed exile, a way to get my head straight before I was forced to come face to face with David and my own uncertain future.
I tap my pencil against the page, eyes focused on the pattern of rain against the coffee shop’s window and not the green and gold sign across the street.
Even though I’d been working from here a couple of days a week, I avoided Two Sons with almost comical intensity: crossing the street early and making sure I came in either before or after Cillian usually went to work.
The last thing I wanted to risk was an awkward run-in.
Well . . . maybe not the last thing.
“I’ve been meaning to ask what your Thanksgiving plans are.” Jac plops into their seat across from me, leaving the other barista to handle the lone customer at the counter.
“You know, until Lucy invited me to the O’Sullivan’s, I’d forgotten about it.” Holidays were always a bit fraught. Even as a kid, they rarely left me with any good memories.
“You gonna go?”
I shake my head. “It feels...weird? It is weird, right? We—Cillian...” Blowing out a breath, I stir the ice in my cold brew.
“He still hasn’t said anything.” Jac saves me from having to say it.
“Yeah.” I fight the urge to look across the street. “And I get it; he’s got a lot going on.”
Jac scoffs. “I mean, it’s not hard to send a text.”
“Maybe not, but grief makes even easy things a million times harder.” I’d learned that lesson at Belle’s side, the way grief could make even something as simple as opening a piece of mail feel impossible.
“I guess.” They cast a glance out the window, as though admonishing Cillian from a distance.
I sigh, “I’m probably just gonna rewatch something over some wine and whatever takeout is available.”
“No, you’re not.” They casually sip their drink.
“I’m not?”
“Nope. You’re gonna come to my place and have Thanksgiving with the rest of the misfit queers.” I go to speak, but they cut me off. “I’m not taking no for an answer, so don’t even try.”
A grin breaks across my face. “Fine. What time?”
“Around one. Bring whatever you want.” They look up as a few customers walk in. “Or nothing. We always have too much anyway.”
My sister-in-law’s thick southern Louisiana accent fills my kitchen the next morning, “I promise you, browning the butter is gonna make all the difference.”
“But, like, how much of a difference?” I ask, staring at the butter in the pan, slowly turning a darker shade. It was barely 8 am, and as much as I didn’t want to show up empty-handed to the day’s festivities, I was beginning to doubt the validity of my plan.
“Toni Joy, don’t question me.”
“Ok, ok,” I laugh.
“He won’t say it, but your brother is so happy you’re not alone today. The man’s been grumbling about it for the last two damn weeks.”
“Why?” I ask, eyes glued on the pan. “I’ve had some good solo Turkey Days. He doesn’t have to worry.”
Dianne makes a dismissive noise. “Family is supposed to worry.” For a moment, the sounds of the hospital cut through the background. “I gotta get back to it.” She’d be spending her Thanksgiving at work, being Super Nurse.
“Thanks for the help.”
“Any time, sugar! Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
Just as I pull what I have to admit is a beautiful pecan pie from the oven, I notice a text from Jac.
Jac
About today...The basement flooded because our neighbors are idiots. So we have no water.
Oh shit!
Jac
Yeah. Still trying to figure out where we're going. It’s not looking great, but I’ll let you know.
I look around my apartment. While not massive, I could easily move my easel and supplies into my bedroom, leaving the dining room free.
Jac answers on the second ring. “If you’re calling to tell me you’re somehow a plumber, I’ll become the embodiment of thankfulness.”
“Tragically, not a skill I possess. But, depending on the size of the RSVP list, I’m happy to host.”
“Ten...” They drag the word out, uncertain, “ish.”
“Think people could BYO chair?” I ask.
“Girl, we can BYO table, chairs, all of it.”
“Great! Might be tight, but we can make it work.”
“You sure?” They ask, excitement barely restrained.
“I’m sure.”
They let out a joyful screech. “When can we head over?”
Within the hour, Jac and I are hanging cheesy Thanksgiving decorations around my dining room while their nesting partner Finn—the frohawk guy I’d seen at the craft store and met at Jac’s drag show—fills my kitchen with better food than I ever would.
“Wanna taste?” he asks, holding out a wooden spoon with homemade cranberry sauce.
“Sure!” My eyes pop open as orange, cranberry, and spices dance across my tongue .
“Good?” His anticipation for my approval is adorable.
“Incredible.”
“Isn’t he?” Jac says as they wrap an autumn leaf garland around my light fixture. “At this point, I don’t think I’ll survive without a chef in my life.”
“Spoiled,” Finn teases.
As expected, I don’t know anyone who walks in my front door throughout the afternoon.
They arrive with food and wine and booze and games.
My record collection serves as the soundtrack of the day, people excitedly taking turns picking the next album.
By the time everyone leaves later that night, my heart and my belly are full in ways I didn’t know I needed.
I settle on my couch, the echoes of laughter and Jac’s ridiculous decorations still clinging to the walls around me.
For all the jokes that had been made about a pros and cons list over the last several months, I hadn’t actually made one. I flip open my big sketch book to a blank page and begin writing. When I’m done, one side is significantly longer than the other.
The pros column is brimming with many things Cillian had a hand in, but my choice to stay or go never could have been determined by him alone.
No matter how much I cared for him, the truth was I’d been using him as an excuse to put off this decision that was mine alone to make.
I couldn’t stay for him just like I couldn’t—shouldn’t—wait for life to force my hand as it had so many times in my past.
It was time to choose whether I would build a life that was full and vibrant. One that I could be proud of—just for me.
I set the sketchbook aside and grab my laptop, opening the lease agreement my landlord sent me weeks ago.