Page 40 of Unreasonably Yours

Cillian

The familiar scents of Rosado’s Gym—leather, bleach, and decades of sweaty bodies—cocoon me. They blot out the scent memory of Joey’s house and Toni’s perfume.

Music blares in my headphones. Loud enough to drown out the echoes of my aunt’s grief and Toni’s laugh.

Sweat drenches my body, stinging my eyes. I don’t wipe it off, hoping the salt will burn away my final image of Joey and how radiant Toni looked that last morning at the cabin.

Each hit sends the bag swaying, the impact reverberating up my arms. Easier to focus on that than what it felt like to comfort Ginelle at the funeral or to cradle Toni against me at the end of a long day.

My muscles are tired.

My leg is screaming.

I keep going. I need to keep going. I need there only to be this, not a past filled with mistakes and bad calls. Not the compounding heartbreak of the last few weeks.

Just one hit after another after another after...

I stumble forward half a step when, for some reason, the bag isn’t in range of my next swing. Confused, I finally wipe the sweat from my eyes.

Oliver’s annoyed face appears from behind the bag. He gestures for me to pull out my earbuds with his free hand, the other keeping the bag pulled back.

I oblige. “What?”

“You trying to break your knuckles or just bloody my bag?” He asks.

My hands flex in response, pain registering for the first time. I look down, my wrappings red-stained, gloves abandoned on the floor beside me.

“Both.”

“Nice.” He pushes the bag back at me with jarring force.

“Oh wow, he is alive,” Lucy snarks.

“Looks like it,” Oliver says. He tosses his button down over the ropes, picking up my roll of tape to wrap his own knuckles.

“Did you forget how to use your phone or something?” she asks.

“I’ve been busy.” It’s not a lie.

With Ginelle focused on helping with Joey’s arrangements, we’d been down a manager, making things tough, even with the two new people we brought on. This meant I’d been spending almost every day and night at the bar. And that wasn’t looking like it was going to change anytime soon.

“I haven’t been called in,” Lucy points out. “Have you?” she asks Oliver.

“Nope.”

“Huh.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Can’t be that busy.”

I bristle, my emotions an unstable cocktail sloshing far too close to the surface. Before I can spit a response about how not needing them didn’t mean we weren’t busy, Oliver grabs my forgotten gloves, throwing them at my face .

He slides between the ropes into the ring, his own gloves in hand. “Come on.” That’s all he says, rolling his neck and shoulders, hard lean muscles tight beneath his undershirt.

“Oli—” Lucy starts.

“Get your ass in here, Cillian,” he cuts her off. Lucy and I exchange a look, both confused and cautious.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Oliver settles a hard gaze on me. “Didn’t ask.” When I don’t move, he adds, “Or you can give me your key.”

“What?” I ask, not trying to hide my disbelief.

Not having a key to Rosado’s made about as much sense to my brain as not having one to Two Sons. I grew up here as much as the bar, and the same was true for Oliver and Lucy.

“You heard me.” There’s no heat in Oliver’s words. Just cool, level command. Teacher voice. It makes me furious.

“Fine,” I snarl. “You wanna go, we can go.”

Whereas Oliver flowed into the ring, I lumber. My leg, size, and irrational incandescent rage make grace inaccessible.

“Boys, let’s not have bloodshed, ok?” Lucy says from the floor.

Oliver tightens one glove with his teeth. “He already bled all over my bag.”

“It's held together with duct tape and a prayer, a little blood ain’t gonna hurt it.”

“Maybe I could afford a new one if I was here instead of helping run your kitchen.” He snipes back.

My hands protest being shoved into the gloves. “As you pointed out, we haven’t had you there in a minute. What other excuse you got?”

“Cillian, bro, come on,” Lucy chides.

“He started?—”

“It’s fine, Lu.” Oliver takes his stance. “Let him run his mouth. Won’t help him.”

“Cocky.” I try not to wince, the muscles in my left thigh making their displeasure with me, and the choices I’m about to make, evident.

“Correct,” he shoots back with a fox-like grin.

Unfortunately, for both my body and my pride, he is right.

Within minutes, he lands a few hits. Nothing hard, just proof that he can.

“So,” he asks as we move around the ring, “You know how to use your phone, but maybe it’s not working.”

“If you wanted to talk—” I land a hit. “Should’ve stayed out of the ring.”

“Too easy.” He practically dances around me.

Show off. I think bitterly.

“It must be broken.” His glove slams into my right side with enough force to send me stumbling, my left leg throwing off my balance. “Only reasonable cause for you to have not said shit to either of us since the funeral.”

He lets me land my next hit. Which only manages to piss me off even more.

“Not feeling very reasonable lately.” I make a reckless move, completely missing him and leaving me open.

Oliver only pulls his punch a little, his glove slamming into my jaw, sending me to the ropes.

“Sloppy.” His teeth flash white, but the gleam doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Fuck you.”

He ignores me. “You done already?” Wiping a glove across his forehead, he studies the leather. “I’ve hardly broken a sweat.”

I should say yes. I should just grab my shit and leave. Instead, I slam my gloves together, “Let’s fix that.”

Nothing else is said until we’re both panting.

“Are you two done?” Lucy asks, looking up from her phone .

My body sags against the ropes, the slightest taste of copper on my tongue. Must’ve bitten my cheek.

“Don’t know,” Oliver huffs. “Up to him.”

“Me? You threatened to evict me. This is your fucking game.”

He shrugs. “Thought if I could get you to throw some punches, you’d at least hang around for a minute.” That fucking grin again. “Worked.”

“Can confirm, his phone appears to be working by the way.” Lucy holds my phone up.

“Put that dow—” I lunge for the opposite side of the ring, and my leg finally gives out. Pain slams through me as my knees hit the mat. “Fuck,” I gasp.

I hear Oliver’s gloves hit the vinyl as he rushes over to me.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

He ignores me, laying a hand on my shoulder. I throw him off with enough force to send him to the mat.

“Cillian!” Lucy hurls my name like an accusation as she slides through the ropes to check on Oliver.

“I'm fine,” he says.

She spins on me, “What the fuck, man?”

“Give me my phone.” I clench my jaw as I reposition to rest against the ropes, gripping my thigh. Rather than hand it to me, Lucy slides it across the mat.

“I didn't open it,” she says. “Just happened to look down when Kitty called.”

“Who you’ve also hardly spoken to since the funeral,” Oliver says.

“Guess there’s a group chat I’m not in.” I set my phone face down, not wanting to think about the missed texts and calls from the last few weeks.

“Not like you’d respond if you were,” Lucy says.

“Sorry, I’m not feeling chatty since finding my cousin after he ate a bullet. I’ll fucking work on it.” Silence hangs. “That what you guys wanted to hear? No?”

“We don’t expect you to be chatty,” Lucy says.

“But we do expect you not to shut everyone out again,” Oliver adds.

“I’m not?—”

Lucy cuts me off, “What would you call missing Thanksgiving?”

“Taking a day off,” I grumble.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Oliver says.

The silence hangs between us like a wall.

Surprising no one, Lucy is the one to knock it down. “If it seems like we’re coming on too harsh, I’m sorry. We’re scared, Cilli. Scared we’re gonna lose you.”

Oliver meets my eyes and nods his agreement.

The words hit me harder than any physical blow.

“I—” My voice cracks. “Fuck.”

Any fight left in me floods out in a rush. I squeeze my eyes shut, massaging the bridge of my nose, forcing a steadying breath into my lungs.

Before I can open my eyes, I’m surrounded, Lucy on one side, Oliver on the other.

“Come here.” Lucy wraps an arm around me, and I let her pull my head to her shoulder. Oliver takes my hand in his, and we stay like that for a time.

No words.

Just me letting my friends be there.

“For what it’s worth,” I say once I feel less on the verge of shattering, “I wasn’t trying to shut everyone out, it was just...Everything felt like it was caving in. Joey, and Toni, and keeping the bar running and?—”

“What about Toni?” Lucy asks.

“I’m in love with her.” Saying it out loud feels like being shot in the chest all over again .

Oliver snorts. “Obviously. Ow!” He exclaims as Lucy reaches behind me and flicks him hard on the ear.

“Shut up,” she hisses.

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m that transparent, huh?”

Lucy grimaces. “Crystal clear.”

“Why is that a problem?” Oliver asks.

“She doesn’t feel the same.” I feel, rather than see, the look the two of them exchange. “She doesn’t. She views us as just friends. And I wanna be okay with that. I’d be lucky to be her friend. It’s just hard.”

“That sucks, man,” Oliver says.

I shrug. “It is what it is.”

“But have you—” Lucy begins.

“Let it go, Lu,” Oliver cuts her off. Lucy sighs. “Is the bar struggling?”

I’m so grateful for the subject change, I consider flinging my arms around the man. Shop talk was an easier pill to swallow. “Business is good—great even—but getting new people in and schedules worked out, and with Ginelle leaving?—”

“Leaving?” Lucy asks.

I look at her, a bit surprised by her confusion. “Yeah...She can’t exactly commute in from Denver.”

Gin told Michael her plan to go stay with some friends in Colorado a few days ago. She hadn’t specified when she’d be back, only that we should probably find someone to replace her.

“Oh . . .-” Hurt drips from Lucy’s voice.

“Lu...I-I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” Had I been more in touch with everyone, I might have realized this wasn’t something Gin had shared widely. But then again, of all the people she should have told, I’d have thought Lucy would be near the top of the list.