Page 43 of Unreasonably Yours

Cillian

Toni

Just checking in.

Here for you if you need me.

Lucy told me the funeral is this weekend. If y’all need help at the bar, happy to volunteer.

Hope you’re ok. Or as ok as you can be.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I’d ignored Toni. Shut her out entirely. All the while, she’d kept the door open.

It was a kindness I didn’t deserve.

But if Ginelle was right. If she was staying...

The idea that I may have the chance to make it up to her. Prove that I could be worthy of her friendship. Because having her in my life, in any way, was better than not having her at all.

“Earth to O’Sullivan!” one of the old men barks at me from their usual perch at the end of the bar. They all hold up empty pint glasses .

I accept their good-natured jabs and promises to ‘report me to the boss’—aka my dad—when they all go bowling with him later in the week. They were, at least at their core, understanding, no doubt chalking my distracted demeanor up to grief. Other patrons were another matter.

My staff must think I’m losing it, muddling through the day like I’d never done this before. Forgetting orders, mixing up tickets. An entire mess. And I can’t be bothered to care. All my thoughts are on Toni.

Would she forgive my cold shoulder?

Would she understand?

What if I were honest with her?

Would I lose her?

That last one takes the wind out of me.

Despite it being fully dark, it was only five-thirty. That meant at least six more hours before I could...What?

I get one of the newbies to cover me while I duck into the office.

Lucy doesn’t answer, but Oliver does.

“What would I need to pay you to come in and cover me?” I ask, desperation evident in my tone.

“You ok?”

“Technically, yes. I . . . I need to talk to Toni, and?—”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“You are my goddamn hero.”

“I know.”

Being on time anywhere in the Boston area is a damn near impossible task, but, somehow, Oliver always manages to pull it off. Exactly 20 minutes after we hang up, he’s walking behind the bar.

I waste no time, thanking him as I practically run out the door.

Once in my car, I spiral.

The coffee shop is long closed for the day. Flowers feel like both too much and not enough. And while I could sing Taylor Swift from her stoop, that feels far too eighties romcom, and even I have an ounce of dignity I’d like to hang onto.

Still, I don’t want to arrive empty-handed.

Praying to whatever traffic gods who have Oliver’s back, I head toward my place. They listen well enough, but I still sprint up to my room, cursing whoever thought building a house with this many stairs was a good idea.

At least I know the exact robe I’m looking for.

I insisted I didn’t need it back after giving it to her when she was sick, that it was a gift, but she kept sneaking it back onto my rack.

It became a game, me bringing it to her place when I stayed over, her bringing it to mine.

Seeing as she almost always chose to wear it here, I knew it wasn’t a matter of taste.

Even if she decided, rightfully, that she was done with me, as far as I was concerned, this robe was hers.