Page 9 of Unreasonably Yours

Cillian

“Hold the fuck on,” Lucy cuts me off. “A beautiful woman,” she holds up one well-manicured hand, ticking each point off one by one, “walks into your bar. She's entirely your type.”

“I don't have a type,” I protest.

“Yes, you do,” Lucy and Oliver say in such perfect unison it's almost creepy.

“Don't interrupt me, it's rude.” Lucy continues, “You take her to dinner. You take her home.” The last word she says loudly enough to make me wince. “Supposedly, have a great time.”

“That feels like an attack,” I grumble into my whiskey.

“And,” she says, ignoring me, “you don't get her number, her socials, anything?”

“Correct.” I keep my tone as neutral as possible. If I can bore Lucy, her notoriously short attention span will save me.

She stares at me slack jawed. “This might be the most insane thing you've ever done.”

“Most feels hyperbolic,” Oliver says.

“No. It’s not. And I’m including the fucking Marines.” She shakes her head, popping a fry in her mouth. “That’s how insane this is to me.”

“I’m gonna kill Gin.” I toss the rest of my drink back.

Oliver laughs. “In her defense, you’re the one who told us you took...what’s her?—”

“Toni,” Lucy fills in the blank.

“Toni, home.”

“And if Ginelle kept her mouth shut, like I asked her to, I wouldn’t have had to tell either of you anything.”

“You don’t tell anyone anything, Cilli.” Lucy grins. “That’s why I have to coax information from your cousin.” She waggles her fingers suggestively.

I grimace. “Please, I’ve got enough fucked up images in my head. I don’t need to add that to it.”

Oliver gestures to me with a fry. “Ok, but if you had a good time?—”

“Are you really on her side here?” I cut him off.

“I’m on her side when she’s right.”

“And I am usually right.” We both give her the look that statement deserves. “What?”

“Dani?” I ask.

Oliver points in agreement. “Meredith?”

“Stevie?” I add.

“New York?” Oliver and I say at the same time.

“Bringing up New York is transphobic.” She huffs dramatically, crossing her arms over her chest. Oliver and I laugh at her faux offense.

“Answer the question,” Oliver says once we’ve caught our breath.

“Like I said before Lucy started this inquisition, she didn’t want anything beyond one night, so it didn’t make much sense to trade information.”

“And what about what you want?” Lucy asks, her tone suddenly serious .

I shrug. “What about it?”

“I’m assuming you communicated your preference to her?”

“Nothing to communicate.”

Lucy’s eyes narrow. “Bullshit.”

“What is it I want, Lu? Tell me, since you seem to know so well.”

“I don’t know. But I do know it’s usually good form to at least try to figure it out for yourself and communicate with the other person.”

“No offense, but should you be handing out relationship advice you clearly aren’t capable of taking yourself?” I see the jab land and almost regret it.

“Oh, fuck you,” she snaps.

“Spicy,” I mock.

“At least I’m out here trying to take my own advice and not stewing in my own misery alone all the damn time.”

“Stewing—”

“Ok,” Oliver interjects, “no fighting before a show.”

I often wonder if Oliver listed refereeing our spats on his resume when he decided to become a teacher. I’d die for Lucy, and she’d do the same for me, but we’ve had some earth-shattering fights in our time.

“Sorry,” I sigh, meaning it.

“Me, too.” She reaches across the table, taking my hand.

“It’s not like you were wrong.” I let my head thud against the booth cushion behind me.

“I wouldn’t say you stew. Maybe marinate a bit here and there,” Oliver says. I give him a look.

“We’ll table our discussion of your love life.” Lucy squeezes my hand before letting it go. “For now.”

Our collective focus pivots to the set list for the night. Not that it was going to change much. I hadn't been able to make many rehearsals—or much of anything else—recently, ironically too tied up with running the bar to focus on entertainment for the bar.

“In all seriousness,” Oliver levels one of his signature concerned looks at me. “You good? You’ve been sparse lately, even by your own standards.”

The usual apology was always perched on my tongue, ready and waiting.

Sorry for not being around, sorry for making them worry, sorry there were reasons they had to worry in the first place.

It sat right next to the reassurances that I was ok, just a bit overworked, a little tired, that I'd do better.

A mass of red hair by the entry to the restaurant catches my eye and steals my ability to process any thoughts outside of her name:

Toni.

Toni with her curls piled on top of her head and her curves looking far too good in a leopard print satin slip dress and a leather harness.

Toni.

Walking toward us.

I immediately sink into the booth, cursing—not for the first time—my conspicuously large frame.

“Cilli—” Oliver begins.

“Shh!” I cut him off, shielding my face with my hand.

“Hey, Cillian...” Lucy trails off, the worry in her voice slapping some reason back into my skull.

Unfortunately, my best friends weren’t strangers to me hiding from some invisible threat. In those instances I was usually reacting to ghosts of my own shit decisions, not a stunning redhead.

Shame burns hot in my veins. Unwelcome as it is, I latch onto it, let it remind me of the core reason I have no business getting any closer to Toni—or anyone, for that matter.

You’re too much, Cillian. This is all too much. Kevin's voice echoes in my head .

I did not need this, any of this, right now.

“Sorry,” I say on an exhale. “I’m good. Just...” I gesture to Toni, making her way to the restaurant’s bar.

“No fucking way!” Lucy says too loudly.

“Could you chill?” I beg. I try to sink deeper into the booth, wishing it would open up and swallow me into another timeline where this isn’t happening to me.

“Chill?” Lucy turns a shocked expression on me. “Kismet is happening right before my eyes, and you’re telling me to chill?”

“Looks like she’s waiting on someone,” Oliver observes, leaning his chair back on two legs.

“See, not kismet. We just picked a stupid, trendy place to have dinner.”

Lucy returns her focus to Toni in the most conspicuous manner possible. “Waiting for someone who clearly isn't here.”

“Lucy!” I hiss.

She waves me off. “Relax. Her back is to us.”

Emboldened by that, I peek my head above the booth just enough to catch a glimpse. From my angle, I can see the barest hint of her profile, her phone next to her on the bar, and her focus on a little sketchbook.

A touch of satisfaction loosens my shoulders. I knew I wasn't wrong when I clocked her for an artistic type.

“I adore that dress,” Lucy says. My attention quickly snaps back to the problem at hand.

“Ok, enough.” I reach across the table and grab Lucy's chin to physically remove her focus from Toni.

She shoos me off.

Oliver looks at his phone. “She's either early or whoever she's meeting is late.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I ask .

“It's just after eight. So if they were meeting at eight thirty, she's wicked early, and if not-” he shrugs.

“It doesn't matter, can we go?”

“No!” Lucy turns her attention back to me. “I don't want to just hang out at the bar because you or all of us will inevitably be sucked into working and we are supposed to be having a fun night.”

I groan.

“Drama queen,” Oliver scolds.

“I think I'll go say hi,” Lucy announces.

I latch onto her wrist, moving so fast the force of it shakes the table. “I will give you a hundred dollars right now if you don't.” I was pretty sure I had that in my wallet anyway.

“I'm offended you assume I can be bought.”

“And all my tips from tonight.”

“I bet you could get him up to three hundred plus tips,” Oliver says, smugly popping a piece of chicken in his mouth.

“Lucy, please,” I beg.

She pats my cheek. “Those puppy eyes don't work on me. Besides, this has nothing to do with you.” She plucks my hand from her wrist. “She's new in town and has clearly been stood up. I'm going to be a good neighbor and find out where she got that dress.”

With a wink, she saunters off to ruin my night.

“I'm leaving,” I announce the moment Lucy taps Toni on the shoulder.

“You are not.” Oliver stands, blocking my path to freedom.

“Just meet me at the bar.” I try to push past him, but he lays a hand on my chest, pushing me back. “Oli?—”

Plenty of folks would look at the two of us and place their bets on me in a fight.

I'm a couple inches taller and, thanks more to genetics than true effort on my part, built like a brick shithouse.

But they'd be wrong. Oliver Rosado is all lean muscle and intention.

Cards down, I'd pick him over me easy, especially when he's got that look on his face.

“Sit. Down,” he says, the teacher voice almost working on me.

“I can't do this.” I sound desperate. I know I do. I can't be bothered to care as senseless panic claws at my chest.

His expression softens. “You don't have to do anything. Just be open to the possibility that something good could happen here. That's all.”

“I am open. It's just?—”

“You're not.”

Frustration makes tension hum through my muscles. Maybe I'm not as open as he and everyone else seem to think I should be. But what kind of person leaves the doors to a haunted house wide open for any unsuspecting beautiful stranger to wander in?

He sighs. “I'm not saying ride off into the sunset with the woman. I'm just asking you to not run from something just because it might—” he holds up a hand to silence me, “might, have a whiff of potential.”

“Who says this has potential?”

“If it doesn't, why do you look like a fuckin' deer in headlights?”

I open my mouth to protest, but no words make it past the lump in my throat.

“Stay. And if nothing good comes of it, I'll let you get a few solid hits on me in the ring.”

Before I can say anything, Lucy returns with a plus one.

“You already know Cillian,” Lucy gestures to me.

Toni meets my eyes, and all the air leaves the room. “Small world,” she says in greeting.