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. Disgustaimed 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 . . .”
