“Toni.”
“If you think this is going to scare me off, you should let that go.”
He shrugs, taking a slow sip. “I think you'll do whatever you want.”
I hold on to my composure with gritted teeth and pull the ottoman from under him to perch on. “Care to explain what you mean by that?”
“Not really.”
For several long minutes, we sit in tense silence, the settling of the old house and Cillian's methodical swallowing the only sounds filling the void.
By default, I’m good at showing up, at getting shit done, but I've never been the most nurturing person. When Belle’s husband was in his final weeks, I made sure meals were arriving at the ranch, helped her mom get the paperwork in order, and performed other similar tasks. But the comfort portion, the parts of being there for someone that involve stillness, those I’m less adept at.
Even so, if the only thing I can do right now is be present, I will. However, I will not be someone’s dartboard.
Cillian empties his glass and rises to refill it a third time. Before he takes a step, I latch onto his forearm with as much strength as I can muster. It manages to bring him to a stop, though I'm under no illusion that I'm actually holding him in place.
Stern eyes slide from my hand to my face, one dark brow raised in silent question.
“I know you're hurting.” He says nothing. “And I want to be here for you. But if you have an issue with me being here, I can go.” I leave out that if I do go, I will be texting his best friends before I’m even out the door.
He remains silent, pulls his arm away, and stalks to the bar.
I sigh, looking to the ceiling as if it holds some wisdom that will help me be of any use in this fucked situation.
The slam of the heavy-bottomed decanter slamming into the top of the buffet makes me jump, drawing my attention back to Cillian.
His hands are braced on the buffet, head hanging as he draws in slow, deep breaths. Beside him, his glass remains empty.
“You were supposed to stay in the car.” His voice is a restrained rumble.
“What?” I ask, genuinely unsure if I heard him correctly.
“The fucking car, Toni!” he snaps, frustrated, but I don’t sense any anger in the words. “You were supposed to stay there. To stay out of—away from anything.”
“Cillian,” I keep my voice calm, “your mom and aunt?—”
“It wasn't safe. You weren't—” A fissure sounds in his voice as a shiver shakes his broad frame. “None of you were.”
“It was a bad situation.” I try to soothe.
He shakes his head. “If you'd all just listened!” He slams a palm against the buffet, crystal shaking.
“It wouldn't have changed anything.”
He scoffs. “And if it had been different?” He spins to face me, eyes burning with something I don’t think is anger but can’t quite clock. “If he hadn't—If...” Cillian runs a hand across his face, pacing to the bookshelf and back to the doors. “If he'd come out armed or swinging, what then, Toni? What if something—If he—If you...”
Fear. It hits me all of a sudden. It isn’t anger. He was, hell, is afraid. My heart twists.
“Fuck!” His fist slams into the brick of the fireplace with a painful thud. My whole body tenses, muscle memory more than anything, because despite his actions, I don’t feel threatened. He lets his hand fall away, a tiny speck of red smearing the white painted bricks.
“Cillian...” I slowly rise, but don't move toward him.
“You have to listen to me sometimes,” he says, voice again low. He braces himself on the mantle, not turning to face me as he speaks. “I know this was different. I know you were doing what you thought was best. I just... I need to know you'll listen because if I...” His shoulders shake with a swallowed sob, and I can’t keep my distance any longer.
I lay a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs me off, stepping away toward the corner.
“Don't.” He shakes his head, hand again rubbing across his face. “I need you to understand. I...” He looks to the ceiling, the window, the floor—anywhere but at me.
