“She’s not Kevin,” Michael says, accurately diagnosing the source of my hesitation to be honest with Toni.
Old affection makes me want to defend him. Not because I missed or wanted Kevin back, that was a door that should have closed long before it did. But because I couldn’t hold his decision thatrecovering addict, no matter how long I’d been sober, was over the limit of baggage he was willing to carry against him.
“I know.” I stand up, ignoring the twinge in my leg. “Crash here. It’s fine.”
He nods, following my lead, and stands. “I’ll call Cam and let her know.” It’s code for,I’ll sit in my car for a bit to give you guys space, and I appreciate it.
CHAPTER 27
Toni
Anxiety humsthrough my body as I perch on the loveseat in Cillian’s room. While it wasn’t my fault that I’d been in the living room when Michael said what—from the look on his face when he’d seen me—was clearly not meant for my ears, I still feel guilty.
How many times in twenty-four hours can I be in the wrong place?
I may have been moderately useful yesterday, but still, it wasn’t a scene or situation I had any right being a part of. And once we made it back to Somerville, I should have just texted Lucy and Oliver. Gone back to my apartment.
Just like the first night I spent in this room should have been the only time I was here.
What was I doing? In this house? In this city?
Just go home.A judgmental voice in my head says as if I have ever had any clue where that is.
The stairs of the old house creak, and I turn as Cillian appears at the top of them.
“Hey,” I say, cringing internally. Hey. Like nothing has happened. Hey. Like everything is fine.
The corner of Cillian’s mouth twitches up just a smidge. “Hey.” He sits on the other side of the small couch.
It’s still dark enough outside that our illuminated images are reflected in the window. A hazy still life.
Every empty comfort and pointless thing I could say trip over one another on their way to my tongue, causing a pile up at the back of my throat. I look at my reflection, convinced I’ll be able to see the mass they’re creating there.
“I’ll be ten years sober next year. On my birthday.” He doesn’t say it like a celebration; he says it like penance.
I can’t bring myself to look at him directly, so I choose the still life version. The edges are smudged, fading in the growing dawn, but I can make him out still, elbows on his knees, eyes on his hands. Those beautiful hands.
“I—He—Michael. He found me. Saved my life. That was the last time.”
Now I understand why Oliver didn’t explain the why behind Cillian’s birthday avoidance, why no one had let so much as a whisper slip about it around the actual day.
I shift my eyes from his fading reflection. His position hasn’t changed, but now, in full focus, I can see the weight of everything he’s carried, all of it as clear as though it sat on his hunched shoulders.
I don’t know what to say to take some of that burden off him. All I know is that I can be sure I’m not adding to it.
“If this...” He trails off. I hold my tongue. “If this is all too much, I get it.”
Indignation flares hot in my chest.
How could anyone make him feel like his healing was too much? As if his survival was a thing to be ashamed of.
“Why would you being honest be too much?” I try to keep the heat from my voice.
Cillian’s jaw flexes, teeth grinding. “I know it’s another thing. Another tick in the conscolumn.”
“Next to what?” If I had a pros and cons list for this man, that column was decidedly empty.
“Plenty.” He stares out the window, fiddling with his necklace.
