It was either intentional cruelty or extreme negligence. I wasn’t sure which one hurt more.
Exhaustion washes over me, drowning my heartache and my rage, leaving me numb.
Coffee forgotten, I throw the flowers in the trash and retreat to my bed.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up a better woman. One who isn’t running from her past. One who doesn’t want what she can't have. One who knows what the hell to do next.
CHAPTER 28
Toni
Much to my disappointment,the next sunrise doesn’t bring answers. Neither does the one after nor the one after that.
They also don’t bring any word from Cillian.
In fact, that’s how most of the month trudges on.
Clarity and Cillian both avoid me.
The latter is for the best. At least that’s what I remind myself every time I pick up my phone to send him a text—a habit I’d developed over the last few months without realizing—while with each passing day, the former becomes more and more pressing.
With Cillian around, it had been easy for me to forget the purpose of coming to Somerville in the first place. It was supposed to be a sort of self-imposed exile, a way to get my head straight before I was forced to come face to face with David and my own uncertain future.
I tap my pencil against the page, eyes focused on the pattern of rain against the coffee shop’s window and not the green and gold sign across the street. Even though I’d been working from here a couple of days a week, I avoided TwoSons with almost comical intensity: crossing the street early and making sure I came in either before or after Cillian usually went to work. The last thing I wanted to risk was an awkward run-in.
Well . . . maybe not the last thing.
“I’ve been meaning to ask what your Thanksgiving plans are.” Jac plops into their seat across from me, leaving the other barista to handle the lone customer at the counter.
“You know, until Lucy invited me to the O’Sullivan’s, I’d forgotten about it.” Holidays were always a bit fraught. Even as a kid, they rarely left me with any good memories.
“You gonna go?”
I shake my head. “It feels...weird? It is weird, right? We—Cillian...” Blowing out a breath, I stir the ice in my cold brew.
“He still hasn’t said anything.” Jac saves me from having to say it.
“Yeah.” I fight the urge to look across the street. “And I get it; he’s got a lot going on.”
Jac scoffs. “I mean, it’s not hard to send a text.”
“Maybe not, but grief makes even easy things a million times harder.” I’d learned that lesson at Belle’s side, the way grief could make even something as simple as opening a piece of mail feel impossible.
“I guess.” They cast a glance out the window, as though admonishing Cillian from a distance.
I sigh, “I’m probably just gonna rewatch something over some wine and whatever takeout is available.”
“No, you’re not.” They casually sip their drink.
“I’m not?”
“Nope. You’re gonna come to my place and have Thanksgiving with the rest of the misfit queers.” I go to speak, but they cut me off. “I’m not taking no for an answer, sodon’t even try.”
A grin breaks across my face. “Fine. What time?”
“Around one. Bring whatever you want.” They look up as a few customers walk in. “Or nothing. We always have too much anyway.”
My sister-in-law’sthick southern Louisiana accent fills my kitchen the next morning, “I promise you, browning the butter is gonna make all the difference.”
