“It’s okay.” His smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “I just wanted to give you this,” he holds out a plain gift bag, “and let you know I intend to hold up my end of our bargain. Just let me know when.”
Before I can tell him he has it all wrong, David opens the door. “You said you were hungry.”
Cillian looks at David in a way I can’t entirely describe. Cold, furious, and honestly a bit terrifying. David doesn’t miss it either, taking a half step back.
“Enjoy your dinner,” Cillian says, voice barely above a growl.
Before I can say another word, he’s walking back toward his car.
Back inside,David drones on about our food order. Something regarding the lack of utensils. I hardly register a word.
“What was with that guy, anyway?” He asks.
“Huh?”
“Rude. Tattoos. Knuckles all fucked up.”
I noticed Cillian’s knuckles when he handed me the bag. His beautiful hands were bruised and scabbed.
“Looked like a real?—”
“Don’t.” My voice is calm but resonant. “Whatever you were going to say. Keep it to yourself.”
“Forgot how touchy you get when you’re hungry.”
The paper from the bag crinkles as my hand flexes. I realize I haven’t even looked inside.
Tears sting the back of my eyes.
Cream silk. A peacock pattern. I didn’t have to touch it to know it would feel like cool water between my fingers. Didn’t have to smell it to know it would smell like Cillian.
What the fuck was I doing?
“I don't want this,” I say, mostly to myself.
David sets the plate I hadn’t realized he’d be holding down with a thud. “Well, you should have said something before I?—”
“I don't mean the fucking food!” I snap. “I don't want this.” I gesture between us. “And you don't either.”
“How can you say that? I flew across the country to fix this.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You don’t want me. You don’t want to fix this. You flew across the country to corner me, so you’d have the upper hand.”
“Come off it.”
“Just like emailing me, and sending me packages, and flowers, and calling me. You did all of it for yourself. To prove you were the one in charge.”
“Toni, I think you’re being a bit?—”
“Unreasonable?”
“Yes!” he barks, slamming his hand on the counter.
All my internal alarms, the ones that protected me throughout my childhood and had usually served me well as an adult, begin screaming. I realize, with a touch of shame, they’d been screaming for years. I just ignored them. Buried them, dampened the sound under reassurances from friends, justifications that he was a nice guy. He never lifted a hand to me. He was the safe choice.
Now? Now, they are impossible to ignore.
“Get out,” I say, void of emotion.
