Page 29 of Unreasonably Yours


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Mickey waves them off. “You know I love ya. Have a good show!”

“Bye, Dad,” Cillian ushers his dad and the other men out.

A surprising portionof the crowded bar cheers when the trio takes the stage.

“Wow,” Cillian says, pulling his hair up into a messy knot. “That was fuckin’ pathetic.” The crowd laughs, some cheer even louder, while others hurl insults at the stage. “Better. Still shit, but better.”

Instead of continuing the banter or even giving an introduction, they dive right into a cover of Dropkick Murphys “The Gang's All Here.” An excellent choice, seeing as the entire place joins in.

Cillian beams at the crowd as the music fades. “Now that we've got your attention, here's how this works for those who've never been to one of our shows: We've got some songs we're gonna play and we'll play some requests.”

“If you feel like it,” someone in the crowd yells.

Cillian nods. “Exactly.”

“And if you ask for ‘Freebird,' you will not get your wish and you will be buying the band around,” Lucy says.

“Any questions?” Cillian doesn't wait for a response. “Good.”

Oliver begins playing the opening notes of Coheed and Cambria's “Welcome Home” on his acoustic guitar, Cillian joins on bass, and Lucy falls in on the drums. It's a stripped-back rendition, but when Cillian begins to sing, it doesn't feel like it.

Clearly, he'd been holding back before.

I watch slack-jawed as he takes control of the entire room. It isn't just the way Cillian's voice flows, with seeming ease, from impressive heights to rumbling lows, but his entire presence. He fills every corner of the space with the force of his performance.

The room erupts with applause and cheers when they finish, while I remain gobsmacked.

“Wicked talented, isn't he?” Cillian's cousin Ginelle appears behind me at the bar, a knowing grin on her face.

I nod. “He should just be doing that. And only that. All the time.”

“I know.” She sighs, her hands making a drink with the skill of someone who could do it in her sleep. “He had a full ride to Berklee, ya know?”

“In California?” I ask, accepting the fresh gin and tonic she passes to me.

She shakes her head. “The music school in Boston. A bunch of famous musicians went there and shit.”

I look back at the man on the stage, working the crowd like it was second nature. It’s as if the clouds of doubt and self-consciousness leave him when he’s behind that microphone, allowing the audience to enjoy the full force of his light.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Bad luck,” she says as though it's an acceptable answer.

As the set progresses, I continue to be impressed and not just by Cillian. Lucy and Oliver were great at working thecrowd as much as their respective instruments. Their arrangements of familiar songs were creative and refreshing, and it was clear they were all having an absolute blast.

“Sweet Caroline,” a song I barely know but that the entire bar seems to—everyone singing so loudly I swear they hear us all the way in downtown Boston—closes the set.

By the final note, fueled by the high of a great show and possibly a smidge too much gin, I'm beyond ready to make a few ill-advised choices. No matter how irresponsible or unreasonable they may be.

CHAPTER 7

Cillian

Sweat is beadingon my neck, my leg is starting to ache, and I feel fucking incredible.

Nothing—and I've dabbled with enough poor decisions in my life to have a large sample set to pull from—beats the feeling of playing music with my friends. All the noise in my skull goes quiet. I forget the ghosts, my guilt, and everything else.

I soak it in with one final deep breath.