Page 44 of Unreasonably Yours


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“You wanna stay there or move to the couch?”

I press my fingers into the screaming muscle, silently begging for any break in the pain. My voice cracks, “If I get on that couch, I won't be getting off it.”

Michael nods, taking the other chair and pouring us each a drink.

“Has it been bothering you?” He asks.

I shake my head, dragging in a wobbly breath. “Spent the day in the city.” I keep the bitter,And I didn't plan on being onit all night,to myself. It would only make both of us feel like shit. Besides, it wasn't Michael's fault.

“Doing what?” He nudges my glass toward me.

“Showing a new friend around.” I try to focus on the whiskey. The taste. The pleasant burn down my throat. Think about how good it felt to look out over the city with Toni in my arms. Anything else but the pain.

“This friend wouldn't happen to be a pretty redhead?” My focus shoots to Michael, a smirk plastered on his face. He chuckles into his glass, sounding so much like our dad it's almost eerie. “Dad mentioned meeting her. Had nothing but glowing things to say.”

“Would it kill this family to mind their own fucking business?”

“Maybe. Too risky at this stage to try and find out, don't you think?”

I shrug, “I don't know, might be worth it.”

“Nah. I'd rather my kid have all their family members around.” Michael's wife Camille was just entering her second trimester. Come December or January, there would be a new little O'Sullivan in the world.

I never wanted to be a dad, but a cool uncle? That was a role I couldn't wait to fill.

“All? Let's try not to traumatize the next generation too much.”

“Ok. Most.” He sighs, “Speaking of . . . Joey.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.” Michael finishes his whiskey and pours us both a bit more. “Sweating liquor, jumpy, started yelling at Sean for no fuckin' reason. Threatened me.”

“God dammit,” I say under my breath.

“I know he's family, but...he's a liability. I really don't know if we can?—”

“Would you say the same if it were me?” I snap.

“It's not you.”

“It could be.” My voice sounds tired, even to my own ears.

Michael looks at me for a long moment. “But it isn't. And you've fought damn hard to make sure it isn't.”

“That doesn't make me any better than him. Just luckier.”

“Lucky? Cillian, you think—” Michael runs a hand over his face as if he could erase his frustration. “Whatever. How the fuck are you gonna feel if he hurts himself, or hell, someone else back there because he's too drunk or too...”

“Too what?” I practically spit the question.

He takes a deep breath. “Look, I understand that?—”

“You don't, though. You have no fucking idea.” He couldn't. There was no way for him to understand how hard just existing could be, how getting through the most basic actions could feel like moving through wet sand, how fucking loud it could be in your skull. And I wouldn't want him to understand any of it, neither would Joey. I just need him and everyone else to be willing to cut the man some slack.

My brother looks at me not with pity—Michael never did and I loved him so much for that—but with sad acceptance. “You're right.”

“He just needs someone to help keep him afloat. That's all. He'll find his stride again.”