In the bathroom, I study my reflection. The woman in the mirror should look blissed out. Instead, she looks desperate. I just wish I knew for what.
Desperate to stay?
Stay with me.
Desperate to run?
It wasn’t just my penchant for clutter that earned me the “Hurricane Toni” moniker. My twenties were littered with proof of my inability to stay anywhere for too long. I moved through people and places quickly.
A chorus of voices fill my head like static. Friends chiding me for my inability to commit, my unwillingness to compromise on topics like children and picket fences. Confused at my consistent dismissal of people who seemed ‘perfectly nice.’ Exes I left after a first fight, or ones who never even had the chance to become more than a fading memory of a few decent orgasms.
Then there was David. Nice, stable David. And I decided to try. I tried to be something more refined, less chaotic, less loud. Less. Because maybe everyone was right. Who could be expected to handle all my mess, and noise, and...everything?
But just like all the times before, my storm broke. My unwillingness to change, my unreasonable nature, won out in the end.
“Don't do this to him,” I whisper to myself.
Cillian said his fault lines were there—Grand Canyon-sized even—but if so, he'd managed what I never could and filled in the holes. Built reinforcements, worked on an infrastructure of healing, and found a way to cope.
If I let this continue, Hurricane Toni would rip through those reinforcements.
Lucy’s laugh cuts through the sound of the water.
Breaking things off with Cillian would also mean losing these people. Without meaning to, I’d begun to feel like they were my friends, too. And for the second time in less than two years, I’d find myself alone.
I press my forehead to the tile.
Did it have to be over, though? We were adults. Couldn’t we stay friends? Just friends. Friends who kept their hands to themselves and who didn’t have incredible, soul-moving sunrise sex.
Fuck.
Everyone but Ginelle—who heads out before I’m dressed to be back in time to open the bar—spends the morning lazily preparing to leave. Thankfully, the banter and activity keep me occupied, drowning out the low-grade panic clawing at the back of my mind.
Right up until we say our final goodbyes.
It’s just an hour and a half, Toni. You can keep your shit together for an hour and a goddamn half,I say to myself over and over.
Except, I’m not 100% convinced I can. Holding my tongue, especially with anxiety buzzing through my body, has never been something I’ve excelled at. But I couldn’t tell Cillian, “Hey so that was amazing and you’re so wonderful and your family and friends are a delight and thank you for bringing me along but maybe we should see less of one another you know just to be safe because I’m scared I’m going to ruin your life,” out of the blue.
An hour and a half.I repeat again as I slide into the passenger seat.
“Before we hit the road, we need to talk about something,” Cillian says, in a tone that feels perhaps a touch too serious. My stomach drops. He holds the AUX cord out to me.
A laugh bursts free before I can tone it down. It’s not entirely warranted, but some of my fear floods out with the sound.
“Don’t laugh!” he says, grinning. “This is a very serious moment of trust. I don’t let just anyone play music in my car.”
“I’ll be sure to make you regret it,” I say, composing myself.
An hour in, my concerns about loose lips have been washed away with a steady flow of early 2000s pop and pop punk. Though the last 15 minutes had been nothing but Taylor Swift.
I can’t help but stare in disbelief as Cillian sings along.
“What?” he asks as the song fades out, noticing my gawking.
“That is the fourth Taylor Swift song you’ve known almost every word to.”
“And?”
