After the silence hangs a little too heavy, I speak. “I've got nothing else to do today. Wherever you need to go, I'm good to come along.”
He nods stiffly. “Thanks. I...” He heaves a sigh, letting his head thud against the headrest.
“You don’t need to explain.” I reach over, giving his thigh what I hope is a comforting squeeze.
He covers my hand with his, returning the squeeze, as he looks over at me. “Thank you.”
Rather than plunge us into total silence, I let the music keep playing at a low volume as we head out, hoping it can bring a bit of levity to the drive. But as we get closer to our destination, the tension radiating from Cillian only seems to increase. When his mother texts him, a half hour later, lettinghim know she and his aunt are on the way to Joey’s, the tension and our speed ratchets up even higher.
We pull onto a residential street, and he stops the car suddenly, his breathing ragged. Before I can ask if he’s ok, Cillian turns to me, gathering my hands in both of his. His expression is hard, but it's what I see in his eyes that scares me.
Fear.
“I need you to listen to me,” he says, tone stern.
I nod.
“You're going to get in the driver's seat. I'll direct you the rest of the way. When we get there, you are gonna lock the doors, and you’re not to get out of this car for any reason whatsoever.” He pulls a breath in through his nose, jaw visibly tightening. “And if you hear anything or see anything that seems out of pocket or suspicious, you're going to leave and call the cops. Understood?”
“Cillian—”
“Promise me you will not get out of this car, Antionette. Please.”
I nod again, the urgency in his voice silencing any questions.
“Say it.”
“I promise.” That seems to soothe something in him.
He takes a deep breath, nodding. “Good.”
We switch positions, and he guides me just a few streets down to his cousin's house.
Everything seems normal. Just a standard small single-family home. Empty driveway. Nothing amiss.
Cillian pulls the pendant he always wears from under his sweater, pressing it to his lips before letting it fall against his chest.
“Cillian?” I lay my hand on his shoulder, unsure what to say.
“He's probably fine. Just on a bender.” Something in his tone tells me he doesn't believe that.
He looks at me, a storm of his own raging in his green eyes. It makes my heart ache, longing to somehow make this easier, knowing I can’t do anything beyond what he’s already asked of me. Cillian pulls me to him, pressing a kiss to my forehead before letting go.
“Stay in the car,” he commands as he gets out.
“Be careful,” I say after him.
“It'll be fine,” he says, trying to force something like a reassuring smile but falling short.
When I was a kid, I’d always get this ‘calm before the storm’ feeling right before things would get bad at home—usually meaning my dad had gotten fired again or was going to come home drunk. It was like some survival mechanism gained from growing up in a war zone. As an adult, it never went away, and the last time I felt it was the night David proposed. And now, sitting in Cillian’s car, watching him knock and wait before using a spare key to let himself in, that feeling creeps over me again.
A storm was coming. I just didn't know what kind.
I keep my eyes on the house, scanning from the windows to the garage to the front door and back again. Every muscle humming with tension.
In the side mirror, I see a car pulling up along the curb.
A petite woman with Ginelle's blonde hair leaps from the passenger side, while a tall woman with honey brown hair rushes after her from the driver's seat. My heart falls into my stomach.