“If you need anything . . .”
“I'll call.”
She nods and, without warning, wraps her arms around me with the same force she applied to her son. I return the embrace, partly because it seems rude not to and also because that maternal warmth, even borrowed from someone else, feels so good right now.
Releasing me, she sighs. “And by the way, I know my son hasn’t passed along my Sunday supper invite. I’ll send you a text.” It’s a small moment of levity, but we latch on to it.
“Mom,” Cillian sighs.
She laughs a little. “You two drive safe.”
Cillian turns to me, after his mom drives off, looking at me head-on for the first time in a while. He briefly strokes my cheek, but his eyes remain cold. “Let's get you home.”
“I'm not going home unless you’re coming with me,” I say, matter-of-factly. His eyes narrow. “Cillian, I'm not?—”
His jaw clenches, neck muscles tightening. “Did my mother?—”
“She didn't have to.” It’s not a lie. I stare up at him, unflinching.
He rolls his eyes.
“Cillian, what you just went through, that—it's not something I'm going to leave you to sit with alone. If you’d prefer someone else, that’s?—”
He laughs. It’s dark and humorless. “I promise you, I sit with worse every day. I don't need a fucking babysitter.”
“Don't be an asshole.”
“I am an asshole.”
“Sure, you are.”
“Toni,” he growls.
“I’m not arguing with you. And I don’t need anything from you. We don’t have to talk, hell, we don’t even have to be in the same room. But you’re stuck with me.”
And maybe I don't want to be alone either.
To say Cillian softens, worn down by my defiance, would be an overstatement. Still, there isn’t any malice in his tone when he says, “Fine. Let's go.”
We ride backto Cillian's in silence.
His eyes remain firmly ahead, both hands on the wheel.
I gnaw my lip until I taste copper, so I switch to chewing at the inside of my cheek and picking off my nail polish.
Despite not wanting to be alone, in the silence of the car, I consider texting Lucy and Oliver. They'd be better equipped to deal with this than I am, and if he’d prefer their company, I could cope on my own. But while I figured it was safe to assume they already knew, I’d rather throw myself out of the car than risk being the one to break the news of Joey’s death to either of them.
So instead, I arrive in Cillian's red brick driveway with my mouth raw and fingers devoid of any color.
Given his overall demeanor, I expect a door slam or snide remark. But there’s none of that.
“You want your bag?”
“I can get it.”
He ignores me, grabbing both our bags and the canvas.
Every move as we go through the motions of unloading the car, going upstairs, and depositing our bags in the primary bedroom feels like a step on a tightrope. On the surface, everything is calm, yet just one incorrect wobble and one or both of us will teeter over into the abyss.
