I thought that I had gotten past those concrete walls around his heart, and that I knew who he really is beyond all that.
And after everything, he’s been lying to me?
The thought of him hiding this from me feels unbearable. A type of pain I’ve never experienced before, and ithurts.
“Dad…” My voice cracks, and I tell myself to hold it together for just a few more minutes until I can let it go. It feels like an impossible feat right now. I clear my throat. “Um, I think I just need a little time to process this. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I untangle myself from his arms and stand from the couch, facing away from him. I don’t even know if I can look at him right now without breaking down.
“Yeah, sweetheart, of course.”
I hear him stand from the couch, and on the way out, he presses his lips to my head in a lingering kiss. “I love you, Rory. It’s going to be okay. We’re a strong team, and we’ll make it through this.”
If only he had any idea.
I nod. “Love you too.”
The second I hear the front door shut, I lock the deadbolt and fall back against the wood as a strangled sob rips free.
My hand shakes as I pull my phone out of my pocket and press Cillian’s name in my contact log.
I have to talk to him; Ineedto talk to him.
Straight to voicemail.
Shit. Immediately, I call back. Over and over.
Every single time his phone goes straight to voicemail.
Rory:Cillian I need you to call me asap.
Please.
Everything was going great, Cillian was finally making strides with the team, they were building trust, bonding in a way that I couldn’t have even imagined they would, and now… this.
It has to be a mistake. I want to believe I know Cillian better than this, that somehow this is an error or a misunderstanding but another part of me knows that my dad would never kick him off the team unless there was irrefutable evidence.
I saw it myself, and still… the way I feel about him clouds that.
I feel like I can’t even trust myself right now. Not to take Cillian’s side, to not believe him despite what proof is being shoved in my face.
Sliding to the floor, I let the hot tears stream down my face, my breath shaking with my sobs.
I’m hurt, and disappointed, and confused.
Because if he was struggling this badly, if he felt he had no other choice but to turn to drugs… he didn’t trust me enough to come to me. To be honest and tell me that he needed help.
I had to find out likethis.
Not even from him.
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor, crying until there’s nothing left, until I think I can somehow lessen the hurt and confusion I feel. My apartment is dark and my face is stiff and puffy from dried tears. And if anything, I just feel worse.
He never answered my text messages, and his phone is still going straight to voicemail. Radio silence.
I pull myself off the floor, wincing because my limbs are asleepafter sitting on the hardwood for hours. I walk to my bedroom and strip out of my clothes before slipping beneath the covers and burying my face into the blankets that still smell like Cillian.
There’s a fresh new wave of tears, and the last thing I remember before sleep pulls me under is all I want is Cillian to prove to me that this was all a mistake.
