by Joanna Bell
You want to know the worst part? He sounded so sincere. He really sounded like he meant it. I almost caught myself feeling sorry for him as I sat there, forcing myself to keep the image of Cillian with his hand up a random girl's skirt while he was still married to me in the forefront of my mind.
"OK," I said again. "Is there – is that it? Is there anything else?"
"No," he replied and I swear I didn't see anything in his eyes that even hinted at insincerity. "I mean it, Astrid. I really am sorry. Not just for how I acted with you but for so much. I really haven't lived a good life, you know. I mean, I'm sure you do know it. You're the kind of person who knows things like that."
I would have protested the last two sentences if I hadn't been so surprised by the one that came before them, the confession that Cillian thought he hadn't lived a "good" life. I wasn't expecting that. Not out of anyone who wasn't a lot older than he was for one thing, but especially not out of him. I actually looked right at him after he said it, searching his expression for some sign of deception.
I couldn't find one. My ex-husband looked and sounded like a man who meant every word.
"You don't trust me."
I turned away, focused my gaze back on the ocean.
"It's OK," he continued. "I understand. Of course you don't trust me. No one does. No one ever has. That used to piss me off."
"And now it doesn't?"
Cillian shrugged and ran a hand across the tips of a clump of dry grass. "I don't like it, if that's what you're asking. Who likes not being trusted? I'm just saying I get it. I get that it's my fault. People didn't trust me because I wasn't trustworthy."
I let out a short, mirthless little laugh as I thought of the photos. "And now you are?"
"No. That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying – I guess it's the difference between knowing what you did wrong and not doing it anymore – right? Like I can know stealing candy bars from the Super Mart is wrong, but it doesn't matter unless I stop stealing candy bars."
I couldn't help but look directly at him when he said that. The temptation was there to just blurt it all out – that I knew what he'd gotten up to when I left Sweetgrass Ridge, that I had in fact seen some high-definition photos of it, and that he could stop trying to bullshit me.
But I didn't want to bring it up. I didn't want to hand him the opportunity to apologize or play it down or make excuses. I wanted him to do it. All those months in the jungle and I still wanted things from Cillian Devlin.
"So are you going to stop stealing candy bars?" I asked, trying to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice, trying to sound like I was just making conversation.
Cillian took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Yeah. Yeah. I mean, I hope so. Things haven't been so great for me lately but... I'm trying. I'll try."
It was all so perfectly vague. But the anger and hurt I was trying desperately to keep on the down-low wasn't entirely directed at Cillian. Maybe it wasn't even mostly directed at him. I was angry at myself, too. Irritated at the fact that even as I sat there knowing perfectly well he was keeping things from me, I still couldn't help but feel for him. I couldn't stop my heart softening at the new, not quite so cocky version of the man I'd fallen for almost a year before.
"You want to know why?"
"Why what?" I asked, thinking maybe it was time to hike back down the hill and go back to my hotel.
"Do you want to know why I've even been thinking about this stuff?"
It hurt to look at him. I swear it physically hurt. Like the cold blue of his eyes was actually a weapon piercing my soft, vulnerable flesh.
"Why?"
He ran one hand over the back of his neck. "You."
"Oh yeah?" I asked, wincing with how badly I wanted to believe him, with how thirsty I apparently still was for his approval, his affection, his attention. "Me?"
"Yeah. You. Look, Astrid. I know I lost you. I know you're here right now – because I begged and pleaded – but don't think I don't know you're gone. Being with you made me see things in a different way, though – a way I'm not sure I ever would have seen them. It made me want to be better. I mean," he laughed ruefully, "not that you would know it if you could see my life these days. I'm just saying you made me think about things. And I'm still thinking about them."
"But you're still stealing candy bars?"
Cillian shook his head. "I'm trying not to. I've cut way down. But things are fucked in other ways now. I'm bad at this, you know. I'm bad at dealing with life. Maybe because I didn't really have to deal with it until you left me? And now this thing with Jackson – I don't know, Astrid. I really don't know how this is going to go with him. And if it doesn't go well, I don't see how it doesn't wreck me even worse than I'm already wrecked. I was already falling apart, you know. Before Jackson was even hurt! And now – yeah. I dunno."
I think Cillian Devlin and myself were each other's mutual first gut-punches from life. I once thought it was my embarrassingly canceled wedding, but it wasn't – it was Cillian. He was the agent of one of humanity's most universal lessons: you can't always get what you want. And from what he was telling me, I was the same for him. Only he was also dealing with an estranged sibling in the hospital as well – and a family so dysfunctional I honestly don't think I would have believed it if I hadn't briefly experienced it myself.
It made me feel for him. It made me, sitting there beside him in the hot California sunshine, want to put my arms around him and clutch his head to my chest and whisper in his ear that it was going to be OK – that I was going to make everything OK for him.
That was the instinct. And maybe my time in Peru didn't 'fix' me as thoroughly as I thought it did – but I wasn't the same person I was before, either. I was harder. Better at accepting the fact that things don't always work out the way you want them to.
Sitting next to Cillian didn't feel any different than it ever did. If I closed my eyes I could have been back beside that creek with him, the one he pulled me out of on the first full day of our acquaintance. All the simmering heat that had been in my belly that day was there again. All the butterflies, all the sweet nerves, all of it.
But we weren't beside the creek anymore. We were in Los Angeles and my self-control was lessening by the moment.
"I should probably get back," I said. "This was nice. I, um – it's nice just to be able to talk to you. But I should get back to the hotel."
He didn't offer any resistance. He didn't put his hands on me or ask me to stay or invite me back to his hotel. He just nodded and got up and started walking back down the hill.
In the parking lot at the trailhead we faced each other.
"I meant what I said," he told me. "I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry for how I handled things with you. I'm sorry for how I was. And I'm sorry my brother might die before I ever get the chance to –"
He broke off, clenching one hand into a tight fist and pressing it against his mouth.
My whole body burned to reach out, to touch his arm or take his hand or place my open palm gently on his cheek. But I stayed where I was, steeling myself. I couldn't give in. I could feel for him, I reasoned with the part of me that wanted to gather him into an embrace, but I couldn't give in. Cillian Devlin was not my responsibility.
"I'm sorry about your brother," I said. "I'm sure he knows, Cillian. I'm sure he knows you love him."
"Yeah," he said, coughing loudly after a long pause. "I'm not so sure about that. I know you already know this but my family is kind of fucked up. I'm pretty sure Jackson thinks I hate his guts. I always acted like I hated his guts. That's how it works, right? The only thing that matters is how you act. Even if you say you love someone – and believe me, I never did that – even if deep down you do love them, nothing matters except how you act. It took me awhile to get that – and I meant what I said about it being because of you. I know I fucked up. With us, too. I know I fucked everything up. I didn't know how much I was going to like you. Isn't that weird? I fucked it up because I liked you. It
would have been so much easier if I didn't."
I dug the tip of my shoe into the dusty ground and dragged it back and forth. "Yeah, I had that thought too – that it would have been easier if I didn't like you so much. When we met, I mean."
"I'm almost thankful for it though," he continued. "Thankful for knowing you, even if it didn't work out. If I never met you, if you never broke my heart, I doubt I would be here right now. I'd still be the same ignorant asshole I was."
"I broke your heart?"
For maybe the first time since I arrived in LA, Cillian and I really looked at each other.
"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah. You did."
Chapter 30: Astrid
I should have gone to a café with Cillian. Or to the beach to sit (fully clothed) and watch the waves. Anything that didn't involve movement. Anything that didn't involve me having to avert my eyes from the way the fabric of his t-shirt stretched over the expanse of his chest.
I actually had to lie down when I got back to my hotel room. I slammed the door shut behind me as if I was being pursued – which in a way I was, if one can be pursued by one's own deeply inconvenient desires.
It made me laugh bitterly. All of that work – physical and mental. All of those weeks and months of hard labor. All of that self-congratulation about missing him but not needing him, all of it gone in a puff of magician's smoke at the mere presence of the man from Sweetgrass Ridge, Montana.
***
A few days after the hike – days I spent browsing bookstores and art galleries in Los Angeles, determined to keep a safe distance between Cillian Devlin and myself – he got a phone call from his stepmother. His brother was past the riskiest part of his recovery. Still unconscious, he could now have visitors.
"Will you come with me?"
That was the first thing he asked after he gave me the news.
"Of course I will," I replied. "Yes. Of course."
That's why I was there, wasn't it? To provide platonic support to a man who didn't have many others he could turn to? And then to return to my life right where I left it, never to lose a moments sleep to thoughts of my ex-husband again?
I obviously wasn't allowed into the room. I wasn't a relative. So I waited outside in a tastefully decorated reception area in the burn unit. Cillian's father and stepmother were there as well. I treated them politely. Darcy returned the favor but Jack just grunted when I said hello, shaking his head like he was disappointed to see me. The feeling was mutual.
Jack insisted on going in to see Jackson first but he came out only a few minutes later. He then tried to go in again with Cillian but the nurse stopped him when Cillian objected. For a moment it actually looked like it might get heated but another nurse appeared and, probably used to dealing with upset family members, handled Jack like the bratty child he was.
"I know you must be so worried about your son, sir..."
Sir. Ha. It worked, though. Jack Devlin is one of those men who puffs up like a beach ball when people make a big, schmoozy show of respecting them.
I wondered what Cillian was saying to his brother in the hospital room. I wondered what he was seeing, too. As far as I knew, they didn't keep people in induced comas for weeks if their injuries were minor. If it was very bad, how was he going to handle it?
More parking-lot blondes, probably.
I banished that thought from my mind as soon as it popped up. It didn't feel right to be thinking that way – not at that particular moment.
Twenty-five minutes later, Cillian walked back into the reception area with an expression of cold shock written across his handsome features.
Everyone saw it. Even the nurse at the desk leapt to her feet and we all – the nurse, Jack Devlin, Darcy Devlin and myself – ran towards him.
"Mr. Devlin? Why don't you sit down for a few minutes and let me bring you a glass of water. It can be a surprise to see someone we love in such a vulnerable place..."
"Cillian? Why don't you come out for dinner with your father and I? There's a new Thai restaurant in Los Feliz with 2 Michelin stars and..."
"Come with us, son. Come on, let's get the fuck out of here and..."
Cillian ignored every single one of them. He didn't even seem to notice them crowding around him. Instead he just walked straight towards me. I could see he was barely holding it together.
"Get me out of here," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't care where we go. Just get me the fuck out of here."
I slipped my hand into his, almost crying to see him so shaken. "OK," I said softly. "Let's go. It's OK. It's OK."
He needed me. Cillian needed me and the past faded into irrelevance in the face of that need. If you see someone bleeding out in front of you, you tie a bandage around their wounds – right?
Of course Jack pushed his way ahead, his ego wounded by Cillian's indifference, and walked out of the hospital in front of us.
And then just outside the doors I noticed a beautiful, dark-haired woman walking towards us. When she saw the Devlins – and they saw her – all 4 of them stopped in their tracks. It was obvious they knew each other even before Jack turned his head to the side and spat on the ground as the woman stared absolute daggers in his direction.
"Who was that?" I asked, but Cillian just shook his head at me.
"I'll tell you later."
Back in the car, he sat silently in the driver's seat for a long time, staring down at the steering wheel as if in a trance.
"Cillian –" I started, reaching out to rub his arm.
"Just give me a few minutes," he said. "I just need a few minutes."
So I gave him a few minutes. Eventually, he turned towards me just in time for me to watch his face crumple before he covered it with his hands and wept.
He wept the way men weep – silently, his shaking shoulders the only testament to the turmoil within. I kept my hand on his arm so he would know I was there with him.
"Fuck!" He yelled a few minutes later, wiping his eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ, Astrid! That was – that was really bad! That was not something I ever want to see again. I never want to see that again. Not ever."
"They're letting him have visitors now," I said quietly. "That's a good sign, isn't it? Even if he looked bad, it's a good sign."
"It's not even the burns," he replied, sighing deeply and rubbing the spot between his eyebrows. "Don't get me wrong, he's fucked up. One whole side of his body is fucked up. It's not that, though. It's how – it's how weak he looks. Just lying there wrapped in bandages, unconscious. I never – I never saw him like that before. I never thought of Jackson like that, you know? Even though he's not even a year older than me he was always my big brother. He was always so strong and capable. That's why I hated him – he was always better than me at everything. And now –"
Cillian trailed off, struggling once more to get control of his emotions.
He laughed suddenly. "His face is fine, though. He's lucky about that. Jackson always was the good-looking one."
The thought that if Jackson Devlin was better-looking than Cillian he must have been an actual Greek god passed through my mind, but I didn't say anything.
"It's like I said," I repeated. "He's being allowed visitors. That means the risk of infection is lower now. It's a good sign. And – Cillian?"
"Yeah?"
"You're strong and capable, too."
He paused, as if trying to work out whether or not I really meant it.
"Yeah. Maybe. But I definitely wasn't ready to see him like that. I just want him to be OK. I hope he wakes up. I hope he makes it because there's some stuff I need to tell him. And if he – if he dies –"
"Do you want me to drive?" I asked, because I wanted to help so badly and I didn't know what else to say.
Cillian looked up. The car was parked in the shade of a tree so the interior was dimly lit, but not so dimly lit that I couldn't see the tears glistening in his blue eyes. I reached out without thinking, driven by that urge to comfort – and maybe driven by something else, too
– and caressed his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into my hand before opening them again and meeting my gaze.
I honestly don't remember who leaned forward first. I remember reaching for him, stretching out my arms towards him the way a starving person might reach towards a platter piled high with fresh pastries.
I do remember who stopped it, though: Cillian. He physically stopped himself at the last minute, pulling back, turning away from me.
"No," he said, almost more to himself than to me. "No. No. I think – yeah, Astrid, I would appreciate it if you drove."
He practically leapt out of the car. Don't get me wrong, I was glad of it. I was glad one of us had the wherewithal to do the right thing. It stung a little, though. It shouldn't have, but it did.
***
"You want to know who that was?" Cillian asked as I drove to the closest restaurant I could find, insistent that he not go back to his hotel room without some food in his belly. "At the hospital – that girl outside the doors?"
"Yeah," I replied, remembering the look of pure loathing she had shot Jack and Darcy Devlin.
"It was her. Jackson's ex – or I guess maybe not his ex? The one who was pregnant with –"
"Really?!" I burst out, oddly overjoyed that a stranger's relationship – one I had assumed was over – perhaps wasn't. "Are you sure?"
Cillian nodded in the passenger seat. "Yup, that was her. I'm glad. It means Jackson has someone. Someone other than his shitty family."
"You can talk to him when he wakes up," I said as we pulled up outside a small taco place. "You can say what you need to say then."
"I hope so."
***
"Come up."
We were parked outside Cillian's hotel.
"I promise I won't try anything," he continued. "It's not about that. Come up and eat tacos with me. I really don't want to be alone right now. I know how fucking weak that sounds but –"
"OK," I replied. "I'll come up."
I sat down in an uncomfortable armchair as soon as we were inside the room. The man I was briefly married to sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging low. I handed him a taco.