38. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
I don't sleep. I try.
For the first hour, I lie flat on my back and stare at the ceiling while my brain cycles through everything that could go wrong once the sun comes up. Eventually, I roll onto my side, adjust the pillow, close my eyes, and attempt the breathing exercise Rachel taught me years ago.
It doesn't work. Mostly because Maeve is six feet away from me. Maybe seven. I could calculate the exact distance if I opened my eyes, but that seems like information I shouldn't have.
So I lie there and listen to her breathe.
At first, it's uneven. She shifts beneath the blankets every few minutes, the mattress creaking softly as she rolls from one side to the other.
Once, she sits up completely, and every muscle in my body tenses until I hear her take a drink of water and settle back down.
Eventually, her breathing changes. Deepens. Slows. I know the exact moment she falls asleep. I don't know how I know. I just do. Then, approximately twenty-three minutes later, she starts snoring.
I smile into the darkness. Not loudly. It's barely more than a soft little sound every few breaths, but it's there.
Maeve Gallagher snores. This feels like privileged information. I should probably never mention it. I will absolutely mention it.
Not today. Probably not tomorrow. But someday, when I'm reasonably confident she won't make me sleep outside the bedroom door again, I'm going to tell her. The thought makes me pause.
Someday.
I stare into the darkness. That's new. I don't examine it too closely.
Instead, I listen to her breathe until the black beyond the curtains slowly gives way to the faint gray light of morning.
Today is going to be a shit show. There's no analytical way to soften that conclusion. Last night had been the easy part.
Which is concerning, considering the easy part involved illegally entering the Gallagher estate, removing Maeve without anyone's permission, commandeering Bullet's safe house, being yelled at by Matt, and discovering that Maeve's hands on my face apparently have the ability to shut down every useful function in my brain.
Today, we have to go back to the real world. I have to call Callum. That's going to be enjoyable.
I need to explain why the man he hired to investigate Ronan Gallagher decided to remove Ronan's wife from her home without consulting him first.
I already know how that conversation is going to go. Callum will yell. I'll explain. He'll yell louder. I'll point out that raising his voice doesn't alter the facts. He'll threaten to kill me.
Then he'll call Matt. Matt will tell him he's already yelled at me. Callum will decide that wasn't sufficient and start again.
I sigh quietly.
Maeve makes a soft sound from the bed. I immediately go still. Silence. Then another tiny snore.
My mouth twitches. Right.
The more difficult problem. Her. Not Maeve herself.
Maeve is currently the only thing in my life that doesn't feel like a problem, which is probably a problem in itself.
The issue is what happens when she wakes up.
Last night, Rachel had made me promise. I hadn't wanted to. I still don't.
The conversation happened while Bullet and Wheels were arguing over sandwich meat and Maeve was changing clothes.
Rachel had pulled me into the hallway. "You have to give her a choice."
"She has choices."
Rachel had given me the look she uses when she thinks I'm being deliberately difficult.
I usually am.
"All of them, Keaton."
I knew exactly what she meant. I'd said no. Immediately.
Rachel hadn't been impressed. "You don't get to do that."
"I'm not taking her back there."
"I'm not asking you to."
"It sounds exactly like you're asking me to."
"I'm telling you that when she wakes up tomorrow, you need to ask her where she wants to go."
I had stared at her. She had stared back.
Rachel is surprisingly difficult to intimidate for someone who regularly wears cardigans with flowers embroidered on the sleeves.
"Her parents," she'd said. "A hotel. Here. Somewhere else." Then she'd paused. I'd known what was coming. "Or Ronan."
I'd walked away. Rachel had followed me. I'd walked faster. She had continued following me. I'd considered climbing out a window.
In the end, she'd caught my arm and forced me to look at her. "Trust her."
I hadn't understood then. I'm not sure I do now. Rachel had sighed.
"Every choice has been taken away from Maeve. What she wears. Where she goes. Who she talks to. You can't rescue her by making another decision for her."
That had shut me up. Mostly because I hated that she was right. I'd looked through the doorway toward the bedroom where Maeve was changing into the clothes I'd managed to save.
"What if she chooses him?" The question had come out quieter than I'd intended.
Rachel's expression softened. I hated that too. "Then you let her."
No. Every part of me had rejected the idea. Viscerally. Violently.
I'd spent months watching Ronan reduce Maeve's world one decision at a time. I'd watched her smiles disappear. Watched her stop leaving the house. Watched her learn to apologize before she even understood what she'd done wrong.
I couldn't take her back. I wouldn't.
Rachel had squeezed my arm. "And then you make sure she knows she can leave again."
I hadn't liked that answer any more than the first one. But the problem with Rachel is that she understands people. The problem with me is that, at the moment, I don't understand a fucking thing.
I don't understand why the thought of Maeve going back to Ronan makes me want to tear something apart with my bare hands.
I don't understand why I slept on a hardwood floor because the couch felt too far away from her.
I don't understand why I know exactly how many times she shifted in her sleep or why the sound of her snoring made me smile like an idiot in the dark.
And I definitely don't understand why, when Rachel told me to trust Maeve, something inside me immediately responded that I already did.
So I'd done the only logical thing available. I'd deferred to someone with more experience. "Fine."
Rachel had narrowed her eyes. "Fine what?"
"I will follow your recommendation."
"That sounded painful."
"It was."
"Say it."
I'd glared at her. She'd smiled. I hated this family. "I will give Maeve every option."
"Including Ronan." I'd looked at the ceiling. "Keaton."
"Yes. Including Ronan."
Rachel had hugged me. Completely unnecessary.
I stare at the ceiling now as that promise sits like a weight on my chest. If Maeve chooses him, I have to let her go.
The thought makes my fingers twitch against the blanket beneath me.
Tap. Tap. Pause.
I stop myself before the next two. Today is going to be a shit show. Definitely.
A vibration sounds near my head. I freeze. Maeve shifts in the bed.
I turn toward her, watching as she rolls onto her other side and pulls the blanket higher over her shoulder.
Still asleep.
I reach for the phone on the floor beside me, then stop when the screen blurs.
I reach beside the pillow until my fingers find my glasses. The moment I slide them onto my face, the room comes back into focus.
Better. Much better.
I pick up my phone. Then groan. Callum. Of course.
Callum Rizzoli:
WHAT THE FUCK.
Me:
He was fucking killing her! He was choking her. I didn’t know what to do. I fucking took her. She’s safe.
Carefully, I push myself up from the floor and gather the phone and the weapon I'd left beside me. I don't bother with the pillow or blanket.
I make my way toward the door as quietly as possible.
My hand is on the knob when Maeve makes another soft sound behind me. I glance back. She's still asleep.
Her hair is spread across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek while the other grips the blanket near her chin.
Something pulls painfully beneath my ribs. Today, I have to ask her if she wants to go back.
I hate today.
My phone vibrates for the second time. I look at Callum's name. I hate him too.
Not really.
But it's six in the morning and I'm tired, my eyes hurt, and I'm about to get yelled at again.
I slip through the bedroom door and close it quietly behind me before answering the call.
"Good morning." Silence greets me.
Then Callum's voice comes through the phone. "What the fuck did you do?"
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
Apparently, I'd underestimated how quickly the shit show would begin.
"Good morning to you too, Callum."