22. Cillian
twenty-two
Cillian
Six Months Later
Burying myself in work hasn’t made me forget her.
It’s quite the opposite, actually. Especially because I see her father every goddamn day. A constant reminder of my loss and my shame.
Six months have crawled by since I told her to leave, but Ivy’s reaction is seared into my memory. Her turquoise eyes wide with shock, gorgeous face twisted in utter devastation. I can still hear her wracking sobs. Feel the weight of her heartbreak .
I crushed the only woman I’ve ever loved into dust. The guilt gnaws at me relentlessly, which makes me drink myself to sleep at night. Each morning, I wake up hating myself more.
Familiar sounds of construction echo around me—jackhammers, cranes, the chatter of workers. It’s been a long fucking day in the freezing cold, but there’s much work to be done and a deadline looming. Bright Shipping’s headquarters is slated for demolition soon, and the endless last-minute bullshit red tape to handle drives me crazy.
Peter Vander approaches with a clipboard in hand. “Here are the latest environmental reports. We’ve got a meeting with the city inspector early tomorrow morning to, hopefully, finalize everything.”
“Thanks. I’m ready. The last thing we need is a delay.” I skim through the documents feeling confident we’ll work through the issue.
As we stroll around the building, which has been cleared out, Peter and I discuss the demolition schedule when we run into Stanley Bright. He’s a daunting figure, always impeccably groomed and dressed in a tailored suit. For obvious reasons, I’m never fully comfortable around the man, but I try to hide it.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Stanley’s booming voice commands attention. “I’m ready for the progress report. ”
I purposely meet his gaze. “We’re on track for the demolition, Mr. Bright. Just finalizing a few environmental concerns.”
“Excellent.” Stanley nods, his piercing blue eyes assessing me. “I trust there won’t be any issues?”
“No, sir,” Peter replies confidently. “We’ve got everything under control.”
Stanley turns his attention back to me. “Cillian, I hope I can trust this project is in capable hands. You were late this morning.”
“Uh…sorry, Mr. Bright, I had a family matter,” I lie, feeling mortified he noticed. The truth of the matter is, I slept through my alarm.
He squints, then points at me. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
Stanley walks away and Peter and I exchange a glance. “He’s a hard man to please,” Peter mutters.
“Yeah,” I agree, my mind drifting to Ivy growing up under his tough scrutiny. I wonder how she’s doing at Stanford, but quickly push those thoughts aside. I have a job to do.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in my truck on the way home to shower before I head out for the evening. Before I can stop myself, I’m parked at BevMo, where I pick up four bottles of Red Breast. Every time, I tell myself my drinking is under control—I only drink to silence my mind long enough to fall asleep .
I know it’s a lie.
I’m terrified I can’t stop.
Tonight, I have dinner plans with my brothers, Seamus and Brennan. I’m not looking forward to it. I’ve avoided family dinners ever since I ended things with Ivy because I don’t want to talk about it. Everything is too raw and painful. It’s easier to try to get through each day alone.
Once I’m home, rather than shower, I sit at the counter, pour myself a drink and stare out into the space. The ache in my chest intensifies picturing Ivy and me cuddled up on the sofa watching a movie. I miss her beyond words. Taking a long sip, I wish the whiskey would numb the wound. I know better, though. It won’t heal. It never does.
Let’s be real, no amount of alcohol will ever fill the void Ivy left behind.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brennan.
Where are you? We’re waiting at O’Malley’s .
Fuck.
Feeling a pang of guilt, I pick up the phone. The truth is, I don’t want to see my brothers tonight. I text back.
Not feeling well. Can’t make it. Catch you later.
Moving to the sofa, I sit down with a fresh glass and savor the whiskey burning a familiar path down my throat. I’m lost in thought, but vaguely hear the elevator churning its way up. I’m not surprised to see Brennan and Seamus emerge, concern etched on their faces.
“Cillian, what the hell?” Brennan demands, holding up the half-empty bottle. “You said you weren’t feeling well. Seems like you’re fine here drinking by yourself.”
“Fuck off.” I shake my head.
Seamus, my youngest brother sits beside me. “We’re worried about you, Kill. This isn’t normal.”
“Seriously, guys.” I glare at them, the alcohol fueling my irritation. “What’s it to you if I have a few drinks at home? I’m not hurting anyone.”
Brennan’s expression softens. “We’re worried you’re going down a path. It’s a slippery slope when you start hiding your drinking.”
“I’m not, Dad,” I snap. “I’ve got everything under control.”
“Do you?” Seamus asks quietly. My softspoken brother is different from the rest of us. “Because it doesn’t seem like you do. You have the world at your feet. The business is doing better than ever, this should be the best time of your life. Don’t let everything you’ve worked for slip away because you’re drowning in a bottle.”
I look away. The truth of their words stings but they have no idea the Bright Shipping project doesn’t come close to being the best time of my life. The seven weeks Ivy and I spent… “Stop making such a big fucking deal. I have a lot on my mind. A couple of drinks before bed helps me sleep.”
“We get it.” Brennan sits on the other side of me and places a hand on my shoulder. “Can’t you find another way to relax? Drinking yourself into oblivion isn’t the answer. You know this.”
I scoff and take another swig. “You two think you know everything, huh? You think you understand what my life is like?”
“We saw what Da’s drinking did to him.” Brennan’s voice is steady but pained. “And we’re worried about you following in his footsteps. You missed his fucking birthday party. We know it wasn’t work-related, you were here on your own getting drunk. You should know, it tore Mom apart.”
Seamus pleads, “Don’t go down the same path, Kill. We don’t want to lose you to this.”
My childhood memories flood back. Connor’s resentment. The fights. The tears. The way Ma would cry herself to sleep. I shake my head, trying to block it out.
“I’m not Da.” My voice rises. “I’m not going to end up like him because I don’t have a wife or kids. Who the fuck cares ?”
“I do. Seamus does. Your family cares.” Brennan claps my back. “We can’t stand by and watch it happen. ”
“Get the fuck out,” I snap. My anger boils over. “Both of you. Leave me alone. Neither of you know what it’s like to live with this… emptiness .”
Seamus reaches for me “Kill, please…”
“Leave!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t need your help. Get. The. Fuck. Out. ”
My brothers hesitate for a moment and I have a flashback to the moment I told Ivy to leave. Jesus, the looks on their faces. Helplessness. Sorrow. I’m pushing everyone I care about away.
As the door closes behind them, the silence in the loft is deafening. I finish my drink and pour another one. My guilt, shame, and anger has turned into quite a toxic cocktail. Now it’s bleeding into my relationships with my brothers.
“I’m not Da,” I whisper to myself, trying to believe it.
Except, the more I drink, the more I feel like I’m slipping into some unknown oblivion. The whiskey burns, but it’s a familiar pain. One I’ve grown accustomed to. Seamus and Brennan have a valid point. I should stop but, truthfully, I don’t want to.
A while later, I finish the bottle and stumble to bed. As I collapse onto the mattress, Ivy’s face haunts my thoughts.
I think back to our last moments. The desperate passion. The intense breakup. I replay it over and over, wondering if I made the right decision. Every time, I come to the same conclusion.
Yes.
I’ve spent a lot of time around her domineering father, I’ve come to understand why she lied about her age and rebelled. Truth be told, she could have had anyone, I happened to be at Kells the night she set off on her mission. Which meant I was the lucky one to share those blissful weeks with her.
Ivy deserves better than me. A man fourteen years her senior who greedily took every part of her innocence. The fucking idiot who tossed her aside like she was trash instead of treating her with empathy and care.
“I’m sorry, mo shíorghrá ,” I whisper into the darkness. “I miss you so fucking much.”
My words are empty. An echo of my endless, consuming remorse. No amount of whiskey can ever erase her memory or fill the void she left behind.
My love for her was real.
I wish I could find a way to move forward, but it’s impossible.
The memories are a bittersweet reminder of what could have been.
Ivy haunts my every waking moment.