48. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
The city blurs across the windshield as I merge onto the interstate. Maeve hasn't spoken since we left her parents' house. I don't ask her to. Silence isn't uncomfortable.
Not for either of us. The GPS says twenty-three minutes to my apartment.
Twenty-three minutes for my brain to stop replaying the conversation in Cormac's office.
It doesn't.
Matt had closed the file and looked directly at Cormac. "I don't believe Ronan Gallagher ever intended to dismantle your organization."
Cormac had frowned. "Then what the hell did he want?"
"The life." Matt slid another folder across the desk. "We've been peeling back his finances for weeks." Cormac opened it. "Everything he projected was manufactured."
"The companies?"
"Mostly shell corporations."
"The investments?"
"Leveraged."
"The real estate?"
"Owned by holding groups connected to rival donors." Matt had paused. "On paper, Ronan Gallagher looked wealthy enough to stand beside your daughter." Another pause. "In reality..."
"He owned almost nothing." I remember Cormac leaning back in his chair.
Not angry. Confused. "So why spend fifteen years building something that wasn't real?"
Matt didn't answer immediately. "Because he didn't need to become more powerful than you. He only needed to convince everyone else that he already was."
The room had gone quiet. "We believe he spent the better part of fifteen years creating the identity of the man worthy of marrying Maeve."
Not because he loved her. Because he loved everything surrounding her. The influence. The access. The status. The security.
Matt had folded his hands together. "I don't think Ronan wanted to destroy your family."
His eyes had drifted toward the office door where Maeve was sitting with Rachel and her mother. "I think he wanted to belong to it."
The memory fades as I stop at a red light.
Beside me, Maeve rests her forehead against the passenger window. She's exhausted. Understandably. She should probably sleep for the next three days. Instead she's still awake. Still watching the world pass by.
My fingers tap once against the steering wheel. The rhythm settles my thoughts. For now.
My apartment isn't far. It isn't much. Functional. Organized. Quiet.
Now...I find myself wondering if I should've bought groceries.
****
The elevator climbs the two floors, the quiet hum filling the space between us.
I glance toward her just as the doors slide open. "My apartment's this way."
She simply nods and follows.
The familiar weight of my keys settles into my palm as I unlock the door.
For a second, I hesitate. It's an unfamiliar feeling.
Grayline has been here. Matt has. Wheels has walked in without knocking more times than I can count despite repeatedly being told the purpose of a lock.
Rachel occasionally appears with food because she's decided protein bars don't qualify as meals.
Maeve is different.
This isn't a teammate stopping by.
This is someone I'm inviting inside.
The deadbolt clicks open, and I step back, holding the door for her.
"After you."
She crosses the threshold slowly, not because she's hesitant, but because she's looking. Really looking. Her eyes travel from the bookshelf to the kitchen, over the couch, the framed photographs on the wall, the stack of records beside the turntable. She isn't searching for danger anymore.
"I don't know why," she says quietly, "but this is exactly what I imagined your apartment would look like."
I glance around the room. "I clean every Saturday."
A smile tugs at her lips. "I wasn't talking about that."
"You were probably talking about the fact that every book is organized alphabetically."
"I was."
"And by subject."
"I noticed."
"And publication date."
She laughs softly, shaking her head. "I hadn't gotten that far."
"Hm." I make a mental note to reorganize the bottom shelf later.
She wanders toward the kitchen while I set her suitcase beside the hallway. My apartment has always been designed around efficiency. Everything has a purpose. Everything has a place. There isn't much here that doesn't serve a function.
Until now, that had been enough.
Now my eyes catch on things they've never considered before.
One coffee mug drying beside the sink.
One towel hanging neatly from the rack.
A freezer with exactly three frozen pizzas because I replace one every time I eat one.
My pantry contains coffee, oatmeal, protein bars, pasta, rice, and enough canned soup to survive a natural disaster.
I should've bought groceries.
Not because I eat differently.
Because she does.
The realization settles somewhere in the back of my mind, quietly adding itself to tomorrow's list.
"I should probably warn you," I say as we walk down the hallway. "The apartment was configured for one occupant until approximately forty-three minutes ago."
She looks over her shoulder.
"Configured?"
"Yes."
"You make it sound like software."
"It's easier than admitting I only own one coffee mug."
Her laugh echoes softly down the hallway.
"I'll survive."
I rest my hand against the frame before pushing the bedroom door open.
"This room is yours."
Maeve steps inside slowly, taking in the space without saying anything.
The afternoon sun reaches across the hardwood floors, warming the foot of the bed before climbing halfway up the opposite wall.
Everything is where it belongs. The bed is made.
The dresser is empty. Fresh towels are folded neatly on the chair beside the closet.
Rachel headed over here first. Told me that she needed to make sure my apartment was in “working order.” Whatever that means. Now I am grateful she stopped by and made sure the room was ready for Maeve.
She smiles as she turns toward me. "It's beautiful."
"It has the best natural light."
"I had a feeling that would be your reason."
I lean against the doorframe, watching her continue around the room. She brushes her fingertips over the dresser before looking back toward me.
"So where are you sleeping?"
"The guest room."
Her forehead creases. "This is your room."
"It was."
The distinction hangs in the air.
She studies the room for another moment before asking, "When was the last time you slept in here?"
I don't answer immediately. Not because I'm avoiding the question. Because I'm calculating the time frame.
"Eight months."
She turns toward me. "That long?"
I nod once. "The last night I slept in here was the night before I came home early."
She waits.
When I don't continue, she quietly asks, "What happened?"
I glance back into the room. "I was seeing someone.
" The statement feels more accurate than calling it a relationship.
"She had been living here for several months.
" Maeve doesn't interrupt. "I returned from work earlier than expected and found another man in my bed.
" I don't dress it up. The facts don't improve with embellishment. "I asked her to leave."
Her expression softens. "And then you just...stopped sleeping in here?"
"The room stopped functioning."
She blinks. "What?"
I hear the confusion in her voice and realize I've explained it poorly. "The room became associated with a failed pattern."
That doesn't seem to help. I try again.
"I knew where everything happened." The bed. The doorway. The nightstand. The hallway. "I couldn't unknow it." So I adapted. "The guest room contained no associated memories."
She watches me quietly. "So...you moved."
"It was the most efficient solution."
She lowers her eyes. "I'm sorry."
The apology catches me off guard. "For what?"
"For making you think about..." She gestures vaguely toward the room. "...all of this."
I glance around the bedroom. The bed is still made. The dresser is still where I left it. Nothing in the room has changed because we talked about it.
"You didn't." Her brow furrows. "The memory was already there." I shrug lightly. "You just asked about it."
She studies my face, searching for something I'm apparently not displaying correctly. "You don't seem angry."
"I'm not."
"Hurt?"
I consider the question longer than she probably expects. "I was." Past tense. "Not anymore."
She nods slowly, but I can tell she doesn't understand.
"The relationship ended eight months ago. The emotional response associated with that event has decreased substantially since then."
That doesn't seem to help. "I don't blame her."
Her head tilts. "You don't?"
"No."
"But..." She glances toward the bedroom again. "She cheated on you."
"Yes."
"And you don't blame her?"
The answer feels obvious. "No."
She waits. When I don't elaborate, she finally asks, "Why?"
I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms across my chest. "My brain works differently."
"I know."
"I don't mean intelligence."
She shakes her head. "I know what you meant."
"I require routine."
She nods. "I've noticed."
"I notice patterns other people don't." Another nod. "I become uncomfortable when those patterns change unexpectedly."
She smiles faintly. "I've definitely noticed that."
"My food is organized. My schedule rarely changes. I've eaten the same breakfast for..." I pause, doing the math. "...approximately four years."
That earns a quiet laugh.
"I don't always understand why people react emotionally to situations before they explain them." Her smile fades just enough for me to continue. "I miss things I'm apparently supposed to recognize."
Like flirting. Sarcasm. When someone wants comfort instead of a solution.
"I have habits that most people eventually find exhausting." The words don't hurt to say. They're simply accurate. "I understand that."
Silence stretches between us.
"I don't think she stopped loving me because she met someone else." The sentence leaves my mouth before I realize I've never actually said it aloud. Maeve doesn't interrupt. "I think she met someone else because she stopped loving me."
I look past her into the room. "Those aren't the same thing." She remains quiet. "People don't usually leave relationships because of one event."
They leave because of hundreds. Thousands. Small disappointments accumulating over time until the outcome becomes inevitable.
"My habits didn't suddenly appear the day I found them together." I smile without humor. "They were always there."
I glance back at Maeve. "I think she simply reached the point where loving me required more effort than she wanted to give."
The apartment falls quiet. For a long moment, neither of us says anything.
Then Maeve asks the question so softly I almost miss it. "Do you really believe that?"
I think about it. Then nod once.
"I've never found evidence suggesting otherwise."