TWENTY-THREE
Kieran hadn’t slept.
He’d tried. Had lain in bed for maybe an hour, staring at the ceiling, replaying the fight in his head on an endless loop. Every word. Every accusation. The look on Rory’s face when he’d shouted.
Eventually he’d given up and moved to the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, the blue glow of the screen the only light in the dark house. His eyes were gritty and raw. A dull ache was building behind his temples.
He was on Airbnb. Scrolling through listings in San Francisco. Portland. Denver. Anywhere that wasn’t here.
Studio in the Mission District. $2,400/month. Available now.
He clicked on it. Looked at the photos. Exposed brick. Small kitchen. A window that looked out onto an alley.
It was fine. It was somewhere else. That was the point.
Because you want all of me but you won’t give me the one thing I actually need.
Kieran’s jaw tightened.
Fuck Rory. Seriously. Fuck him.
Kieran had opened up. Had given Rory the worst parts of himself, the cowardice, the guilt, the shame of never coming out to his dying mom, and Rory had just…taken it. Absorbed it. Given nothing back.
And then had the audacity to make Kieran the problem. Like wanting to know that the person you’re sleeping with was married was somehow unreasonable. Like basic honesty was too much to ask.
I wasn’t hiding it.
“Bullshit,” Kieran muttered to the empty room.
He could still hear Rory’s voice, calm and measured at first, explaining himself as if Kieran was being dramatic. Like a marriage and seven years of death and grief was a footnote. An oversight.
Oops, forgot to mention my dead wife. My bad.
And okay, fine, maybe the delivery had been brutal.
Maybe hearing about the drunk driver and the red light and Britt being dead before the ambulance arrived gutted Kieran.
But that didn’t erase the fact that Rory had kept it from him.
For months. While Kieran was spilling his guts about his mom, about all the ways he’d failed her.
Rory should have told him. Should have stopped Kieran mid-confession and said, Hey, I know loss too. Let me tell you about my wife.
But he didn’t. He just left Kieran standing there as the only broken one in the room.
Kieran scrolled to another listing. Portland this time. A loft in the Pearl District. Exposed ductwork. Rooftop access. The photos showed a farmer’s market within walking distance, people in rain jackets carrying canvas bags, everything soft and gray and far from Southern California.
He could picture it. Starting over somewhere new. Again. Pack up, move on, leave this mess behind.
It was what he was good at.
He clicked through to Seattle. A houseboat on Lake Union. Absurdly expensive, ridiculously impractical, but he looked at all twelve photos anyway. Imagined himself standing on the deck in the mornings, coffee in hand, watching the fog roll across the water.
No one would know him there. No neighbors with complicated pasts and devastating eyes.
No history.
No expectations.
No Rory explaining in that wrecked voice how he’d identified his wife’s body.
Kieran closed his eyes. Pressed his fingertips against his eyelids until he saw stars.
He didn’t want to think about that. About Rory walking into a hospital room expecting a mistake and finding a body instead.
It was easier to be angry.
He clicked back to the San Francisco listing and hit “Contact Host.”
A message box opened. The cursor blinked.
He typed quickly, before he could second-guess it.
Hi, I’m interested in your listing. I’m looking for a month-to-month rental, flexible move-in date. Is the unit still available? I can provide references.
He read it once. Hit send. Done.
His stomach lurched, not satisfaction, not relief. Closer to vertigo. The feeling of jumping before he’d checked how far down the ground was.
He closed the laptop. The room went dark.
On the floor near the couch, Mabel shifted in her sleep, legs twitching through some dream. Kieran watched her—the rise and fall of her side, the soft snuffling sounds she made.
Hank was pressed against the base of the couch, one paw resting on Kieran’s foot. Warm. Trusting. Asleep in the way only a dog who feels safe can sleep.
Kieran leaned his head back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. Silence.
The host would probably respond by morning. Then he’d have options. A plan. An exit.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do about all of it.