TWENTY-FIVE
By the time the sun started to rise, they’d driven every street within a two-mile radius.
Twice.
Kieran’s voice was hoarse from yelling Hank’s name out the window. His eyes were dry and heavy. His hands ached from gripping the steering wheel too tight.
No Hank.
They’d regrouped at Kieran’s house around 5:30 a.m., exhausted, neither willing to say what they were both thinking.
They sat at Kieran’s kitchen table, the overhead light harsh and unforgiving, two cold and untouched mugs of coffee between them.
Mabel lay near the back door, occasionally lifting her head to look at them, waiting for her brother to come home.
“Okay,” Rory said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, tired. “We need a plan.”
Kieran nodded, staring at his hands. “Yeah.”
“You could make flyers,” Rory continued. “Put them up around the neighborhood. Include your number, a picture, maybe offer a reward.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“I’ll call the San Diego Humane Society when the shelter opens,” Rory continued. “Animal control too. See if anyone picked him up overnight.”
“What time do they open?”
“Ten,” Rory said, checking his phone.
Kieran glanced at the clock. 5:47 a.m. Four hours and thirteen minutes stretched forever.
“We could drive around again,” Kieran offered, even though his body was screaming for rest.
“We’ve covered everything within walking distance,” Rory said gently. “If he went farther than that, someone’s probably found him by now.”
“What if they didn’t?”
“Then we keep looking when it’s light. But right now, let’s focus on what we can control.”
Kieran nodded, not trusting his voice.
The kitchen fell quiet again. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a bird started singing, too cheerful and oblivious.
“Rory,” Kieran said.
Rory looked up.
“I owe you an apology.”
Rory waited.
“You were right.” Kieran said it before he could dress it up or soften it or make it more complicated than it was. “About me. About the staying. You were right.”
Rory was still.
“I went on Airbnb that night,” Kieran said. “San Francisco. I emailed a host about a rental. Month-to-month.”
Rory ground his teeth, but he didn’t look away.
“Your exact words,” Kieran said. “I used your exact words. And I didn’t even hear it until Emory asked me what that told me and I couldn’t answer her.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“This is what I do. Something gets hard and I look for the exit. Not just with you. With everything. My whole life.” He wasn’t looking at Rory now.
He was looking at his hands, at the cold coffee, at the table between them.
“I didn’t want to see it. But you said it on the driveway and Emory said it on the phone and I almost didn’t believe it until I was sitting in my car at two in the morning looking for my dog and you were already out there.
Looking for him. After I told you not to. ”
He stopped. Took a breath.
“And I made your grief about me. You told me the worst thing that ever happened to you, and I was a selfish asshole, thinking about how it made me feel. Like I had some right to your pain.”
He met Rory’s eyes.
“You don’t owe me your grief. I know that.”
Rory didn’t move. Then he nodded slowly. “What about San Francisco?” he asked. His voice was careful. Not accusatory.
“I told them I wasn’t interested.”
Rory studied him for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Are you staying, Kieran?”
The question was simple. But the weight behind it was seven years of loss and every casual thing Kieran had ever said about not having a plan.
“Yes,” Kieran said. “I’m staying.”
“Okay,” Rory said.
“I’m probably going to be bad at it sometimes. I’m going to get scared and do something stupid. But I don’t want to be the person who runs anymore.”
Rory nodded. He was looking at the table. His hand was wrapped around the cold mug and Kieran could see the knuckles whiten, the tendons standing out. “I should’ve told you about Britt,” he said. “Before you had to find out from…”
His voice broke. Not cracked. Broke.
He put his hand over his face.
Kieran didn’t know what to do. He’d seen Rory angry on the driveway, seen him shaking, seen the composure fracture and the raw thing underneath come through. But he’d never seen this. Rory’s shoulders were shaking and he wasn’t making any sound and it was worse than crying, somehow.
Kieran got up. Came around the table. Crouched down beside Rory’s chair and put his hands on Rory’s knees. Didn’t say anything or try to fix it. Just stayed there, low and close, so Rory didn’t have to look up to find him.
Rory’s hand came down from his face. His eyes were red and puffy. He looked at Kieran crouched there in front of him, trying to understand what it meant.
“I’m sorry,” Rory said. His voice was ragged. “I’m not…I don’t usually—”
“Stop,” Kieran said gently.
Rory shook his head. “You shouldn’t have had to find out like that. I knew it and I kept putting it off and then it was too late and I didn’t know how to…” He stopped. Pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I couldn’t just say it.”
But he was trying. Even now, exhausted at a kitchen table, he was trying to get there. He just didn’t have the words yet.
Kieran put his hand on the back of Rory’s neck. “You don’t have to figure it out right now.”
Rory looked at him. His face was a mess, nose running, none of the steady warmth Kieran was used to, just a tired man who had nothing left to hold up.
They stayed there for a while, Kieran crouched on the kitchen floor, one hand on Rory’s knee, the other on his neck. Not comfortable exactly.
“We’re kind of a mess,” Kieran said.
Rory wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah. We are.”
“Is that okay?”
“I think it has to be.”
Kieran almost smiled. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“Maybe…a little.” Kieran kissed the side of Rory’s head.
Rory huffed a sound that was half laugh, half exhale—wet and shaky, not quite there yet, but real. The first real one since this whole thing started.
Outside, the morning was settling in, the thick June gloom pressing a heavy, gray fog against the kitchen window. The pale, diffused light spilled across the counter, making the coffee sit cold and forgotten between them.
Mabel lifted her head again, looking toward the door.
“We should make those flyers,” Kieran said.
“Yeah.” Rory stood. He wiped his face again, took a breath, and moved toward the coffee maker. His hands were still unsteady. “Fresh pot first.”
Kieran watched him, this man who’d driven through the dark looking for a dog that wasn’t his, who’d fallen apart at a kitchen table and was now making coffee like that was the next thing to do, because it was.
Hank was out there somewhere. They hadn’t fixed everything. They probably couldn’t fix everything, not in one morning, not in one conversation.
But Rory was here. Making coffee. Staying.