O’Dea slipped off the couch onto the floor, sitting with his back to the sofa, one knee bent, the other stretched out so that our legs brushed. “Do you think you were afraid she wouldn’t believe you?”
“No.” My lips trembled; tears burned in my eyes. “That’s the horrible thing. I know she would have. I . . . I was so messed up, Killian. I was drowning and I shut out everyone who could save me. And it just all sounds so fucking stupid now, you know. What did any of that matter compared to masked gunmen breaking into her home and murdering her and her husband? And for what? A painting I’d invested three quarters of a million dollars in because Adam, my finance guy, said I should invest my money where I could. That’s what they were there for. A painting. Along with some jewelry, some cash. But the police said that the painting was the target.” I shook my head at the insanity of it. “I pushed her away because I didn’t want to admit that I was failing. And then my fame, my money, got her killed.”
Killian let go a shuddering breath, his voice hoarse as he said my name in sympathy.
“What would you have done? Could you stay and face that? I couldn’t.”
“Skylar, I still wake up some days and I can’t breathe for how angry I am at myself for not getting into that helicopter. Mum would still be alive. Autumn would have had a loving mother instead of the cold, exacting bastard of an uncle who raised us. But as hard as it is to believe it sometimes, I’m not to blame for what happened to my parents. And neither are you.”
“I’m a coward,” I admitted. “I ran away from the truth, I ran away from her death, and now I’m running away from facing the people I’ve hurt.”
“You thought you were protecting your mum. And now you need some time. You’re too hard on yourself.”
We shared a long look as my breathing grew steadily calmer. Finally, I asked, “Did you tell me about your parents so I would tell you about my mom?”
“Your songs.” He reached out for my notebook. “There’s a lot of pain in them. These things can turn to poison if you leave them inside to fester.”
I felt myself drowning again, this time in Killian O’Dea’s eyes. “That would be a yes, then.”
His response was a noncommittal shrug.
“So, do you always play part-time therapist with your artists?”
His smile was wry. I wanted to trace my fingers along his lips to feel it. “You’re the first.”
“Well, you should know I’m feeling vulnerable and defensive right now. I might need you to be a prick so I have an excuse for being mean and sarcastic to you.”
He grinned. A full-out grin that made my breath catch. “I don’t feel like being a prick today.”
“Of course, you don’t. Contrary bastard.”
He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that tugged an answering smile from me.
Warmth passed between us, a sweet warmth that was so unexpected, I could do nothing but stare at him. How had this man become my confidant?
Killian cleared his throat. “We should . . . we should get back to writing. If you’re good to?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
We buried the moment in songwriting. We worked through the evening, only stopping for food breaks, and we didn’t discuss the past anymore. As it neared midnight, I felt a desperation. I knew when he left, I’d be alone with the past I’d unburied today.
I’d grieved for six months when I lost my mom, losing my mind at the idea of her dying the way she did.
But I had never allowed myself to grieve for the way our relationship was before she died. I didn’t allow myself to think about letting her die in a house with a man who had sought to betray her and possibly already had with other women.
Now it was out there.
Waiting for me to deal with as soon as Killian left.
“You know,” he placed his Taylor back in the guitar case, not looking at me, “I’m shattered. It’s probably not that safe for me to drive home exhausted. Would you mind if I slept on the couch?”
Relief loosened the tension in my shoulders. “Sure. Of course.”
He found some extra blankets and a pillow in the linen cupboard and set up the couch as a bed while I stood awkwardly watching. Even though having him here was a comfort, I still would have to close the bedroom door behind me and be alone with my thoughts.
“You know, I usually watch a little TV before bed,” I lied.
The way he looked at me . . . I swear this guy could see right through me. He nodded. “All right.”
And that’s how I found myself watching episodes of Boardwalk Empire with Killian. Neither of us had seen it before and we got hooked fast.
In fact, it was the last thing I remember. Being curled up on the couch while Killian sat on the floor with his back against it.
When I woke up the next morning, I was magically in my own bed in an empty apartment.
* * *
O’DEA DIDN’T COME AROUND FOR a couple of days.
And just like that, he went back to being O’Dea, not Killian. Not because I was mad at him for disappearing after I’d let down my walls. In fact, I was glad for the space. It allowed me to process everything I’d brought out into the open.
“Your songs . . . There’s so much pain in them. These things can turn to poison if you leave them inside to fester.”
O’Dea was right. And the fact that he was willing to open up to me about his own parents’ death told me how much he wanted me to work through my issues. He wasn’t a man who allowed himself to be vulnerable to anyone but his sister. I was sure of that. But he’d been vulnerable to me in a seemingly self-sacrificing act. How much of it was because he genuinely wanted to help me and how much was about making sure his artist was mentally healthy by the time the album dropped, I wasn’t sure.
My gut told me it was a little of both.
I wasn’t mad at O’Dea. I’d needed to open up regarding that moment with Bryan, to reveal my guilt over not telling my mom about it or anything else. It didn’t mean the guilt was gone, but it had settled to a manageable level as though all it had wanted was for me to face it head-on.
Definitely not mad at O’Dea. But his disappearing act reminded me who we were to each other and calling him by his surname felt like mental armor.
“You okay?” Autumn asked as we wandered through a department store.
After three days in the apartment processing, I needed a breather, so I’d called Autumn and she’d suggested a little retail therapy. I didn’t care what we did, as long as I got out for a while.
“My wrist is itchy,” I complained honestly, lifting up my cast. “I’m desperate to get this thing off.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I broke my ankle when I was fourteen. Skiing trip with the school. I hated the cast. It made me miserable. Killian had just started his second year at uni and he missed out on all the first-semester partying to look after me.”
Oh God, I didn’t want to know that. “Which uni did he go to?” Damn your own curiosity, Finch.
“Glasgow.” She gave me a sad smile. “He wanted to stay at home so he could look after me.”
“Your uncle really didn’t parent you at all?”
She walked around a perfume display and stopped in front of me, lowering her voice. “He kept informed of our grades at school, our extracurricular stuff, and the moment we showed any sign of weakness, a B instead of an A, a lost football match for Killian, a failed audition at the Royal Conservatoire for me, and he would castigate us for what felt like days.”
A bottle of Miss Dior caught my eye and I thought of how amazingly supportive my mom had been about everything. When I came home with a bad grade, she never made me feel like a failure. “Jesus, he sounds like a piece of work.”
“You have no idea.” Autumn threaded her arm through mine and led me toward the stairs. “Anything else, he had absolutely no interest in our lives whatsoever.”
“What’s the Royal Conservatoire?”
“Of Scotland,” she replied. “I was thirteen when I applied for their junior modern ballet program.”