It would’ve been heartwarming if it wasn’t so unhealthy. He couldn’t stave off his panic by obeying every urge to shelter us.
I blew out a breath and compiled a quick mental list of shit I needed to do. Shoes, off. Jacket, off. Shan’s whiskey went into my own liquor cabinet, and then I trailed around my condo to turn on lights, crack open a couple windows, and adjust the thermostat. It was a bit stuffy in here.
Should I help Shan downstairs, maybe? I wasn’t sure he was much of a fan of my place either. Grace had decorated it. You wouldn’t find a throw pillow or a potted plant in my home, but it was still nice. She’d put up pictures on the one wall that was all exposed brick. She’d painted the other walls gray. She’d had blinds and drapes installed. She’d bought the furniture, from the cushy couch I’d spent too many nights on by accident, to the dining table at the other end of the living room. My kitchen was too small for a table, though she’d found space for enough appliances for me to run my own coffee shop. She’d had built-in shelves installed where I had the TV too, and they were packed with books, movies, and magazines.
I couldn’t bring myself to change a single thing. Not even the big rug that I hadn’t been particularly fond of. It was a bitch to vacuum.
I heard her sometimes. Echoes of better times. Her laughter.
I stopped in the doorway to my bedroom and remembered when she’d whirled in to show me what she’d done with the walk-in closet. She’d wanted to explain the reason behind every detail, every placement, every piece of furniture.
“Wait till you see the closet, dearie!”
She’d arranged it all herself. Button-downs on one side, my pants on the other, ties, suspenders, and belts on the insides of the doors, my shoes on the floor… A separate closet for church-worthy outfits, and the last one for, uh, work-related uniforms. Drawers too. She’d actually folded my socks. They weren’t folded anymore, but I’d never forget the lengths she went to make someone feel at home.
Fucking hell, I missed her.
I glanced over my shoulder, toward the couch, and returned to the living room.
Shan was still dead to the world, and he was gonna be sorry when he woke up. In fact, I couldn’t leave him like that. His position was going to give him a sore neck and a stiff back.
I removed his tie and his shoes first. His suit jacket, his socks, his belt. Then I fetched a blanket and a pillow from the guest room.
“Shan.”
Nothing.
Goddammit.
“I’m just gonna unbutton your shirt, aight?” I left the blanket and the pillow on the coffee table before I started with the buttons. He would just have to sleep it off here tonight. “Shannon, can you wake up?” I got him into a seated position, and I went one step further as his head thumped against my hip. I removed his shirt too, leaving him in only suit pants and an undershirt.
Last but not least, I guided him back down and at least made it look more comfortable. He’d have to be the judge tomorrow of whether it worked.
After covering him with the blanket, I grabbed my pizza and one of the Red Bulls and aimed for my bedroom.
Welcome home, buddy.
I woke up to the unmistakable sound of someone crying, and it could only be one person.
Half disoriented, I stumbled out of bed and stepped into a pair of sweats. Fuck, wake up, wake up. I scrubbed at my face and willed the cobwebs of sleep to piss off. Then I left my bedroom and immediately spotted Shan in the dark living room. He had his back to me where he sat on the couch, and when I saw his shoulders move with each sob, my heart fucking broke.
“Shan.” I rounded the couch and sat down next to him.
He had his face buried in his hands, and there was no place to hide. God knew he’d tried for weeks. We’d all taken turns being with him when we’d lost Grace and Ian on the same day, but just as that fog slowly began to lift, Patrick was killed, and Shan was gone. He wouldn’t let anyone in.
For his sake, I left the light off. The moon and the pale orange glow from the street below would have to do.
What the hell could I do for him? I felt stupid and helpless. There was nothing I could say to make it better. He couldn’t say anything either—literally. He was crying too hard. It was quiet, but it was agonizing. Just from the sound of those low sobs, I knew they came from deep within. His heart was in pieces.
I flicked a glance around me and landed on the wooden box on the coffee table. It was something, at least. So I left the couch and opened a window fully, then ducked out into the kitchen to grab two glasses and ice.