Unshackled

Her contribution hadn’t exactly been an improvement.

“Have you tried turning on the TV, mate?” I asked and shrugged out of my jacket.

He hadn’t changed out of his robe.

“Not in the mood,” he said into his drink. As I joined him, it became clear that the coffee was long gone, and he hadn’t bothered to grab a new glass for the whiskey. “How’s my son?”

“Good. He was a proud daddy when he showed me their holiday photos,” I replied. A new tradition Finn and Emilia had started. They’d gotten dressed up and posed with their kids in front of a tree and an open fire and everything. Finn in a leather chair, Emilia with a hand on his shoulder, Ryan and Autumn next to them—all that traditional shit. But they did look like a perfect family. “It’s kinda hard not to feel a little envious when you see how much they love each other. Maybe a little sick to the stomach too.”

Shan hummed and refilled his mug.

I sighed and reached down to untie my boots. They were new and killing my feet.

Every part of me screamed for a shower and hitting the sack early, but I had to step out again in a few hours. I was meeting with Colm at two AM to help him with a transport.

He was another fucker I hadn’t seen outside of work in a while. Colm was busy with Eric, presumably following leads on the Italians.

“Do you believe in heaven, Kellan?”

Oh hell. He was bringing me existential four-AM questions before midnight.

Maybe I should get high with him. For real. I bet a joint would get him to relax.

“I don’t know.” I yanked off my boots and dropped them on the rug before I leaned back and tried to get comfortable. “I barely believe in the Eagles anymore.” I lolled my head against the cushion to face him better. “What about you?”

He released a breath and set down his mug. “I’d like to. I want it to be real. I want Grace and Patrick to be there.” He slumped back with another long exhale, and he peered up at the ceiling and planted his feet on the table. “That part of me can’t stop fixating on the fact that I might be one bullet away from seeing them again.”

I clenched my jaw and looked away from the son of a bitch.

I couldn’t help it. Bitterness slithered through my veins. It fucking hurt to hear him go on about killing himself.

“If heaven is real, do you honestly think Pat would be there?” I regretted the words as soon as they’d left me, and I caught Shan flinching out of the corner of my eye.

Yet, I didn’t take them back. I couldn’t.

I doubled down instead, like a heartless bastard. “I’m sick of the cherry-picking in our religion. After Pat’s funeral, we all said he’s in a better place—because that’s what we’re supposed to say. But if our religion got it right, his—”

“I get it,” Shan bit out.

“All we know for certain is that we get this one shot at life,” I continued. “And I’mma be honest with you, Shan. Every time you talk about committing suicide, I imagine Finn’s reaction. I’m sorry if I make you feel guilty, but you gotta fucking understand what you’d be leaving behind. Nobody in this family is fine without you—as you like to point out.”

I tried to take a deep breath, but it felt like someone had stomped on my chest. It was getting to be too much. Too real. My feelings must’ve deepened or…I didn’t fucking know. Just…the thought of him dying pissed me off. It hurt. He was hurting me by believing we’d manage well without him. Fucking asshole.

When I glanced over at him again, he had his eyes closed, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

I didn’t hesitate. I moved closer to him and wrapped my arms around him, and he didn’t object. He fell apart instead, hunched down, with his face against my chest. As sobs racked his body, all I could do was squeeze him tightly and hold him together physically. Because on the inside, I knew he was already in a million pieces.

I wanted to kiss him, take his pain, call him sweetheart, and promise everything was going to be all right.

I couldn’t do any of that.

“You’re not allowed to leave us, sir,” I murmured. “We need you.”

I need you.

As the minutes ticked by, Shan began reining it in. I remembered him telling me he had to. Otherwise, he’d just never stop. There was no “crying it out” or whatever he’d said.

“Shan, are you taking something for the grief these days?” I asked quietly. “Sleeping aid? Anxiety meds? Antidepressants?”

He shook his head but didn’t let go of me, and I was fine with that. I wasn’t ready to let go anyway.