Sweeney wasn’t up for Donny’s energy tonight. There was a mellowness between her and Fin right now that was soothing after the emotional tumult of the diner, and seeing anyone else right now would require a level of fakeness Sweeney doubted she could dredge up.
They turned the lights out at ten and Sweeney lay on her side, the sheet pulled to her waist as she stared into the dark, the air-con unit providing a constant background rattle. And even though she had her back to him, she wassoaware of him. Aware of his breathing, of his stillness. Aware that he was still awake.
Aware of how far away he was right now and how wrong that felt given what day it was and their closeness at the diner. And how she just wanted to roll over, lie her head on his shoulder, place her hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat sync with her own.
‘Thank you,again… for tonight.’
He said it quietly but Sweeney felt it deeply as a swell of emotion rolled through her chest and pushed at the back of her eyes. ‘Thankyou,’ she whispered, her voice husky as a lone tear trekked down her face and she quickly dashed it away.
Sweeney had no idea if he heard it in her voice or felt it in her action, but suddenly he was moving, scooching over until his legs snuggled in behind hers and his arm came around her waist, the big spoon to her little. Her pulse accelerated at the contact and she was torn between objecting and getting comfortable.
‘I’m so, so sorry about what you went through with your mum,’ he whispered, his lips brushing an exposed portion of nape as he spoke.
Sweeney swallowed a lump the size of her pillow. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, also whispering as she slid her arm over the top of his and relaxed into his hold.
This wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t about attraction or anything else that could be problematic. It was nostalgia and grief and years of missing each other and not realising it until a month ago. It was about all the things that today had stirred.
And she was asleep in seconds.
Twenty-Five
Fin’s morning wood woke him at quarter to six with its usual penchant for punctuality. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem. He could choose to do something about it or ignore it depending on his mood and the traffic updates on the radio. Still wrapped around Sweeney with the smell of his shampoo wafting from her hair?
It was a huge fucking hairy deal.
What if she woke and felt it pressing into the cleft of her buttocks? He assumed she knew enough about men to understand that the early morning male erection was almost universally common and not related to her presence.
But would she believe it? Hell, the bigger question was, didhebelieve it?
Not yet ready to examine something so confronting—not without caffeine in his system, anyway—Fin gently eased away, sliding his arm out from under her head with only the slightest stirring from her before she settled back to sleep. Not allowing himself to spend a second longer in bed with her, he rolled out the other side and tiptoed to the bathroom.
She’d gone for coffee yesterday, he’d reciprocate today.
And, as he walked, he’d think abouttoday. Not last night. About the games today, not the way he and Sweeney had slotted together like a pair of nesting dolls. About strategy, not how he’d drifted to sleep on a cloud of such thorough contentment he hadn’t moved a goddamn muscle all night. About getting his little team to the quarter finals, not how much his boner was aboutherrather than male biological/diurnal rhythms.
It was another warm one as he exited the room three minutes later, leaving Sweeney still fast asleep. The streets were quiet on this Easter Saturday as his legs ate up the distance to the diner and, despite trying not to think about last night, it was inevitable that he did. But not about their impromptu cuddle session. About what had precipitated it. Sweeney’s confession of what she’d been through with her mother after her father’s death. He’d been stunned by what she’d spilled, broken-hearted for the burden that had been placed on her shoulders and kicking his own ass at his lack of awareness.
He still remembered that terrible day her father died. It was etched into his brain. He’d been thinking about that confusing spin-the-bottle kiss when the siren had squealed down their street. He’d never forgotten the look that passed between his parents when they realised the ambulance had pulled up outside Sweeney’s house, nor the way they ran—his mother neverran—down the street, his father yelling, ‘Stay with your granny,’ as Fin had tried to follow.
He’d never forget them coming back hours later, long after the ambulance had left, his mother leaning heavily on his father, her face puffy, her eyes red-rimmed as she told Fin that Malcolm Bailey was dead and that he was going to need to be there for Sweeney.
He’d never forget Sweeney the next day, pale and devastated, the stuffing completely knocked out of her. He remembered thinkingthis is what a broken heart looks likeand feeling wholly inadequate to deal with her gut-wrenching grief.
Tobe therefor her.
Which he clearly hadn’t been. Bloody hell—he’d been aterriblefriend. Why hadn’t he seen that she’d been suffering far more than she’d let on? Had he beenthatself-absorbed? He remembered his relief every time she’d laughed at one of his jokes or crowed when she’d whipped his ass atMario Kartbecause he’d hoped it meant she was getting better. That she was getting over it.
Idiot.
He had wanted to raise the subject of her dad and how she was feeling—many times. But he hadn’t felt adequately equippedemotionallyto go there. What if he made her cry again? Her inconsolable sobbing at the funeral had stayed stuck on repeat in Fin’s brain for a long time. It had scared him to see his normally strong friend so distressed as those curtains had closed around the coffin, and he’d have done anything to stop those tears.
Of course, he’d realised as he’d grown older that Sweeney’s outpouring that day had been healthy. And he realised now that her having to suppress it all in the weeks, months andyearsthat followed, in deference to her mother’s grief, had not been. Stepping up the way she had as her mum fell apart had left Sweeney no space to process her own loss.
Fin, for all his fucked-up guilt, had been granted the luxury of space. And it really sucked that Sweeney had not. But he knew now what she’d been through and was determined to make amends. Whatever happened after this weird little interlude in Ballyshannon, hewouldmake up for being a lousy friend all those years ago and be the best damn friend she could ever hope for, going forward.
Friend.
The word itched under his skin and stabbed at his eyeballs and swelled at the back of his throat as if he was having an allergic reaction. How could they ever be just friends again? After their forced proximity playing fake fiancés. After kisses—of all varieties—and waking up smooshed together this morning.
