Page 54 of Playing Dirty
He chuckles, his hand steady at my elbow as we cut past a cluster of photographers and a small herd of marketing types I'd really rather not get cornered by.
"Where are we going?" I add as he steers me through a side door into a quieter hallway.
"There's a small walled garden out here. People use it for a smoke, but it's empty now. It'll give you a minute to breathe away from the circus." He pushes open a door that reveals a small cobblestone courtyard. "I'm finishing my rounds and leaving shortly anyway."
“Lucky you.” I take a deep breath and sag against the stone wall. "I'm trapped here for at least another hour, then I have that meeting with the PR guy. Then I think I canfinallyjust have a late dinner after that."
"Sure you wouldn’t like some company?" He grins, leaning against the doorframe.
I snort. "Trust me, you wouldn't want to witness the version of me that's about to descend upon a bowl of carbonara and a bottle of red. It isn't a pretty sight."
He laughs, throwing his head back, and the sound loosens something in me, the tension of the day draining out of my shoulders. It's strange, being in his orbit. I'm forever at the edge of a breaking point, caught in the swell of a roaring ocean, and at the same time he's a steadying anchor that makes the rest of the world go quiet. Safe and entirely unraveled at once and I can't make sense of a single bit of it.
"So," he says. "No exploring plans after the carbonara?"
"Sadly, no." I sigh. "I've been warned the PR thing will probably run long, and between that and the jetlag, I'm just going to go back to my room, do my hotel routine, and hopefully sleep like the dead."
"Your hotel routine," he repeats. "Go on, then. I need to hear this."
"It's a system, so my insomnia doesn't flare up," I say, with dignity. "First, lavender pillow spray. I never travel without it. It smells like my bed at home, and then my brain actually agrees to shut off. Second, slippers, because I don't care how many stars the hotel has, that carpet has seen things I don't want to know about."
"Reasonable," he says gravely. "Is there a third?"
"Of course. Third, I call down and ask for two extra pillows, because I sleep in a nest. Four pillows minimum. One under the head, one to hug, two forming a perimeter. And I get tucked in tight and feel like I'm in a nice straitjacket, and then I can sleep."
"I can imagine you'd feel right at home in one of those." He grins.
"Shut up. And yes, I would."
He smiles at me, and for a moment we just stand there, both of us leaning against the wall, not touching and yet somehow connected, like there's a quiet thread running between us in thespace we're keeping. The damp stone is cool against my shoulder, his eyes on me are warm, and I let myself breathe.
Then my phone buzzes in my hand.
I glance down and find a message from my dad.
Dad:Your mother mentioned staying with Aunt Mary for a while. I'm not sure what "a while" is supposed to mean. I didn't know who else to reach out to. You're always the one who can get through to her. Anyway, try not to let it ruin your time there.
A crushing sense of overwhelm hits me, at the trip, my parents, the headlines, all of it, and his text feels like it might be the thing that finally breaks me. One more person needing one more piece of me and I'm going to come apart right here in this corridor.
Cillian scans my features, his expression softening. "May I?"
I nod and tilt the screen toward him, watching his jaw tighten as he reads.
"I just…" I trail off. "I do not have the bandwidth for this right now. I'm already barely holding it together. Hang on. Don't say anything for a second, I need to do a thing."
He lifts an eyebrow, falling silent as he watches me. I tap open my meditation app and find the exercise I save for moments exactly like this one, the one that looks completely unhinged and works anyway.
I draw in a slow breath, closing my eyes, and push all the air into my left cheek until it balloons out, hold it for a second, then let it go through my nose. I take another breath and push it into my right cheek this time, hold, then release. Last, I puff out both cheeks at once and let it all out in one long, slow stream.Pfff.
I crack one eye open.
Cillian is staring at me like I've grown a second head. "What are you doing?"
"Regulating," I murmur, shunting another pocket of air into my left cheek. "It is a breathing exercise, Cillian."
"Right. No, I'm sure it's very effective." He's biting back a grin now. "It's just that you look a bit like a blowfish."
A startled laugh slips out, and my concentration shatters instantly. "It's called a cheek puff. There is legitimate clinical evidence behind it, I'll have you know."
