Reap The Whirlwind

Book 2 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries

By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026

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Chapter 16

When I arrived at work the next morning, Nikki was waiting. "The reviews come out tomorrow," she announced.

"Don't you ever say hello?" I said grouchily. I hadn't slept well the night before. I had a nightmare that I was wading through dark water, finding body after body floating face down, and when I turned them over, it was all of my friends: Aidan, Laura, Killian.

"It's a waste of time and breath. Why not just get right to the important stuff?"

"Because it's polite?"

"You know," she said absently, "you'd better get some more paintings done pronto so we can get them up in here."

"I've been working on some ideas."

"Great! You know, you never even asked me how much money you made at the show," Nikki said, switching subjects like a racecar changing lanes.

I'd thought about it, sure — obsessively, even — but it felt rude to bring it up. When I admitted that, Nikki just burst out laughing.

"Buddy, you're gonna have to lose that polite streak real fast. Pushy has to be every artist's middle name, or you'll get eaten alive. People in this business are sharks. Want to know now?"

"Yes, please," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Pushy!" she barked, pointing at me like a coach at tryouts.

"Uh...yes, tell me."

"Pushier!"

"Er...um...tell me now, bitch!" I blurted.

She doubled over, laughing. "Okay, that was a little much. You definitely need assertiveness training — but points for enthusiasm."

I grinned sheepishly. "So...the sales?"

Nikki gave me a wicked look. "Might want to sit down for this."

"Why? Is it that bad?"

"You tell me. I priced your paintings between five hundred and a thousand bucks each. After my commission, you cleared just over ten thousand."

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. "Ten...thousand?" I echoed, my voice doing a weird squeaky thing.

"Better shut that mouth before you swallow a fly," she teased. "Not bad for a month's work, huh? Of course, you can't pull a show like that every month. Maybe once or twice a year if you're lucky. But the good news is you've set a benchmark. From here, your prices only go up."

"I've never had that much money at one time before," I managed finally.

"Don't go picking out a mansion just yet," Nikki warned. "It sounds like a lot, but if that's all you had to live on, it wouldn't stretch as far as you'd think. There's a reason they call it starving artist, you know. Now, if — and that's a big if — you became famous and your prices shot up, sure, you might make it big, but those stories are rare. The reviews from the show will play a big role in what happens next, but even if they're not glowing, don't get discouraged. Plenty of now-famous artists got shredded by critics when they were starting out. Sometimes even a bad review can help if it gets people talking."

I couldn't help wondering if she was trying to prepare me for bad reviews without saying it outright. I opened my mouth to ask, but at that moment, an older couple walked in, looking for a painting for their living room — something with green and gold, the lady said.

Before I knew it, Nikki was off on a passionate (and slightly terrifying) rant about how art shouldn't be bought just to match the drapes. By the time she finally wound down, the whole thing about the reviews had completely slipped my mind. The couple left, looking a little dazed, but with a painting tucked carefully under the gentleman's arm.

Just before closing, Laura swept through the door.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Nice to see you, too," she said dryly. "I came to pick you up. Mrs. Taylor is home and she feels up for a visit."

"I don't know if I feel up for a visit," I said weakly, but I knew it was futile to argue with Laura.

She hung out until I closed up and let Nikki know that I was leaving, then we set off for Joey's house in Laura's little red Camry.

"Let me do the talking," Laura said as we pulled into the driveway.

"Cool. How about if I just stay in the car then?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Will! Grow some balls! Why are you so scared about seeing Mrs. Taylor again?"

"I just don't like dealing with other people's grief," I said. "I don't like dealing with other people's grief, okay? I've got enough of my own. Plus, it's all just...too real. It's like getting hit by an emotional freight train. It overwhelms me."

Laura rolled her eyes and threw open her car door with a dramatic sigh. "Come on, Theresa Caputo, and bring your psychic friends with you."

"Very funny," I grumbled as I followed her up to the front door.

Mrs. Taylor answered the door looking like she'd aged a decade in a month. Her hair was wild, her eyes ringed with dark shadows, making her look rather like a rumpled raccoon.

"Come on in," she said. "I'm sorry the house is such a mess. I was out of town, and then, well, I just haven't felt like doing anything since I got back."

"It's fine, Mrs. Taylor," Laura said soothingly. "We're not worried about the house."

We settled in the living room, which was still cluttered with funeral detritus, stray plastic cups, napkins and paper plates. After a few minutes of awkward small talk and trading old stories about Joey, Laura finally steered us toward the real reason we were there.

"Mrs. Taylor, we're trying to understand what was going on in Joey's life before... everything happened," Laura said carefully. "He just seemed different, somehow, and we feel like we need to know why in order to move forward."

Mrs. Taylor nodded. "He was different, that's for sure. I don't know what was going on with him."

"Did anything unusual happen in the last few months?"

"Not really. Well...except...he developed an interest in his father. He wanted to find him."

Laura could barely contain her excitement. "And did he?"

"Not that I know of. I discouraged him, of course. He dropped it after a while."

"Why did you discourage him?"

Mrs. Taylor stared past Laura's shoulder for a long moment before she spoke. "Joey doesn't really remember his father, but I do. He wasn't a good man. Oh, he could turn on the charm when he wanted something — or someone — but as soon as he got it, it was like a switch flipped. He'd turn cold and cruel. Or worse, he'd act like you didn't even exist."

She gave a small, bitter laugh. "I was young when I met him — young and stupid. Kicking him out was like finally being able to breathe after years of suffocating. And when he disappeared for good, it was an even bigger relief. I didn't want Joey to ever see that side of him. I thought I could protect him." She shook her head. "Guess I didn't do such a great job of that, huh?"

"It wasn't your fault," I said quietly. Both Laura and Mrs. Taylor turned to look at me, like they'd forgotten I was even there. "Whatever happened to Joey... it wasn't your fault."

Was I saying it for her? Or for myself? Maybe both.

Mrs. Taylor gave me a small, tired smile. "Thank you, sweetie. Maybe I'll believe that someday."

Me too, I thought.

Laura cleared her throat, glancing nervously at me. "Mrs. Taylor, I hope you don't mind me asking, but, um, did the police ever...tell you the official cause of death?"

Mrs. Taylor furrowed her brow. "They said he drowned. Isn't that what happened?"

Laura's gaze flicked in my direction again, and she shifted uneasily. "Yes...but sometimes there's, uh, more information in the autopsy report. Did you ever see it?"

Mrs. Taylor's face tightened, and a flicker of distress passed over her features. "No," she said quickly. "I didn't want to see that. They said it was an accident, and...I didn't want to know more than that. It's enough to know he's gone." She paused, biting her lip, and shook her head, clearly trying to push back tears. "I just...I don't need to think about it any more than I already have."

Laura cleared her throat again, her voice softer. "I'm really sorry to bring all of this up, Mrs. Taylor. We don't mean to upset you."

Mrs. Taylor turned away, dabbing at her eyes, her shoulders slumped with the weight of her grief. "It's fine," she murmured, though the pain in her voice was obvious. "It's fine. I'm just a mess. Don't mind me."

"You have every right to be," Laura said gently before shifting gears. "Would you mind if we looked around Joey's room? Maybe we'll find something that could help us understand what was going on with him."

Mrs. Taylor was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed, the sound full of pain. "I haven't been in there since he..." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and said, "Well, it doesn't really matter now, does it? Go ahead."

She led us down the hall but stayed in the doorway, hovering for a moment before turning and walking away, her sadness trailing after her like a shadow.

There was a long pause before she slowly walked away. Once Mrs. Taylor's footsteps faded, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Laura and I stood in silence for a moment, neither of us knowing exactly what to do next, then she turned to me and grabbed my arm.

"Oh my God," she groaned, her voice barely above a whisper. "That was so much harder than I thought it would be. Now I get what you mean about her grief — it really is...overwhelming."

"I told you!" I hissed back.

Laura rubbed her temples as she looked around the room. "I don't even know where to start."

I glanced around the room as well, fighting the flood of memories that hit me all at once. It looked exactly the same as the last time I was there, like Joey had just stepped out for a minute. The posters on the walls, the piles of dirty clothes, the random assortment of books and things scattered around — it all felt so...normal, almost like he could walk back in at any second.

"Me neither," I finally muttered. "It feels...wrong, going through Joey's stuff."

Laura gave me a sympathetic look. "It's not like he's going to care."

"Still, it just feels weird," I said, my voice tight.

"We're his best friends," she replied, moving to the small desk by the bed, the same desk we'd spent hours doing homework on. "You know he wouldn't mind."

"Maybe there was a time he wouldn't've, but toward the end..." I trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"Look, we're here now," she said with a sigh, "we might as well do what we came to do." She opened the center drawer of the desk and started sifting through it. I heard the rustling of papers, a pen clattering against the wood, but I couldn't bring myself to join her. Instead, I turned toward his closet.

The door creaked as I opened it, revealing his clothes still hanging, his shoes in a haphazard pile just like they always were. I ran my fingers over the sleeves of his sweatshirts, memories of him wearing them suddenly so vivid that I had to step back to steady myself.

I hesitated, then started rifling through the items in the closet one by one, trying to keep my mind focused on the task. Shirts, jackets, hoodies. The same clothes he wore almost every day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not that I knew what I was looking for.

"Anything?" Laura asked from across the room, her voice distant as she continued rummaging through the papers.

"No," I replied, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

I reached for a threadbare T-shirt at the back of the closet, trying to steady my breathing. It had been his favorite shirt for years, featuring his favorite big-boobed anime heroine. The once-vibrant colors had long since faded, and the shirt had so many holes from constant wear that it barely held together. But he'd saved it. I held it against my cheek for a second, breathing in his scent.

"We're just looking for clues," Laura said, a little too casually, like she was trying to convince herself as much as me. "We might find something important. You know, something that helps us understand why he—"

"I know," I cut in, not wanting to hear the rest. My heart twisted painfully as I put the shirt back.

I closed the closet door, feeling the weight of the room settling around me. I wasn't sure what we were supposed to find here. We were wasting our time, dragging up old memories for nothing.

"Oh! What's this?" Laura said suddenly as she straightened up.

"What's what?"

"It looks like a letter."

I crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder as we both tried to decipher the barely legible handwriting.

"I think we just hit the jackpot," she breathed.

Dear Joe,

How's my little slugger? Probably not so little anymore, huh? I can hardly believe it's been almost fifteen years since I last saw you. You were just a kid in dinosaur footie jammies, and now I guess you're starting college this fall. Man, do I feel old!

I know I've missed so much, and I get that you're probably pretty mad at me. Can't say I blame you. I've got a lot of regrets, but, hey, doesn't everyone? I know I made mistakes. It's just hard to admit sometimes. You reach a point where things seem too far gone to fix. But when I got your letter, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I could hardly believe that you reached out to me. After all this time.

I enjoyed reading all your updates. Congrats on graduating high school. I've been well. You know, doing my thing. I guess I haven't done such a great job of staying in touch. Life gets in the way sometimes. You know how it is. Papa is a rolling stone, you know? I don't tend to stay in one place for long. I'm living on a houseboat these days, currently in Virginia, so it's a miracle your letter even found me.

Listen, I want to make it up to you. We've both been through a lot, and yeah, I've done some things I'm not proud of, but I'm not the man I was back then. Not that I'm perfect, but I'm trying, Joe. I'm trying.

How about this? If I head out tomorrow, I could be back in Salisbury in a week. I've already leased a slip at the marina there, so why don't you meet me there next weekend, and we can catch up? Just the two of us. I know I'm asking a lot, but this could be a chance to start over. Maybe we'll be able to figure it out, or at least take that first step. If you're up for it, my number is 727-555-0198. Feel free to call or text. That way, I'll have your number and I can let you know when I arrive in town, and we can make arrangements.

Hope to see you soon, if you're up for it.

Your Old Man.

Laura finished reading first, her mouth twisting in a frown. "God," she said, voice low. "This guy. This guy. Acting like missing fifteen years is just...a whoopsie."

I didn't answer right away. I kept reading the letter again, even though every word made my stomach twist tighter. Life gets in the way. I've got my reasons. Like there was ever a good enough reason to forget your kid even existed.

"He didn't even apologize," I muttered. "Not really. Just made excuses."

"Yeah," Laura said, her voice sharp. "He basically says, 'Sorry you feel that way.' Real accountability, Dad of the Year."

I let the letter fall back onto the desk. My chest felt tight, like I couldn't quite catch my breath. "Do you think Joey went to see him?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," Laura said. "He must have, right? It's dated like three weeks before he died. He wanted a father so bad, he was willing to give that asshole a chance."

Neither of us said anything for a long moment.

"Poor Joey," Laura finally whispered. "He deserved so much better."

"Maybe meeting him was, like, the final straw," I suggested. "Like that's what pushed him over the edge."

"Or..." she paused dramatically. "What if he had something to do with Joey's death?"

I stared at her in horror. "His own father?"

"If you can even call him a father. More like a sperm donor."

I shook myself and glanced back at the letter. "What's his name? Is there an envelope?"

"I didn't see one."

We searched the rest of the desk's contents and the room as well, but didn't find anything more.

"Should we ask Mrs. Taylor what her husband's name was?" I asked.

"I don't know," Laura said thoughtfully. "It might upset her even more to know that Joey went behind her back and found his dad against her wishes."

"So how do we find him? I guess we can assume he's Mr. Taylor, but that's a pretty common last name."

"But how many own houseboats docked at the marina?"

"Good point," I said. "I guess we could go ask around."

"I can't do it right now," Laura said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "This took longer than I thought it would, and I'm meeting Gabe for dinner. Maybe you and Aidan can go tomorrow."

"I can go by myself."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

A chill went down my spine. "Do you think he's dangerous?"

"You're the one who just suggested he might have had something to do with Joey's death. At the very least, his past history suggests he has some violent tendencies, at least when he's drunk." Her voice took on an overly casual tone, telegraphing that she was about to say something that was almost definitely going to annoy me. "Why don't you want to go with Aidan? I thought you guys were getting close lately."

I sighed. "Really, Laura?"

"What?" she asked, the picture of innocence.

"Are we really doing this now?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Aidan and I are just friends."

"Then it won't be an issue if you take Aidan. I'm just saying you shouldn't go alone."

"Fine, if it ends this conversation, I'll take Aidan with me."

She smiled as if she'd won. "Good boy. Are we done here?"

"Very done."

"Then let's go."

Laura gently slid the letter back into the drawer, and, without speaking, we made our way back to the living room. Mrs. Taylor stood by the window, her arms folded tightly across her chest, staring out at nothing. She turned when she heard us.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked.

Laura and I shared a quick, uncomfortable glance. "Not really," Laura said carefully. "But thank you for letting us look."

Mrs. Taylor nodded, the movement almost mechanical. "Of course. You didn't happen to find his necklace while you were in there, did you?"

I froze as my stomach dropped.

The necklace.

I'd completely forgotten I was still wearing it.

Wordlessly, I pulled the chain out from under my shirt. Mrs. Taylor's eyes widened as if I'd just produced a ghost.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I've been wearing it so long, it slipped my mind."

She took a small, shaky step toward me, her gaze fixed on the charm. "What do you mean?" she whispered. "How... How did you get that?"

I fumbled with the clasp, pulling the necklace off and holding it out to her. "Someone mailed it to me," I said. "Anonymously. No return address. I...I took it to the police, but they didn't care."

She stared at the necklace like it might bite her. "Someone sent it to you? Why?"

"I don't know," I said, my voice low. I didn't have the heart to tell her about the note that came with it, the one that suggested it was sent for a reason.

Mrs. Taylor's hand hovered near the necklace, trembling slightly, but then dropped back to her side like she couldn't bear to touch it.

"Keep it," she said, voice cracking.

"What? No—" I started, but she shook her head.

"You should keep it. Joey would want you to."

"But it..it meant so much to him," I said, feeling helpless.

"And you meant so much to him," she replied. "Please. Wear it for him."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and slowly fastened the necklace around my neck. Mrs. Taylor gave a small, brittle smile.

We said our goodbyes after that — stilted, awkward, painful — and stepped out into the cool evening air. I didn't realize how heavy the house had felt until the door clicked shut behind us.

Laura let out a long, shaky sigh once we were back in the car.

"Jesus," she said. "That was brutal."

"I warned you," I mumbled, staring out the window.

"I'm sorry for giving you a hard time earlier," she said, starting the engine. "Honestly? You didn't even scratch the surface of how bad it was going to be. Thank you for coming with me though. I couldn't have done that alone."

We pulled away from the curb, but in my mind, I was still standing in Joey's bedroom.

"Do you really think Joey's dad could've had something to do with this?" I asked after a minute. "Killing his own son?"

Laura's hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel. "It happens more often than you'd think," she said grimly. "And we don't know anything about this guy. For all we know, he's been rotting in prison for murder for the past fifteen years."

I turned to look at her, heart pounding. "You really think he could be a suspect?"

Laura nodded. "I think he's moved straight to the top of the list. We'll know more once you and Aidan track him down."

I looked away again. What would we find if we did manage to track him down? A grieving father, a murderer, or something else altogether?

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of someone trying to break our front door down. Heart hammering, I stumbled out of my room, tugging on a pair of sweatpants. I nearly collided with Aidan, who appeared in nothing but his boxers, hair sticking up in about nine different directions, and looking like someone had personally offended him by waking him up.

"What the hell is going on? It's six o'clock in the fucking morning," he grumbled, as if it was somehow my fault.

"I don't know," I muttered, rubbing sleep from my eyes as another round of aggressive knocking rattled the door. "But I guess we should find out before they wake the entire building."

I yanked the door open to find Nikki standing there, brandishing what looked like a rolled-up newspaper. Without so much as a "good morning," she swept past me into our apartment.

"Oh, good!" she chirped when she spotted Aidan blinking at her like she was a hallucination. "You're up too! Perfect! Come on, come on."

"I wasn't up until someone decided to wake me from a very nice dream," Aidan grumped.

Nikki immediately turned her glare on me. "You woke Aidan up?"

I sighed. It was way too early to play the blame game. "Is there a reason you're here at the crack of dawn, Nikki?"

"Yes! Look at this!" she said, waving the bundle at Aidan. "You both need to see. The reviews are in!" She tossed everything onto the kitchen table with a flourish. The newspaper unrolled dramatically, launching the magazine onto the floor at my feet.

"We really need a new paperboy," Aidan muttered, shuffling over.

I bent down and picked up the magazine. It was the Mid-Atlantic Monthly Art Journal. Classy. The cover was some painting of a lighthouse that looked like it belonged in your grandma's bathroom.

"Page forty-eight," Nikki barked, already flipping through the newspaper like a woman on a mission.

I obeyed, finding the page and immediately scanning for my name. It jumped out at me halfway down the second column under the heading "New Talent."

I started reading aloud, trying not to sound too much like a fourth grader giving a book report. "'Promising New Artist Debuts in Maryland. Avant Garde, the internationally renowned art gallery founded by Giovanni Avanti and now managed by his children, Dante and Nikolia Avanti, recently played host to a delightful new artist by the name of Will Keegan.' That's me!"

"No shit, Sherlock. Keep going," Aidan said, yawning.

I pushed on. "'Keegan, only eighteen and still obviously in the early stages of his career, shows great promise for the art world. His watercolor paintings of old buildings are reminiscent of Andrew Wyeth, though without much of the soul and depth that is so evident in Wyeth's work.'"

I stopped, frowning. "Wait, I'm soulless?"

"It's called constructive criticism," Nikki said breezily. "Now keep reading."

"'It's his more interpretive pieces, some bordering on surrealism, which truly capture the imagination. They show a complex and sometimes tortured inner being. Overall, the twenty paintings on display were an impressive first showing for a talented and charming young man.'"

I paused. "So I'm charming now?"

"Keep reading!" Nikki and Aidan barked at the same time.

I gave them a look but obeyed. "'With his candid and unique views of the world around him, Keegan is a welcome addition to the art community. Look for great things to come from this artist's brush.'"

"That's it?" Aidan asked, sounding like he was personally offended there wasn't more.

"'It?' That's amazing!" Nikki crowed, practically bouncing. "They loved you! And they mentioned the gallery! This is priceless publicity!"

"They said I had no soul," I reminded her, sulking a little.

"Please. If you had a soul, you wouldn't be a real artist," Nikki said. "Besides, look, there's a great photo in the paper, too."

Aidan and I both leaned over the table at the same time, immediately smacking heads with a solid thunk.

"Ow. Jesus," Aidan grumbled, rubbing his forehead. We both leaned in again, more cautiously this time.

Sure enough, there I was, in my signature black-on-black look, looking broody as hell with Caitlin on my arm, smiling directly into the camera like she belonged on the red carpet.

Aidan stared at it for a few seconds, then turned and walked away, grabbing the remote and flipping on the TV like he couldn't have cared less.

What was his problem? I'd heard of getting up on the wrong side of the bed, but he was acting very peculiar. Whatever was going on, I wasn't going to let him ruin my moment. My first reviews were positive. Mostly. Even if I was apparently soulless and only charming in a tortured sort of way.

I skimmed the short article under the photo. It didn't say much — just a little blurb about the show in the Lifestyle section — but it was still exciting. I tried to ignore the sour feeling that crept in when Aidan didn't say anything.

"Well, I should probably get back," Nikki said, glancing over at Aidan. "Sam's still asleep. I don't want him waking up and thinking he got abandoned."

She pulled me into a quick hug. "Celebrate today, Will. You deserve it."

She waggled her fingers and let herself out, leaving the apartment blessedly quiet again — except for the morning news anchor blathering away on the TV.

I got the impression that she was picking up on Aidan's strange behavior and was tactfully giving us a chance to talk.

"Sure, she let him sleep," Aidan said as he turned the TV off and tossed the remote onto the couch. "I'm going back to bed."

“Aren’t you even a little bit happy for me?” I asked. I knew I sounded whiny, but I couldn’t figure out why he was acting like I’d done something wrong.

He sighed heavily. “Oh, I’m thrilled — you and your fiancée must be over the moon.”

“My what now?” I said, blinking.

“Your fiancée. Caitlin.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

“Caitlin?”

“They spilled the beans in the caption, lover boy,” he called over his shoulder, already stalking down the hall.

“What caption?” I shouted, but his door slammed before I could pry it out of him.

I bent over the newspaper again and found the caption under the photo I’d missed in my rush to read the article earlier. “Keegan and fiancée Caitlin Stewart talk to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Curran of Baltimore,” it read. I barked out a laugh. Obviously, some clueless reporter had gotten their wires crossed.

Unfortunately, Aidan wasn’t laughing.

I rushed down the hall and knocked on his door. No answer. I pushed it open. He was lying on his side on top of the covers, his back to me.

“Aidan, you don’t seriously think Caitlin and I are engaged, do you?”

“Why not?” he said flatly, still facing away. “You’re obsessed with the baby. You’re always talking about Caitlin. You dragged her to Thanksgiving at Adam’s. Getting married’s just the logical next step. Hell, you’d probably do anything to stay in that kid’s life.”

I stared, completely thrown. “I...I thought you supported me.”

“I tried, Will. I really did.” His voice cracked, and suddenly everything clicked.

“You’re jealous," I said, stunned. "You’re jealous of Caitlin. And the baby.”

He rolled over, his face twisted with pain. “Of course I’m jealous, you idiot! I’m in love with you! How can you not see that?”

I froze. “You...what?”

“I told you," he said, sitting up. "The night we slept together. I told you I loved you. It wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. I meant it.” He shoved himself up and crossed to the window. “I’ve been here — every time you needed me. When Joey hurt you. When you tried to kill yourself. When you decided to hunt Joey's killer. Always. I was there. And what’s it gotten me? Jack shit. I’m still just good old reliable Aidan.”

He turned back to me, breathing hard. “And you know what? I’d do it all again. Because I love you. But just once...I need to know it matters. That I matter.”

He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, face buried in his hands.

I knelt in front of him and gently pulled his hands free.

“You do matter,” I said, my voice shaking. “Aidan, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know who I’d be without you. I was scared I’d already messed everything up, so I tried to keep things platonic. I thought I was protecting you. But I wasn’t. I was hurting you worse.” I swallowed hard. “You’re my best friend. My anchor. My—”

“But you don’t love me,” he said, flatly.

“I...I don’t know...”

Aidan pulled away like I'd slapped him. “That says it all, doesn’t it?”

He stood and walked to the door, shoulders slumped. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

The bathroom door clicked shut. A moment later, the sound of the shower roared to life.

I sank down to the floor, numb.

I’d taken him for granted. Assumed he’d always be there to catch me when I fell, to comfort me when I broke. I’d leaned on him without ever once thinking maybe he needed someone to lean on, too. And now...now I might have lost him.

The thought nearly shattered me.

I was still sitting there when Aidan reappeared, damp, towel slung around his waist, surprise flashing across his face when he saw me.

I looked up at him, and everything inside me broke wide open.

"I do love you," I whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut like he was in pain, then looked at me again, raw and wrecked.

“Not again, Will,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t...don’t do this to me again.”

“I’m not. I mean it. I love you.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks, unchecked.

“No," he said hoarsely. "It’ll always be something else. Joey. Caitlin. The baby. You’ll never put me first.”

“No!” I cried. “Maybe I’ll always love Joey, some part of me. But I’m here now. I want to be with you. I want you.”

He shook his head, broken. "If Joey walked through that door right now and said he loved you, what would you do?"

"Joey’s dead," I said helplessly.

"What if, Will?" he shouted. "What if?"

I closed my eyes and forced myself to face it.

"If Joey walked in right now..." I said quietly, "I'd tell him he was too late. That he shattered my heart once — but someone else put it back together. Piece by painful piece. And when it was whole again, I realized it didn’t belong to him anymore. It belonged to you. It always has."

I held my hand out. "Please, Aidan. Let me give you my heart."

He froze — so still he barely seemed to breathe. And then, slowly, he moved toward me.

"Do you mean it?" he whispered.

"Yes," I said.

He took another step. Then grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet. His arms locked around my neck, and I wrapped mine around his waist. His skin was hot and damp under my palms as I ran my hands down his back.

I kissed his neck, his shoulder, the curve of his chest. My hands found the edge of the towel and let it fall.

He caught my wrists. “Will," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Are you sure?"

"I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you."

Aidan pulled me in and kissed me like a drowning man grabbing his last breath.

"I love you too," he said against my mouth.

And then he grinned — that gorgeous, reckless grin — and lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all and threw me onto the bed.

Turns out, the first time hadn’t been a fluke after all.

The fireworks were still there — hotter and brighter than ever.

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