Duncan scurried away into what I assumed was the bedroom. Killian sat on the sofa, his eyes closed. I looked around the room, sparse in appearance.
There were no knick-knacks, no pictures in photo frames, no rugs on the floor. It was as if he’d bought the place, moved in sufficient furniture to live, and left the rest bare. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see unpacked boxes tucked away somewhere; it was that stark.
I wandered into the kitchen, expecting to see something, but it was pristine. The oven didn’t look as if it had ever been turned on, and the dishwasher stood empty.
Did he even live here? I guessed life on the road meant he wasn’t here often, but I expected more.
I heard Duncan moving around and went to meet him.
“Here’s a bag with some clothes. His toiletries are in there as well.”
“He doesn’t spend much time here, does he?” I took the bag from him and went back into the lounge to see Killian curled up on the sofa.
“He does, but he’s always liked to keep things minimal.”
“There’s minimalist, and then there’s unlived in. There’s nothing to say he lives here.”
“What you must understand about Killian is that he’s not materialistic. He doesn’t believe in buying things to show status. To him, what’s in his heart matters most, not what he owns. Hell, remember those boots of his?”
Did I? I remembered them vividly. He wore them all the time. I don’t think I saw him wear anything else in the short time I knew him.
“He only threw them out last year. They were falling apart. Yet, with all the money he’s earned, he refused to buy another pair until he was sure they couldn’t be repaired.”
I hadn’t known that about him. We’d talked about him not having much to his name, that anything he’d had since moving to England he’d either sold or had stolen. Drug addicts had no shame and would steal from anyone. He’d pawned his guitar more times than he could count but always got it back.
That was a point. Where was it?
“Where’s his guitar?” I asked.
“In the bedroom. Why? Do you think he’ll need it?”
I don’t know why it seemed important, but I headed to the bedroom. There in the corner was his guitar in its hard case.
I opened it up, just to make sure, and almost dropped it on the floor.
Tucked behind the strings was a photo of me. When had he taken that?
It couldn’t have been early on in our relationship because I was laughing, and when I first met him, I don’t think I even cracked a smile.
What broke my heart was that he’d kept it after all this time. I stroked the image, hardly recognising the person staring back at me.
Empty, soulless eyes and a smile so fake. Why hadn’t I seen it?
I returned it to its place, closed the case, and fastened the latch.
I swallowed down the lump that had formed in my throat and picked up the case, but before I could go anywhere, Killian’s arms surrounded me, his face next to mine.
I wrapped my arms around my waist and gripped his forearms, bringing back memories of a time when we’d done this in my kitchen, a time when we’d been finding our way.
Except I’d lost mine and lost him along the way. I closed my eyes and breathed him in.
Three years, and I still craved his touch. I leant back into his familiar embrace, realising I’d never wanted to be anywhere but here.
He was where my heart belonged. I knew it the moment I saw him yesterday. My heart had danced happily, then sank into the depths of despair when he ignored me.
It was only then that I realised that all this time, I’d been waiting for him and him alone, not knowing if I’d ever see him again. I’d vowed to myself that I wouldn’t chase him, that if it was meant to be, we’d meet again, but deep down, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away and that, in time, I’d find him.
And now there we were, in each other’s arms, apologies sitting on my tongue, knowing they’d never be enough for the hurt I caused him, but hoping deep down that one day he’d see I did it for us.