Page 64 of The Endless Want

Something inside me has shifted. And not in a direction I understand.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. I oversee the money. I check the exits. I make sure the Italians get the numbers they want for their reports.

But none of it registers. All I hear is Ailish’s voice echoing again and again:

I’m trying.

I don’t have the strength.

By the time the speakeasy closes and the last patron is ushered out, I’m carrying a guilt so heavy it feels like sand in my lungs.

I stand alone at the bar for a long time, palms pressed flat against the counter, trying to breathe through the mess I created. And then I do the one thing I shouldn’t do.

I reach for whiskey. I pour the drink. Tip it back. The moment the burn hits my throat, I know I’m in deeper trouble than I’ve ever been.

CHAPTER 19

Declan

By the time I lock up the speakeasy that night, guilt has settled into me like a parasite that now calls my body home. The street outside is quiet, wet from an earlier drizzle, neon reflections blurring along the pavement. My reflection in the window looks like a stranger. Or maybe it looks like the man I was before I clawed my way out of the darker parts of my own nature.

Either way, he’s someone I don’t want to meet tonight.

My phone buzzes. A text from Conor:

Conor; You coming by? I know that ‘leave me alone’ silence. It means don’t leave you alone.

I huff a humorless laugh. He’s right.

The whiskey in my bloodstream has dulled the edge of my anger, leaving only a thick, lingering regret that doesn’t know where to go.

I text back:

Declan; I’m on my way. Put on pants. Or don’t. I don’t care.

His response is immediate:

Conor; Bring cigarettes. The good ones. And don’t puke on my couch again. Liam threatened to make me scrub your stomach out of the carpet.

I pocket the phone, grab a pack of cigarettes from the bar drawer, and step out into the night.

Conor’s flat sits in an older part of the city, a row of refurbished brick buildings with crooked stoops and iron railings that have survived more winters than any of us have. I climb the steps two at a time, and Conor opens the door before I even knock.

He takes one look at me and sighs. “Oh, perfect,” he mutters. “You’re in one of those moods.”

I push past him and collapse onto his battered sofa. “Shut up.”

“That’s what I meant,” he says dryly, closing the door behind me. “Whiny and self-destructive. Just like the good old days.”

He tosses me a bottle of water, which I ignore, and drops onto the opposite armchair with a grunt. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is familiar—not tense. Then he nods at me. “Spill it.”

“No.”

“Okay,” he says, standing. “I’m calling Liam⁠—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I snap.

He smirks, satisfied. “So it’s Ailish.”