by Megyn Ward
Standing here, now—in this apartment—I realize for what might be the millionth time since I was wounded, that as much as I pretend that I have, I’ve never really forgiven her for it.
And on top of it all, I’m angry.
Because this place is fucking ridiculous. It’s too much—and it’s got my sister written all over it.
“You could’ve just stuck me in a supply closet, you know,” I grumbled at Patrick when he first let me in and handed me the keys. “I don’t need all this space—and shit.” I cast a hard look around the room and shake my head. “I don’t need all this shit.”
This shit is furniture. Couches and chairs. End tables and lamps. Throw rugs on the floor and framed prints on the wall.
Fuck, it looks like an actual person lives here.
“This is the same apartment I showed you last month,” he tells me, unfazed by my complete lack of gratitude. “If it’s too much, you should’ve told me then. As for the shit—blame Hen. She’s the one who bought it.”
Thinking about the army of delivery guys who were here yesterday, carrying in furniture when I dropped by yesterday, it makes sense It looks like her. Understated and classy. Expensive and tasteful. I want to pick up the nearest lamp and throw it through the fucking window.
“You gonna be okay by yourself?”
I glance away from the window to find Patrick standing by the front door, looking at me like he’s having second thoughts about leaving me here alone.
“Jesus Christ,” I roll my eyes even though I’m suddenly not so sure. I haven’t been alone—really alone—in months. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“Alright.” Bullshit or not, Patrick laughs and reaches for the door. “If you need something—”
“If I need something, I’ll figure it out for myself.” I swipe a hand over my face, smothering a curse. “Hey,” I say, stopping him halfway out the door.
“Yeah?” Patrick stops in his tracks and looks at me like he’s suddenly worried again.
“About Rich—what I did to him.” I drop my hand away from my face and let out a heavy breath. “Don’t take the heat for what I did. Let him come at me. I can—”
“Fuck Rich. He fucked with a Gilroy and got what was comin’.” He gives me that grin, the one that makes him look like Con, flashing me his dimples. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it like we always do—as a family.”
And then he’s gone and I’m alone.
Unsure of what to do next, I just stand here, somewhere between living room and the kitchen, staring at the door and wondering how it all got to this point. How I ended up here. Right back where I started.
Because I know from personal experience, I’ll just end up working myself into fucking lather if I poke at it too much, I put it all away and make a concerted effort to focus on the here and now.
Hobbling my ass into the kitchen, I open the fridge, more out of curiosity than actual expectation. Staring into it, I have to laugh because of course my sister stocked it. Milk. Butter. Eggs. The crisper is full of vegetables. Cheese and lunch meat. A six-pack of beer. The freezer is stuffed with frozen pizzas and family-sized trays of lasagna and frozen enchiladas.
Seeing it all makes me realize that I’m twenty-eight and I’ve never been grocery shopping. Never pushed a cart around a store or examined produce. Never debated over the price of eggs or which brand of bread is on sale. Never lived like a civilian. The closest I’ve come to grocery shopping is picking up a six-pack at the base commissary and the closest I’ve come to cooking is nuking a frozen burrito.
Until this morning when I made French toast and bacon with a four-year-old.
Which makes me a pretty sorry excuse for an adult, if you ask me.
Slamming the freezer shut, I yank the fridge open again and pull a beer off the shelf. Twisting the cap off, I toss it on the counter and dig my prescription bottle of Oxy out of my duffle. After a few seconds of debate, I pop the cap and shake a small round pill into my palm and wash it down with the beer. Because fuck it, right?
Leaving my cane in the kitchen, I shoulder my duffle and take it and my beer into the bedroom to unpack, only to find the dresser and closet already full of clothes. Socks and underwear. Button-downs and jeans. Flannel pajama pants and T-shirts. Price tags clipped off and freshly laundered. Folded neatly. Arranged by color.
Henley.
Again.
Depositing my duffle full of rags in the closet with a vicious kick, I sink onto the edge of the bed and try not to feel like shit. Try to accept that she’s my sister. That making me feel useless wasn’t her intention. That, like Patrick, she has money to burn so why shouldn’t I let her spend it on me if it’s going to help alleviate the guilt she feels over what happened when we were kids.
When it doesn’t work, when all I do is end up feeling angrier, I set my beer on the nightstand and yank its drawer open to toss my prescription bottle into it.
Condoms.
What must be hundreds of them.
And an envelope with my name written across the front of it in Conner’s haphazard scrawl. Gritting my teeth, I rip it open and read the note inside.
Hey, Assface –
The condoms are a housewarming gift from me to you. The rest of it is from Hen. Don’t be a dick about it. She’s your sister. She loves you. And if that isn’t enough, remember you owe me.
Con
p.s. If you forgot how condoms work, give Grace a call. I’m sure she’d be happy to show you.
Seeing them, reading the note that accompanied them, makes me think of her. This morning. The shock and uncertainty on her face when she realized what was happening. That I was as hard as a rock and standing over her with my cock shoved in her face. Ever the optimist, I drop my hand to my crotch and give myself a squeeze.
Nothing.
Not a goddamned thing.
Like this morning never happened.
I toss the note back into the drawer and slam it closed. Standing, I take the beer with me into the bathroom and camp out in the doorway. Whirlpool tub big enough to qualify as a hot tub. Separate walk-in shower that looks like it could fit the New England offensive line and leave room for a cheerleader or two. Dual shower showerheads. Two sink vanity. High-end towels. Spa-quality bath products.
Six months ago, I was digging my own latrine and washing my balls with army-issue wet naps. A month later I was down a testicle and suffering the indignity of having my ass wiped by my best friend while I mentally cataloged all the things in the room I could kill myself with if I wasn’t such a useless lump of shit.
Taking a long pull from my beer, I start to feel the warm, chemical spread of oxy swimming through my system. The pain in my leg starts to melt away and I drain the beer dry in an effort to smother the guilt and apprehension that comes with the relief. The thing that whispers you’re just like your father in my ear, over and over until it’s as loud as a shout.
“Fuck it,” I mutter it out loud, rounding on wonderfully numb legs intent on a trip the kitchen to get myself another beer. Maybe another oxy. I make it as far as the living room before I bitch out and park my ass on the couch. Not because my leg hurts but because turning into my father is a legit possibility and if that’s where I’m heading then, promise or no promise, I might as well just off myself right now and get it over with.
Snagging the remote off the coffee table, and prepare myself for a brain battle royale, trying to figure it out. Looking at it, instead of frustration and confusion, I feel a now familiar mixture of shame and relief because the remote’s button panel is so simple a toddler could figure it out. Aiming it at a huge flat screen hanging on the wall, I punch the big green button marked ON, and resign myself to long, solitary day of doing nothing.
Nine
Grace
What the fuck are you doing, Grace?
Seriously—what the fuck are you doing?
When I asked myself that question an hour ago, the answer was simple—Molly was finally asleep after a long day of d
riving me bonkers and Cari was zoned out in her studio and without either of them to pester me, I was bored out of my skull.
So, I told myself I was going for a walk. I pulled a brush through my hair and put on some mascara. Slipped on my low-top chucks and knocked on Cari’s studio door before pushing it open.
My sister likes to paint in her underwear, always has, and she has a habit of swiping her loaded paintbrush against her legs while she works, so when I catch sight of a half-naked Cari covered in paint, it’s not a surprise.
“Hey,” I pitch my voice loud enough to combat the earbuds she has buried in her ears.
She pulls a single bud free and lets it dangle from its wire. “Yeah?” she says without looking away from the canvas in front of her.
“Molly’s asleep.” I sigh and lean against the doorframe. “I’m bored.”
“Uhhh… okay.” Frowning at the canvas, Cari swipes her brush along the top of her thigh, leaving a bright blue stripe in its wake. Lifting her brush she reloads it with blue and starts making broad, bold strokes. “So do something.”
I was hoping she’d say that.
“I thought maybe I’d go for a walk or—”
“A walk, for fuck’s sake?” Dropping her arm again, she sticks her brush in a glass jar full of murky liquid. “Just go see him already,” she laughs at me.
“Just go see him?” I immediately bristle because him is Ryan and go see him is exactly what I want to do, I’m just not ready to admit it yet. “What are you talking about? I just—”
Turning away from her canvas, Cari her stacks paint-stained hands on her hips and sighs. “Kathrine Grace Faraday.” She shakes her head at me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on with Ryan—you don’t even have to admit that something is going on—I saw it written all over you the second you walked into the kitchen, so don’t stand there and play dumb.” She sounds amused and exasperated when she says it, like when she had to scold Molly for flushing socks down the toilet back home. “Just tell me he’s good to you and so I can stop worrying about it.”
“He—” I nod my head and swallow hard against the lump lodged in my throat because it’s a reminder of the conversation I had with Tess this afternoon. “I don’t know what Ryan and I are. I don’t know what’s happening—that’s the truth.” Slipping into the room on a sigh, I slink my way to the bed and sit on its edge. “I just know that whatever it is, it’s happening fast and that no matter how angry he makes me, I can’t seem to stay away from him.”
“He’s a Gilroy, in all the ways that count.” Cari smiles and shakes her head a little. “So yeah—that sounds about right.” Looking away from me, she reaches for the paintbrush in the jar and gives it a vigorous swish before pulling it out. “You still haven’t told me whether or not he’s good to you.” It’s a problem—or has been in the past—for the both of us. Getting involved with guys who use us. Blind us with pretty words and lofty promises just so they can feel better about hurting us on a whim. I think about the way she looked when she came home last year, standing in our front year with angry red and purple rings around her neck. A busted lip and an eye that was half swollen shut. That’s when I get it. She’s just not being nosy. She’s not trying to be an overbearing older sister. She understands me better than anyone and she’s genuinely worried about me.
I’ll never hurt you, Grace.
Never you and never Molly.
“He’s a Gilroy, right?” I say, even though I know that’s not how Ryan sees himself. “I don’t think any of them could mistreat a woman if their life depended on it.”
“I keep forgetting you just got here,” she says with a soft laugh while she cleans her brush with the hem of her paint-splattered shirt. “That means you missed the Conner Gilroy shitshow.” Before I can ask her what she means by that, she keeps talking. “Just promise me you’re being careful and that if he—”
“He won’t.” I stand up, feeling suddenly defensive. “He won’t hurt me,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure it might be a lie. “Either way, I’m a big girl, Cari—I can handle Ryan O’Connell.”
Yeah, that’s probably a lie too.
She stares at me for a moment and I can see it. How much she wants to argue. How much she wants to point out that I have a living, breathing, four-year-old proof that I don’t have a very good track record when it comes to handling anything. Instead of saying it out loud, she stops cleaning her brush and shrugs. “Keys to the center are hanging on the hook in the laundry room. Alarm code is 7739. He’s in apartment 510.” Turning, she loads her clean brush with color—a deep, vibrant red—before lifting it to the canvas again. “Go on—I’ll keep an ear out for Moll, just shoot me an I’m not dead text when you get there so I know you made it safe.”
I stood there for all of three seconds before I was out the door. Fifteen seconds later, I had my coat on and I was on the stairs, keys to the center in hand. Ten minutes after that, I’d sent my obligatory text to my sister and I was standing outside Ryan’s apartment, asking myself what the fuck?
What the fuck I’m doing here?
Getting answers.
And an apology.
That’s what I’m doing here.
He owes me both and I’m here to get them.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I square my shoulders and knock on the door in front of me.
Listening hard for the shuffle thump of his cane, all I can do is stare at him, eyes wide, jaw slack, when he pulls the door open less than a few seconds after I knocked.
Jesus, he’s beautiful. Even in track pants and a T-shirt I’ve never seen before, with a week’s worth of hermit beard shadowing his jawline, I can’t take my eyes off him. Can’t breathe because suddenly he’s right in front of me, close enough to touch.
As soon as he sees me, Ryan lifts his free arm to brace it against the doorframe—either because he’s using the added support to alleviate the pressure that standing without his cane puts on his leg or because he’s afraid I’m going to barge my way into his apartment and he doesn’t want me to.
“What are you doing here?” Despite the question, he doesn’t look surprised to see me. If anything, he looks like he’s been expecting me. Like he’s been waiting for me and wonders what’s taken me so long to get here.
Because I’m wondering the same thing, I shrug. “I’ve changed my mind.” Pushing my way past him, I’m mildly surprised when he drops his arm and lets me into his apartment. Taking a quick spin, I see hardwood floors and a wide, bare bank of windows overlooking the street. A sectional leather sofa. A huge, state-of-the-art flat screen on the opposite wall. Finishing my turn, I face the open front door again. Ryan is still standing in front of it, looking at me like he can’t quite figure out how I got past him. “You owe me an apology,” I tell him with a firm nod of my head. “And I’m here to get it.”
Ten
Ryan
For one heart-stopping, stomach-churning second I just stand here and stare at her because I think she wants me to apologize for this morning. What happened.
With my dick.
And then I realize that she’s talking about what happened last night. What I said to her when she offered to share her bed with me. How shitty I was to her.
“Grace—”
“I’ll even make it easy for you,” she says while she takes off her coat, jerking on its buttons so hard it’s a wonder they don’t pop off. “Grace, I’m sorry if fingerfucking you in my hospital room gave you the wrong idea but—” She yanks the last button free and starts to struggle out of her coat. “the truth of the matter is, and you get to fill in the appropriate answer here, A—” Coat off, she tosses it over the back of the couch. “I’m still in love with Tess.”
“Jesus Christ.” Trying not to yell, I drop my hand on the back of head so hard I feel a twinge in my neck. ”I’m not in love—”
“Don’t interrupt me.” She holds a hand up between us, palm thrust toward me like a traffic cop. “B—you’re kinda slutt
y, being how you let me into your pants approximately five minutes after we met and I don’t get serious with sluts or C—”
“Don’t.” I bark it at her, slamming the front door shut, hard enough to make her jump. “You’re not a slut, so don’t ever let me hear you talk about yourself like that again.” Raising my hand, I rake rough fingers through my hair while I let out a shaky breath because she’s looking at me like she just realized that I’m blocking her only escape route. “I was there too, you know,” I tell her, moving away from the door, toward the kitchen. If she’s gonna run, she better do it now. “What happened was as much my doing as it was your—maybe more.” Yanking open the refrigerator door, I can feel her watching me. Bending forward I scissor two long necks between my fingers and pull them off the shelf. Buried in the fridge, I was halfway sure I’d climb out to find my front door hanging open and my apartment deserted, but when I straighten, she’s still there. Still staring at me. Still looks like she wants to run. “I wanted you. I wanted you so damn much my hands were shaking. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt like that? Like—” Me. Instead of saying it out loud, I slam the fridge door shut and twist the caps off the beers in my hand before setting them on the counter to stare at them. It would be easier to lie. To tell her I’m in love with Tess—keep using my convoluted feelings for her like a shield—but it’s a lie. One I can tell myself all day long, but I can’t tell it to Grace. Can’t hurt her. Not like that. So, I tell her the truth. “And—and I’m only going to say this one more fucking time—I am not in love with Tess.”
“I heard you.” As soon as she says it, I turn around to look at her and her mouth snaps shut. Her cheeks lose their indignant flush.
Beers forgotten, I lean my hips against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “You heard me what?”
Even though I haven’t moved an inch, she takes a step back, away from me, like she feels the need to put distance between us. Like I’m unpredictable. Unstable and she’s afraid of what’s going to happen after she says what comes next. “The other night—when Declan brought you upstairs and dumped you in Molly’s bed.” She rubs her hands on the legs of her jeans like she’s nervous. Like she’s telling me something she shouldn’t. “You said, I should’ve taken her from you when I had the chance—you were talking about Tess.” She stops rubbing and looks away from me. “It’s okay, Ryan—I get it,” she says on a sigh, not giving me a chance to explain what she overheard. “What happened between us was a mistake—” she flips her hands at me and shrugs before forcing herself to look at me again. “I mean, it barely even happened, right?” Now she laughs but there’s no humor in it. “So, don’t—”
