by Megyn Ward
She jerks back when I say it, away from me like I took a swing at her. Standing there, fists clenched at her sides, mouth quirked and eyes wide, she stares at me, chest heaving slightly like she can’t quite catch her breath. I expect her to apologize like she always does. Tell me she’s sorry for leaving when we were kids. Leaving me behind.
“You left me first—long before I ever got into that car.” She pushes the words out past clenched teeth.
“How the fuck you figure that?” I can feel the back of my neck go hot and tight at her tone. “When I was the one left standing on the goddamned sidewalk, watching you get whisked away by Daddy fucking Warbucks??”
She flinches when I say it, either because I’m yelling at her or because she doesn’t like to be reminded of what happened. It doesn’t matter which, either way, watching her do it makes me feel like shit.
“You left me alone, day after day, night after night—with them.” She reaches up to jab a perfectly manicured finger in my face. “While you were off playing car thief with Declan, I was at home breaking up fistfights and making sure dad didn’t choke on his own vomit.”
“Why the fuck do you think we even had a home?” I roar it at her, so close and loud she takes a step back, away from me, like I’m a rabid dog that’s snapped its leash. “Who do you think was paying the rent? Keeping the lights on? Dad?” I laugh, the sound of it so sharp and bitter I feel the bile of it bite into the back of my throat. “Lydia?” I feel like breaking something when I say our mother’s name. Killing something with my bare hands. “You think either one of them gave a fuck about us?” I can tell by the look on her face that the thought never even occurred to her. That she never put two and two together. I don’t know why but the realization hurts like a bitch. “You know what—it doesn’t even matter. Jack’s not your dad, remember?” Somehow, I manage to choke it out past the bitter lump of resentment lodged in my throat. “And she’s made it clear I’m not her son.”
She is our mother and Henley doesn’t even try to deny it. She just stands there and stares at me like she can’t decide if she wants to start crying or take a swing at me. The Henley I know would’ve done both. The stranger my sister has turned into doesn’t do either one.
I watch as she takes a step back, settling a mask of dignified decorum over her face and my Hen disappears completely. Turning, she reaches for the pile of magazines she left on the island and pulls one from the stack. It’s not a magazine. It’s a medical supply catalog. Setting it on top of the others, she flips it open to a page that’s marked with a lime green post-it. “You’re my brother, Ryan.” She says it to the catalog in front of her, palm pressed against the marked page. “And no matter what you say, no matter what you do, I’m never going to stop loving you.” She finally looks at me, dropping her hand away from the counter with a sigh. “I’m not going anywhere—and neither are you.” Turning away from me, she collects her coat from the back of the couch and shrugs it on. “Since you’re moved in, you can be here to receive a delivery tomorrow morning.” She fixes her coat collar before slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Don’t bother refusing it, it’s already been paid for and they’ll be instructed to call Conner if you give them trouble.”
Because Con’s the only Gilroy who won’t back down when I start raging. He’s the only one who’ll trade me, punch for punch. “So now you’re sic’ing your boyfriend on me?”
“Yes.” She gives me a flat smile, the kind you give someone when you’re sick of their shit but still trying to be polite. “It’s going right in that room—” she points to a set of barn doors next to the bathroom I haven’t noticed until now. “but whether you use it or not is entirely up to you.”
Before I can ask her what the hell she’s talking about, Henley turns and away from me and walks out the door.
Fifteen
Grace
“Mom.”
My eyes pop open when I hear her voice because that’s what happens when your kid whispers your name when you’re sleeping. You wake up in an instant, heart crammed in your throat because, even if you don’t know what, you’re sure something is wrong.
Molly is standing over me and I don’t even have to look at the clock to know it’s early. Waking up at the crack of dawn is typical Molly but she usually lets me sleep, at least until sunrise.
“What is it?” Struggling to sit up, I push my legs over the side of the bed so I can stand. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Sunday,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “When can we go to the Aunt Mary and Uncle Paddy’s for dinner?”
“Molly.” Laughing a little, because of course this is about Ryan, I collapse back onto the bed, my feet still stuck to the floor. “What time is it?”
“Seventy-six ten.”
Still laughing, I flail my hand in the direction of the nightstand. “Hand me my phone.”
Huffing a little, she steps on my feet (probably on purpose) on her way to the nightstand. “Here,” she says, slapping it into my hand. “When can we—”
“Shit.” I drop the phone and cover my face with my free hand. “Molly Grace, it’s 5AM.”
Which means I’ve been in my bed for all of three hours.
I was in Ryan’s bed for a hell of a lot longer.
“You said a swear,” Molly informs me. “You gotta put money in my jar.”
That damn swear jar.
Another reason to hate Ryan.
Like I need one after last night.
Uncovering my eyes, I stare at the ceiling above my bed. “Go get dressed,” I tell Molly without looking at her.
“Are we going to see Ryan?” I can hear the hope in her voice and it nearly kills me.
Sitting up, I give her a lopsided grin. “Yup,” I tell her because all roads lead back to Ryan O’Connell—for both of us it, seems.
When she runs out of the room with a whoop to do as she’s told, I pull a pair of yoga pants out of my drawer and top them with a baggy sweater before heading to the kitchen.
I find Patrick standing at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Like every other Sunday since I’ve been here, he’s wide awake, ready to head to the park to coach baseball.
“You’re up early,” he says when I walk into kitchen, spoonful of raisin bran halfway to his mouth. “If you want, I can take Molly with me to the park.” He delivers the cereal and chews for a few seconds before he finishes his offer. “You and Cari can mee—”
“Are you still looking for shotgirls?”
My question is met with silence. His spoon makes another trip. He shovels in a mouthful of cereal, chewing while regarding me thoughtfully. When his mouth is finally clear, he shakes his head. “No.”
Shit. He just hired Tess, so I knew it was a longshot, but I was still hoping that Gilroy family nepotism would work in my favor.
Before I can even start to feel disappointed, he keeps talking. “I’m thinking about adding a beer station by the pool tables, a few nights a week—bottled domestics. Imports on special. Try to relieve some of the pressure at the bar.” He sets his bowl aside and crosses his arms over his chest. “You have any experience?”
“Yeah—” I nod, never so glad to have served warm beer to factory workers in my whole life. “I cocktailed at the local dive back home. I can get you references if you want. My old boss there will—”
“I don’t need references—you say you have experience, then you have experience.” He doesn’t say anything else for a second. Probably trying to figure out how much shit my sister is going to give him if he hires me without talking to her about it first. Finally he cocks he head and sighs. “Like I said—it’s more an experiment than anything else. Just a few nights a week and the pay won’t—”
“I’ll take it.”
He laughs a little at my enthusiasm and swipes a hand over his face. “What about school?”
“I can do both,” I tell him, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than I feel. �
��Besides, I’m not even sure I got in—and even if I did, the program I applied for has a waiting list. It could be—”
“The medical assistant program.” He walks his bowl to the sink and gives it a rinse. “You got in.” He says it like it’s a fact, not even worth debating.
Before I can ask him what makes him so sure, Molly comes running down the hall at break-neck speed, sliding to a screeching halt in front of the laundry room door. “We’re going to see Ryan,” she announces to Patrick while she stands on her tip-toes to wrangle her jacket off its hook.
“Oh…” Patrick takes a discreet glance at his watch before shooting me a look that’s caught somewhere between amusement and concern because he undoubtedly knows where I was last night and that I wasn’t home when he dragged himself upstairs after closing down the bar, but when he looks back at Molly he gives her one of his full-dimpled grins. “In that case, don’t forget your swear jar.”
Sixteen
Ryan
A sensory deprivation tank.
The kind you fill with water and a half-ton of Epsom salt before climbing in naked and floating off into hippy-dippy oblivion.
That’s what Henley is having delivered tomorrow, and if it’s anything like the one in the medical equipment catalog she left behind, its price tag is enough to make me sick to my stomach.
Yeah, I know that between my uncovered surgeries and the topflight aftercare I got at Sojourn, not to mention buying off my assault victims, I’ve likely cost Patrick more money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime—fuck a dozen lifetimes—so I don’t know why I’m getting twisted over what amounts to a fraction of that, but I am.
As soon as I look at it, realize what it is, I don’t want it. Maybe because I know who’ll ultimately be paying for it.
Spencer Halston-Day.
Henley’s stepfather.
Not my stepfather.
Not even our stepfather.
Spencer is her stepfather.
Not mine.
Because I’ve never even met the man.
Because he took my sister and left me behind without so much as a fuck off, kid.
I can only imagine what my mother told him about me. That I was worthless, just like my father. That I wasn’t worth saving. That I was more trouble than I was worth. And he believed it—every word of it—because believing served his own selfishness.
If he thinks he can buy me off with a shiny new toy or that all’s forgiven now that Henley is back and a complete fucking thorn in my side then—
There’s a knock on my door, short and brisk, like the person on the other side of it doesn’t actually want to knock. Hoping their request for entry will either go unnoticed or ignored.
For a second, I almost do ignore it. Because I’m sure it’s Henley and I don’t want to talk to her. Because we won’t talk. We’ll yell and scream and I’ll end up saying something shitty I can’t take back.
Leaving the kitchen, I decide to take myself back to bed and leave whoever’s at my door standing on the other side of it. Instead, I find myself in front of it. Reaching for it, I pull it open to find Grace and Molly on my doorstep.
Sunny blonde hair pulled back in a perky little ponytail. Jeans and an olive-green jacket that bring out the green in her eyes. Jesus, how does she look so goddamned good, so early in the morning? Before I can make a fool of myself and ask, Molly saves me.
“Mom said the shingles words when I woke her up this morning,” she says, shoving her plastic jar into the space between us. “That means she’s gotta put money in my jar right?”
“Shingles?” I look up, over Molly’s head to find Grace watching me.
“Shit.” Grace stacks her hands on her hips, her look sharpening into a glare that practically dares me to laugh. “I said shit.”
“See?” Molly shakes her jar at me. “Money, right?”
“Well—”
“I happen to think swearing is an acceptable response to being woken up by your four-year-old at 5AM on a Sunday morning—especially when she’s doing it to ask you about a pending dinner date that’s still twelve plus hours away,” Grace says, letting me know that she blames me for the fact that her eyes are open and she’s upright before the sun.
Sighing, I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “I think she’s right, Moll,” I tell her with a shrug. “It’s too early to be awake—swearing before 7AM on a Sunday is allowed.”
“You’re awake and you’re not swearing,” she says, bottom lip poking out a little, letting me know I’m a traitor for taking her mother’s side.
“Henley stopped by on her way to the ball field to drop some stuff off—she woke me up and I swore plenty.”
“Patrick is awake and he didn’t swear.”
“I don’t think Patrick is human,” I tell her in a sincere tone that earns me a snort from Grace. “Why are you awake?”
“I’m an early bird.” She gives me a shrug. “That’s what Gran always says. I woke my mom up like she said,” Molly sighs, readjusting the jar in her arms. “She says since it’s your fault I find it acceptable to wake everyone up at such an ungodly hour that you can deal with me—can I come in?”
“Ahhh,” I say, giving Grace another quick look to make sure that’s what we’re doing here before I take a step back. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” Molly says, pushing her jar into my hands as she moves past me. “You found your stick,” she says, noticing my cane.
“Still not a stick,” I say, swallowing a laugh.
“Still looks like one,” she says while she struggles out of her coat. “Do you have a bathroom,”
“Yes.” I point the business end of my cane at the guest bath, tucked into the corner, between what Patrick decided would be my home office and the set of closed barn doors Henley pointed out before she left. “In there.”
As soon as she’s gone, I turn to find Grace still standing in the open doorway, like she can’t decide if she wants to risk coming in a second time so soon.
“You left.” Using my cane, I shuffle thump my way over to where Molly dropped her coat on the floor. Gritting my teeth, I bend over to pick it up. When I straighten it’s to Grace watching me while she eases herself through the door to shut it behind her.
“You told me to, remember?”
“I’ve got fucking brain damage, Grace,” I remind her, trying to make light of what happened between us last night. “I say a lot of stupid shit I don’t mean.”
Ignoring the obvious having brain damage doesn’t give you the right to be a dickbag reply, she just shrugs. “I didn’t want Molly to wake up and find me gone,” she says, reaching out to take her daughter’s coat from my grasp. “We don’t want to confuse her, right?”
The last of her explanation is enough like the bullshit excuse I gave her Friday night about why I didn’t want to share her bed that I feel my gut clench when she says it.
“Grace—”
“I’ve been beating myself up since the night we met, trying to figure out what it is about me that you don’t like—why you don’t want to want me.”
Sighing, I swipe a rough hand over my face. “It’s not you. There’s nothing wrong with you, Grace. I—”
“I know.”
That stops me in my tracks. “What?”
“I said I know. It’s not me—it’s you.”
Even though it’s true, it still stings, hearing her say it. Agreeing with me that there’s something wrong with me. “You’re right. I’m just—”
“Not ready for me.”
That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say fucked up, but she’s right. I’m not ready for her. I know she’s right because when she says it, I can feel the clench in my gut tighten. It squeezes so hard I can feel my pulse in my stomach.
Instead of acknowledging it, I completely side-step it. Stick to the explanation I worked out and told myself I’d give her the next time I saw her. “I’m sorry, about last night, I know I was—”
“There’s nothing w
rong with me, Ryan.” She doesn’t sound angry when she says it. She sounds resigned. “And there’s nothing wrong with you either. I know you don’t believe that and I’m just someone who barely knows you but—”
“There’s plenty wrong with me,” I tell her, my tone hard and flat against her ears. “I’m broken, Grace. I’m fucking broken and there isn’t a goddamned thing I could’ve done to stop it from happening. I—” I stop talking for a second, trying to gather myself. Keep myself contained. “You don’t know who I was before—”
“You keep saying that.” She nods. “And you’re right, I don’t know who you were. I know who you are.” She sighs and shakes her head at me, a look of frustration settling over her face. “Something bad happened to you, Ryan—something goddamned horrible that was out of your control.” She swallows hard, and looks away for a second like it’s hard to look at me. “That’s what makes these kinds of things so horrible—not being able to stop them from happening. Knowing you’re at the mercy of something that wants to tear you apart.” She looks at me again, her jaw set, eyes narrowed. “But you’re wrong about who you are. There is so much—”
“If you say potential, I swear to Christ…” I heave out a breath, my jaw suddenly tight and aching. “I’m not a project, Grace. I’m not some wounded animal you can just nurse back to health,” I tell her, even though that’s exactly what I feel like, every time I’m with her.
“I know that.” She frowns at me. “I don’t want to fix you, Ryan—” Somewhere behind me, a toilet flushes, followed by the quiet rush of water swirling down the drain. “I can’t fix you, because there’s nothing to fix. You’re not broken, you’re just different, and until you accept that, whatever this is—” She waves a hand between us. “Is something you’re not ready for.”
“What are you saying?”
Behind me, the water shuts off but Molly doesn’t come out of the bathroom right away.
