by Megyn Ward
I wrap my arms around my middle, fingers digging into my kidneys, hard enough to hurt. “It’s not up to you.” I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the dry, bitter lump stuck there. “You should go.”
“I don’t want to.” He’s close. So close I can see the flecks of black scattered around the green of his irises. “Is this about Declan? What he said about Jessica?” he says in a desperate rush, like he knows time is running out. Like he’s running down a hallway full of locked doors, jerking on every knob, trying to find one that will turn. Let him inside. “Because he’s a fucking idiot. I don’t want anything to do with her. I want—”
“I don’t.” I dig my fingers in and shake my head. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
He pushes frustrated hands through his hair and laughs, sound and air, kicked out of his lungs in a sudden rush. “I’ve done everything you asked.” His hands slide to the back of his neck before flinging outward in a burst of angry energy. “Everything—even though I fucking hate it. I’ve lied to everyone. Ignored you when I see you walking down the hall at school. Let you push me away when you think someone might see—because I want to be with you,” he says it loud. Loud enough to wake my neighbors. “Why won’t you just let me be with you?”
I don’t care about my neighbors. I shout right back. “Be with me?” I lift myself onto my toes, shoving my face into his so we’re practically nose to nose. “Were you paying attention tonight? My dad is a fall-down drunk. My mother’s a whore, and my brother can’t be bothered with any of it. That leaves me. I’m the one who gets to mop up the piss and the puke. I’m the one. Me. No one else.”
“I’m here.” He shakes his head at me, brow furrowed. “I’m standing right here with you, Henley. I’m trying—”
“You don’t want to be with me. You feel sorry for me. You want to fix me.” I throw my hands up, gesturing wildly. “This isn’t hard. This is my life. My fucked-up, shitty life—and it’s never going to get better.”
“I tried. I tried, and I can’t figure it out.” He steps back, scrubbing his hands over his face while letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “So, just tell me, okay?” he says. “Just tell me what I have to do to convince you, and I’ll do it. Whatever it is, I’ll do—”
“How many girls have you slept with?”
The question cuts him off completely. He looks at me, mouth open, trying to wrap his head around it. “I—” he shakes his head. “I don’t—”
“It’s a simple question, Conner,” I say, pushing as much ice into my tone as I can. “You’re the genius, right? So, how many? Five? Ten? Fifty? Show me the mathematical equation you use to figure out how many girls you’ve screwed.”
“Why?” He stands there, staring at me like I spit on him. “Why does it matter?”
“Because none of them are me.” I push myself forward, advancing toward him, attacking him. “Because you say you want to be with me, but you don’t. You can’t even bring yourself to kiss me, let alone fuc—”
He lunges at me, his hands closing over my upper arm, tightening as pushes me back, pinning me against the wall. His lips hit mine, hard and angry, like a punch, and I’m struggling, trying to get my arms loose. Finally managing to get my arms from under his hands, I lift them, wrapping them around his neck to pull him closer. Despite the pent-up anger and frustration I feel in him, he’s holding back. I can feel it.
I push. Open my mouth under his to run my tongue along the seam of his lips.
Kiss me back. Please, kiss me back, Please—
Something inside him breaks loose. His arms slip around my waist, hands fisting in the back of my shirt. He yields. Kisses me until I’m dizzy until neither of us can breathe.
Suddenly, he pulls away with a groan. “Stop,” he says, his hands locking around my shoulders to push me back. “We have to stop.”
“What?” I feel like someone just yanked the rug out from under my feet. “Why?”
“Because.” He runs a hand over the top of his head before letting it fall to his side. “Because.”
“I don’t want to stop,” I tell him, suddenly feeling desperate. “I want...” I force myself forward. To take a chance. To believe him. “I want to.”
“I don’t,” he says quickly, holding out a hand to stop me from coming any closer. “Not with your dad passed out in the room next door and on the tail-end of a fight.” He shakes his head. “Not like that. Not with you.”
His rejection is all I hear. All I care about. “Then get out,” I tell him, my tone as cold and hard as ice.
“Please, Hen.” He’s shaking his head, brows knit tightly together. “Don’t make me do this.”
Make him.
Like being with me is something he’d have to force himself to do.
“Either you leave, or I start screaming.” I’ll do it. It’s already there, the knot of it seated in my belly, cold and tight, just waiting for me to let it loose.
“Pleas—”
I put his ring back on when I got to Tess’s, telling myself it was all a misunderstanding. We would talk and everything would be okay. I jerk off my finger and throw it at him and it pings wildly off the wall. “Leave.”
“Okay…” he nods his head, gaze wheeling around the room like he suddenly can’t stand the sight of me. “Okay, Henley. You win.”
Conner finally does what I’ve been pushing him to do for months.
He leaves me alone.
Forty-eight
Henley
2017
It’s Sunday. My one day off. My one day to sleep in. So, naturally, I’m up at dawn. Restless, I pull on a pair of jeans and a baggy cowl neck sweater before slipping on a pair of slouchy suede boots.
My mother would hate everything I’m wearing. She’d say I look sloppy. Common. Never mind that the sweater is cashmere and cost more than most people make in a week.
A lady always looks put together.
Jeans, Henley? Really?
I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my room and grin like an idiot.
Throwing my hair into a quick, loose braid, I shove some cash, my ID and my keys into my pocket and head out with no real idea of where I’m going.
It’s been years since I’ve walked anywhere that didn’t involve shopping. The prospect has me practically giddy.
Stepping off the elevator and into the lobby, I smile and wave at the concierge behind the front desk. “Shall I have your car brought around, Ms. O’Connell?” He looks slightly panicked that I didn’t call down to ask him ahead of time, reaching for the phone, finger poised to dial the garage.
Ladies don’t run the streets.
Like I don’t know where the garage is. Like I don’t know how to start a car.
“No, thank you,” I say, giving him the same answer I give him every day, breezing past him without stopping. I’m through the door and halfway down the sidewalk before he even hangs up the phone.
I wander. Find a bakery and buy a half dozen croissants and a large black coffee. Eat three of them. Drink my coffee. Wander some more. Give the rest of my pastries along with half the money in my pocket to a homeless man. Keep walking. Breath. Enjoy my freedom.
Before I know it, it’s late morning, and I’m miles from my building. Not that I’m lost. Not really. I recognize the park I’ve wandered into almost immediately. It’s where we used to play baseball when we were kids.
Seems I wasn’t really wandering after all.
There’s a team on one of the fields, warming up. A giant in a navy blue T-shirt and ball cap is alternating between hitting long balls, grounders and the occasional pop fly while his players scramble to field and catch as many of them as they can. The kids are having a ball, laughing and shouting to each other. Communicating their plays, so they don’t run into each other. If someone misses or drops the ball, they boo and hiss, but it’s all good-natured fun.
Fifteen-year-old me is green with jealousy.
I wander closer to get a better look, hooking my fin
gers into the chain link fence near the dugout, watching like the odd man out at a pick-up game.
“Henley?”
I whip around, cheeks stained a bright red like I’ve been caught doing something bad. Conner’s cousin, Patrick is standing behind me, a mesh bag full of baseballs slung over one shoulder, a trio of bats levered against the other. He’s wearing a navy blue T-shirt with a company logo—DPG Design & Build—splashed across the front and a ball cap tugged low over a face that looks both confused and surprised.
“Patrick?” I look around, hoping to see Conner and feeling like a fool for it. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here every Sunday,” he says, laughing and shaking his head at me. “Dec and I sponsor and coach a team.” He tips his chin toward the field. Sure enough, the giant lobbing balls into the outfield is Declan. “What are you doing here?”
That’s a good question. What am I doing here?
“I don’t really know,” I say honestly. “I woke up early and decided on a walk.” I shrug. “Ended up here.”
“How far away is your apartment?” he says, swinging the bag of balls off his shoulder, and drops it over the waist-high fence and into the dugout.
“A few miles over, on Boylston,” I say with another evasive shrug.
“Boylston?” He looks concerned. Like he might agree with my mother about my propensity for running the streets, unsupervised. “Lot of rough neighborhood between there and here.”
His comment feels like an admonishment, and it stiffens my neck instantly. “Don’t let the cashmere and diamonds fool you, Gilroy,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “I grew up in this neighborhood, remember? I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I know that,” he says, tipping his hat back a bit so I can see his face. “The fat lip Con’s walking around with can attest to the fact.”
His comment, delivered on a calm, even tone, shames me instantly. “He deserved it,” I say, sounding like I’m twelve.
I haven’t seen Conner in three days. Not since he made me come, twice, on his kitchen floor before kicking me out of his apartment.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Patrick laughs, firmly closing the subject. “You still play?”
I haven’t touched a baseball in almost ten years. Not since my mother came to this very park when I was fifteen and hauled me away from a pick-up game, her thin fingers digging into the meat of my arm like talons.
Never again, Henley Rose. Do you understand me? If I so much as suspect that you’re down here, playing and running around with that trash, you’ll be sorry.
Conner was on that field.
So was my brother.
“No.” I shake my head emphatically, even as the palm of my hand starts to tingle. The muscles in my arm start to ache. “I haven’t thrown a ball in years.”
Patrick grins at me, and this time it’s genuine. “You want to?”
Forty-nine
Conner
Mam says to come to dinner.
That’s the text I got from Declan a few hours ago, reminding me that 1) It’s Sunday 2) I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and that was only because I let Tess hustle pancakes out of me and 3) I promised my mom’s Bronco a tune-up about five-hundred miles ago.
Despite all of that, I’m tempted to ignore the summons altogether. As tempted as I am, I don’t because the first and last time I ignored a Sunday dinner invitation, my mom showed up and dragged me home by my ear.
She and Tess have a lot in common.
Me: K
Declan: Da says to stop
by the bar and grab a
bottle of red.
Wine? Who’s coming to dinner, the Queen of England? Then I remember Cap’n’s gone fancy on us. Hanging out with that chef friend of his has landed him some bad habits.
Declan: And beer.
Bring beer.
Da says to stop by the bar is code for, Da asked me to stop by the bar, but I don’t want to so I’m, passing the buck.
Me: Whatever fuckface
Declan: Mature
Me: Better than being
a fuckface.
I jam my phone back into my pocket, ignoring my asshole brother’s follow up text. Closing and locking the roll-up, I head upstairs. Fighting the urge to launch a full-scale assault, I settle for a quick scrub, getting the majority of grease and grime off my hands. No use in bothering with more if I’m going to work on my mom’s car before dinner.
Jamming a change of clothes into a backpack with the plan to shower before dinner, I shoulder it and leave out the back, tossing my bag in the back seat of my car. I feel like an asshole, driving the few blocks between here and my parents but there’s no way I’m juggling a bottle of wine and a case of beer down the street.
Fucking Declan.
At the bar, I dig up one of the expensive bottles my cousin keeps in the office and a case of Harps, tucking a few strays in the deep pockets of my coveralls for good measure because fuck if I’m coming back here on another beer run.
Tossing the case into the backseat with my bag, I drive the few blocks to my parents, going slow through the neighborhood, on the watch for kids chasing balls into the street or street hockey games in progress.
Dec’s truck is already in the driveway, so I park on the street, reaching through the open window to grab my bag and the bottle of red for Cap’n. My dickhead brother can get his own beer.
Yesterday, I would’ve peeled a few from the case, probably would’ve tossed my first empty in the trash before I even crossed the yard. Today, I don’t even want it. Barely even think about it.
Anything for Henley.
Whatever it takes to make her stay.
Because you’re a pathetic shitsack.
And now I want to put my head through a wall. Awesome.
After what happened Friday night, I’ve taken a step back. Or at least tried to. Have to really, because every time I think about her, I’m there, right there, all over again. Tasting her pussy. Hearing her moan my name. Feeling her fingers in my hair, caressing the back of my head, holding me against her while she comes apart in my mouth.
I need more than a step. I need twelve of them because it’s not booze I’m having a hard time kicking.
What I really need is time to adjust. Find my bearings. I mean, I haven’t seen her for nearly a decade and Bam!, we’re fucking like rabbits.
But it’s going to be fine. I can make it work
I can do this.
Besides, what’s the alternative? Stand by and watch her work out her rich girl frustrations on some sweater-vest-wearing fuckstick like that dickface Dalton from the bar the other night. That’s not happening.
Because committing murder and going to prison aren’t what I consider legitimate life goals.
So, yeah. If this is what Henley wants, if it’s what she needs, I’m going to be the one to give it to her.
Again, because you’re a pathetic shitsack.
I let myself in. “It’s me,” I shout, tossing my bag up the stairs. On my way toward the kitchen, I pass through the living room where Da, Dec, and Cap’n are watching game one of the playoffs.
It’s her.
Henley.
Sitting on the loveseat next to my cousin, watching the Sox game, with my family like she belongs here.
Like she never left.
She’s wearing jeans. One of Patrick’s team shirts, the hem tied in a knot at her waist to eat up some of the length. What looks like brand-new cross-trainers. It’s not the jeans or shoes that get me. It’s the shirt. Seeing her wear my cousin’s clothes does something to me.
Something bad.
I can feel my vision start to go dark. The blare of the television goes flat. Muffled.
She knows I’m here. That I’m looking at her, but she won’t acknowledge me.
Funny. It hurts just as much as it used to.
“Where’s the beer?”
I swing my gaze toward the back of my brother’s head, sitting on t
he couch in front of me. “In my car,” I practically snarl because I know. I know he’s the one who brought her here. I don’t even have to ask. “Go get it your goddamned self,” I say before he can say anything else. My tone jerks everyone gaze from the game in front of them, everyone but Henley’s. I glare at her. Wait for her to look at me. Acknowledge me.
Admit I exist.
That I matter.
She does none of those things. She just keeps watching the game, eyes glued to the screen. Back straight. Hands folded in her lap. Knees pressed together and angled away from me, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s waiting for someone to serve her some goddamned tea.
Same as always, it’s like I’m not even here.
Fifty
Henley
I knew coming here was a bad idea. When Declan extended the invitation after the game, it was on the tip of my tongue to say no. Make some sort of excuse about why I couldn’t accept his invitation. Instead of saying, no, I don’t want to intrude, I opened my mouth, and I’d love to tumbled out.
Somehow, Conner’s dad recognized me right away. When Declan dragged me into the living room and presented me to his father like a fattened calf, he jumped up from his recliner to wrap me in the kind of hug that made me realize how much my stepfather, Spencer, reminds me of him.
“This house has missed you, girl,” he said, setting me away from him, his mammoth-sized hands, clamped around my shoulders to beam down at me.
“Not nearly as much as I’ve missed it,” I tell him, not realizing how true it was until just then. “I’m sorry about the way it happened.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing to Conner’s father of all people. I just know that I need to. I need to acknowledge the damage I left behind. “I never should’ve—”
“You stop, right there, little girl,” he says cutting me off. “You were a kid and the way I see it, you’re mother didn’t leave you much of a choice. You’re home now—that’s what matters.” He clears his throat and smiles, but it feels forced. “Con’s seen you then?”
“Yes…” I swallow and nod, thinking about all the ways Con has seen me over the past few days. “We met for lunch on Friday. He’s going to take me to see my father.”
