by Megyn Ward
“Fine.” Patrick sighs, nodding his head before straightening himself from his slump. “Stay away from the bar until you get yourself right.”
“Get myself right?” I laugh. I haven’t been right for years, if I ever was. “How do you propose I do that, Cap’n? Drink and fuck myself to death?”
He gives me a look, one that says he knows. Understands. Seeing it on his face makes me want to throw myself into traffic. “You were never one for stupid questions, cousin.” He picks up the bag Tess left behind, its cold, heavy contents thunking me in the chest when he tosses it at me on his way out the door. “Don’t start asking them now.”
Twenty-one
Henley
It was glorious, the look on Jessica’s face when she saw me walk in behind Tess.
“Come on,” I tell her when she stalls out mid-stride, looking like she’s seconds away from button-hooking around me to run out the door. “We’re sitting at the bar today.”
Before she can protest, I take her by the hand and pull her along behind me, my gaze focused on Jessica. Somewhere caught between rage and panic, she looked like she swallowed a handful of spiders.
I’m tempted to take out my phone and take a picture.
As soon as he sees us approaching, Declan gets busy wiping down the bar with the kind of laser-sharp focus you’d use to disarm a bomb. I shove Tess into a stool before sliding onto my own, as close to Jessica as I can get without sitting in her lap. “Jessica?” I say, angling myself in her direction, my tone overly bright. “Jessica Renfro—is that you?”
Left with no choice but to acknowledge me, she turns toward me. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Seriously?” I laugh and roll my eyes. “Of course you know me. Henley… Henley O’Connell.” I flick my hair over my shoulder and tilt my head, making sure the diamond studs Spencer gave me for my twenty-first birthday catch the light and blind her. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me. We went to school together. You and your friends used to keep me company, walking home from school. How is Penny?”
“Ohhh…” she does her best to give me one of her mean girl looks. It’s good, but mine’s better. “I remember you now. I didn’t recognize you without all those freckles.”
“Don’t forget my nose job and the small fortune my new dad paid to fix my teeth.” I smooth the hem of my Chanel skirt along the curve of my knee. “It’s amazing what having billions of dollars at your disposal will do for you,” I say, letting my gaze trail over her knock-off shoes and last-season designer jeans. “You look… well.” Well comes out sounding like shit. I don’t give a good goddamn what’s she’s wearing, where she got it or how much it cost. I care that she cares. She hurts Tess, every chance she gets. For that, I hit her where it hurts. Jessica gets the full rich bitch experience.
“Henley.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Declan watching us carefully like he’s not sure where to step next. “Why don’t you and Tess find a table, I’ll have one of the waitresses—”
“No, thank you.” I shoot him a look that instantly shuts his mouth. “I’d like to watch the Sox game, if you don’t mind.” I angle myself toward Jessica again, pinning her with a friendly smile. “We made it to the World Series and I hear Ephraim Viaga is starting.” There is no game on and he knows it but before Declan can say so, I lean across the bar like I’m telling him a secret, loud enough for Jessica to hear. “He’s my neighbor—I saw him on the elevator, just the other day. He was with someone—blonde. Kinda skanky.”
Jessica’s mouth falls open and flaps a few times while behind me, Tess makes a snorting/coughing noise like she swallowed a laugh and is choking on it.
“You like the Sox, don’t you, Declan?” I say, going in for the kill. “I’d be happy to introduce you to Ephraim if you’d like. I’m sure he’d be happy to come to one of your—”
I sit back while Jessica jumps out of her seat like it’s on fire, snatching her knock-off Coach bag off the seat next to her before bolting for the door.
As soon as she’s gone, I turn toward Declan who’s still standing there, looking at me with the oddest mixture of confusion and apprehension. Before he can say a word, I slide out of my seat. “Now, we’ll go find a table,” I tell him, swiping menus we don’t need from the holder attached to the front of the bar. “And see if you can, dig up a bottle of champagne. I feel like celebrating.”
“I’m serious, Margo,” I say, taking the stack of books out of her hands. “Go home.”
She frowns at me and shakes her head. “I’ve been closing this library longer than you’ve been alive, Henley O’Connell—chased you out of here more than once.”
“And now it’s my turn to chase you out,” I say, angling myself away from her when she makes a grab for the stack of books I took from her. When she just frowns at me some more, I sigh. “I’m not supposed to tell you this by your husband called. He managed to get tickets to Hamilton. He was hoping to surprise you.” I balance the books on my hip and make a shooing gesture at her. “Curtain goes up at nine. I was supposed to have you out of here fifteen minutes ago.”
Margo stares at me for a second, dumbstruck. “Hamilton?” she finally manages while scrambling to collect her purse and coat. “How in the world did he manage that? That show sold out months ago”
The tickets were expensive. Box seats, complete with cocktail hour, dinner and limo service to and from. I should know. They were mine.
Instead of confessing, I shrug. “I don’t know, but you better act surprised when he springs them on you.”
Five minutes later she’s gone. I load the cart full of returns and wheel it over to the information desk where I use the intercom to make the the library will be closing in 15-minutes announcement while the security guard sweeps each floor, directing stragglers toward the main entrance. I spent the next few minutes answering questions and helping a couple of kids navigate the self-checkout machine.
Before I know it, I’m sending the security guard home and locking the doors. My two-hour champagne lunch with Tess put me behind schedule. I have a full cart of returns to shelve and I need to finish up and submit the grant paperwork to fund—
A hard-knuckled rap splits the quiet and my head jerks up, gaze aimed across the atrium and out the heavy glass doors. As soon as I see who it is, my stomach takes a flying leap at my throat before swan-diving toward my feet.
It takes my stomach a few moments to catch up to my brain. Tom Ford suit. Neatly trimmed hair. Cufflinks. Not a tattoo in sight.
Patrick. Not Conner.
Fighting off the wave of disappointment that the realization lets loose, I skirt the information desk and make my way toward the door.
“I’m sorry, sir.” I give him a thin-lipped, dour librarian smile through the glass. “The library is closed.”
Patrick shakes his head and grins at me. “That’s too bad, “he says, voice muffled. “I heard about this feisty, red-headed librarian who made Jessica Renfro cry today and I felt compelled to stop by and offer her a foot rub.”
“A foot rub?” I key in the security code and flip the lock. “Okay, but I have to warn you,” I say, pushing the door open. “I’ve been in these heels all day—it’s not going to be pretty.”
“It’s been months since I’ve seen Tess so happy,” he tells me, stepping into the atrium. “I’ll risk it.”
We both laugh but I can tell by the way he’s looking at me, his reason for stopping by has nothing to do with Tess or was happened with Jessica this afternoon.
“Patrick—” I start to speak but he cuts me off before I have a chance to even formulate a thought.
“I don’t know what he told you, Henley,” he says, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. “If I had to guess, it’s that he’s super chill about you’re coming home. That he doesn’t care. That he’s able to keep whatever is happening between the two of you casual.” He jams his hands into his hand-tailored pants and frowns at me. “He’s a liar. He can’t, and he does and he’s no
t.”
“I don’t see how what’s happening between Conner and me is any of your business.” This time, the thin-lipped smile I give him is genuine. “Besides, happening isn’t even accurate. Happened is more like it since we haven’t spoken in—”
Again, he cuts me off. “His self-care regimen is pretty fucked-up. At best, it’s excessive and self-abusive. At worst, it’s boarder-line obsessive and balls-out dangerous.”
My stomach gives a sickened lurch. I knew that. I did. But knowing and hearing it said out loud are two different things.
“Why are you telling me this?” It’s a stupid question because whether Patrick says it or not, I already know the answer.
Me.
I’m why.
I’m the reason.
What Conner does and who he is, is because of me.
“Because, even as fucked-up as it was, his way of dealing kept his head above water.” His tone sharpens and for the first time I can hear it. Fear. He’s afraid. It makes me think of Tess, the way she spoke to Conner at the garage this afternoon. How scared she was. “Now, he’s not even trying to tread water. He’s letting himself drown—and I think you're the reason why.”
Twenty-two
Conner
I’m not sure what time it is. It’s after seven o’clock. I know that much. It’s also the first Thursday since I’ve been old enough to sling drinks that I haven’t been behind the bar.
I’m so pissed about it I can barely breathe.
I’m also relieved.
Probably pissed about being relieved.
Who the fuck knows.
Introspection has never been my thing.
All I know is Patrick is right. I have no business being anywhere near Gilroy’s. Or people in general.
I should come with a warning label.
Not fit for human consumption.
I laugh out loud and the sound of my own voice startles me, make me drop the tool in my hand. The sound of it rattling and pinging its way through the undercarriage of the truck I’m working on is loud enough to pull me out of my own head long enough for me to feel the fatigue in my arms. The numbness in my legs. The pinched nerve in my neck. I’ve been standing like this for a while. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m exhausted enough to sleep for days. But physical exhaustion has never been my issue. It’s my brain that’s the Energizer Bunny.
It keeps going and going and going and going and—
“Conner.”
I hear her immediately. Her voice cuts through the fog like a knife. Burns a Henley-shaped hole right through the middle of it.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, my tone low enough not to carry. Pissed and relieved seems to be my new default setting.
“I know you can hear me.”
I ignore her. Stick my hand further into the engine I’m working on to retrieve the wrench I dropped.
She sighs. “Please answer me.”
Yeah, I can hear you but I’m pretty sure you’re a hallucination so answering you tips me from flirting with crazy into full-blown nuts.
“You’re scaring me.”
You and me both, sweetheart.
A couple of quiet seconds pass. Enough to make me think the mirage of her has dissipated. I risk a look up.
She’s still there. Wearing the same thing she had on when she came in to get Tess for lunch this afternoon. Navy pencil skirt. Sky blue silk blouse with pearl buttons. Navy pumps. Her hair caught in a low bun at the nape of her neck. She’s holding a grocery bag.
She looks terrified.
Which is new. Usually, when I see her, she looks happy to see me. She also looks like Henley.
My Henley.
Not the Henley who came back. Perfect hair and perfect skin. Perfect nose and perfect teeth. I don’t know who that person is. To be honest, that person scares me a little because seeing her is tangible proof that the girl I loved is gone. That she’s never coming back. So, yeah—when I imagine her, she looks like my Henley.
Real.
Aiming my gaze at my hands, I redouble my efforts, tightening the bolt I’m working on, quick, hard jerks that threaten to snap it off in my hand.
The next thing I hear is the fast click of her high-heels, clipping across the cement floor, away from me.
She’s leaving.
Shit.
Panic jerks my head up and I stand so fast I slam the back of it into the hood of the truck. “Fuck,” I shout, winging the wrench in my hand at my tool bench. It skips off the brushed metal surface before pinging across the floor.
Exactly what my sleep deprivation needed to keep it company. A goddamned concussion.
She stops walking and turns to look at me. She still looks scared. She also looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
I reach up and touch my fingers to the back of my head, eliciting an immediate hissed curse. “Fine.” Pulling my fingers away, I look down at them, mildly surprised, and not a little bit disappointed, they aren’t covered in gray matter. “At least I don’t have to worry about falling asleep and slipping into a coma.” I say it out loud, laughing at my own joke, too far gone to care about how crazy talking to myself makes me.
She stands there, further away than she was before, watching me like I’m a junkyard dog. Like she’s trying to gauge exactly what kind of reach the chain I’m on gives me. If she’s close enough to catch her if I lunge at her.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, a desperation I haven’t felt in years seizing me so hard I feel my heart knock against my ribcage before fluttering its way up my throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Just—don’t leave. Stay and talk to me, okay?” I don’t care if she’s real. I don’t care if I finally boarded the bus to Crazytown. She’s here. She’s with me.
That’s what matters.
It’s the only thing that ever did.
She doesn’t answer me. She just stands there and stares at me. I’m about ready to drop to my knees and beg when she turns away from me again. I watch her use the toe of her Chanel pump to push and kick the lever holding the roll-up garage door open. The hoist chain holding it in place rattle loudly and the door falls, slamming into the concrete in a matter of seconds.
Door closed, she turns to look at me again. “I’m going upstairs,” she says. She doesn’t look afraid anymore. She looks determined. “You can either work yourself to death or you can come with me. It’s up to you.”
Twenty-three
Henley
He doesn’t follow me. At least not right away. I head up the stairs alone. Push my way through the door and kick off my shoes. Set my bag on the counter and start unloading groceries.
Actually, I’m glad he didn’t follow me up right away. It gives me time to get myself together. Give myself a man up and clean your mess pep-talk.
He’s letting himself drown—and I think you're the reason why.
“This is new.”
I look up and over to find Conner standing a few feet away, just inside the doorway.
“I know how to buy bread and eggs,” I tell him, yanking the fridge door open. A few weeks ago, the brief peek I got inside revealed nothing but beer and take-out boxes. Now it’s completely empty. And not just empty. It’s clean. So clean it looks brand new on the inside. “I’m spoiled, not helpless.”
He peels out of his coveralls, revealing what he always wears, worn jeans and a graphic tee—this one for a Bert’s Bait and Tackle. It makes me wonder where he got it. If he still goes fishing with his dad and brother like he used to.
“That’s not what I meant.” He shifts from one foot the other. “Usually when—”
“Will you sit down,” I say, interrupting him without looking up from what I’m doing. The last thing I want to hear is about what other women do when he brings them up here. Something tells me it’s not fill his refrigerator with staples. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Same.”
My head pops up at the word and I finally look at him. I mean really look at him. He looks
uncomfortable. Unsure. Like he’s struggling to pick the best, most right words to give me.
He looks like Conner.
My Conner.
I stop what I’m doing. Shut the fridge and close the space between us. “I want you to sit down.” Taking his hand, I lead him over to the beat-up leather chair in the corner. Pushing him into it, I kneel down in front of him, resting my rear on the heels of my feet. Pick up his foot and brace the bottom of his boot against my thighs so I can unlace it. “I used to do this for my dad when he was too drunk to stand.” I don’t know why I say it. As soon as I do, I wish I could take it back. I clear my throat. “Tess says you haven’t slept in nine days.” Laces loose, I cup the back of his heel and pull. His boot comes off and I set it aside. “Is that true?”
“No.”
When he doesn’t offer me an explanation, I look up to find him watching me, eyes dark, lids heavy and at half-mast.
I look away and clear my throat. “I didn’t think that sounded right.” I tug off his sock before reaching for his other foot. “Nine days is a lon—”
“It’s been two-hundred ninety-eight hours.”
I do the math in my head.
Twelve days and ten hours.
He laughs and leans forward, bringing himself closer to me. “It’s my personal best.”
I don’t say anything. I just keep my head down and work on his other boot, yanking the laces loose before tugging it off. When I’m finished I look up, tilting my head a bit so I can see his face. “You need to eat, and you need to sleep,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Where you happy?” he whispers it, his gaze searching my face. “You looked happy.” His eyes drift down to my mouth, looking for and finding something to focus on but I have a feeling he’s not seeing me. Not really. “It hurt, you know. Seeing you smile. Hearing you laugh.” The corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk totally void of amusement. “I know that’s a shitty thing to say but I’m a shitty person, so…”
