by Megyn Ward
Damage to his reproductive organs.
Possible brain damage.
I was on a plane to Germany forty-five minutes after I hung up the phone. I don’t know must about what happened to him other than what they told me. That Ryan stepped on an IED while on a routine patrol. At least half of that is a lie. Nothing about what Ryan does is routine. I could find out if I wanted to. It wouldn’t take much to hack his unredacted file from whatever military server it’s buried in.
I could, but I won’t.
How it happened isn’t important. What’s important is that Ryan is alive. Everything else can be dealt with.
Looking at him in that hospital bed, not knowing if he was going to make it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Wondering how I was going to tell Henley if he died.
He woke up, during my second week of sitting bedside looked at me and said, don’t tell Hen.
So I didn’t.
Even though I knew it was wrong, that I should have called her the second I knew he was wounded, I didn’t. I was relieved when he said it because it gave me and excuse. Justified my need to cut her out.
Just because I’m working on myself doesn’t mean I’m any less of an asshole.
“Where the hell are you getting all these Draw Fours, motherfucker?” Ryan’s glaring at me over the top of his cards. We’ve been playing Uno for the past hour. He hates it. Hates me. Hates pretty much everyone and everything. Most of the time, when I pull out the deck, he slaps it out of my hand and tells me to fuck off. Today he just glared at me and said, “Deal ‘em, bitch.”
It’s a good day.
“I pulled em’ out of your vagina,” I drawl, tossing down a red Skip card, followed by a Wild. “Blue,” I say, changing the color before dropping a numbered card. He hasn’t asked me about Henley. How her time here went. What happened. Where she is now. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to know or if he forgot she was supposed to be here in the first place.
Ryan looks at the last card I laid down, studying it before reverting his gaze to the cards in his hand. Nearly a minute later he’s getting frustrated, the muscle in his cheek twitching while he gnaws a hole in his bottom lip.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “It’s a two.”
“I know what the fuck it is, dickbag,” he barks at me, a second before he throws his cards on the table. “Fuck this bullshit game.”
“This bullshit game is helping to rebuild your cognitive functioning.” I gather the cards, careful not to look at him when I say it. When I suggest that he’s less than fully functional, he get defensive. Which usually means we end up on the ground while he tries to pull my head off my shoulders. “What’s the matter, you got another Draw Four stuck in naughty spot?”
When he doesn’t laugh, I risk a glance up. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s looking out the window. Patrick scored him a private room in some swanky private rehab. It’s a nice place. Decent food. State-of the-art rehab center. He hates it here but like I said, he hates everything.
“Just tell me I’m gonna get better.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “If you tell me I’m going to get better, I’ll believe you.”
I don’t hesitate. “You’re going to get better.”
He nods. “I’ve gotta get the fuck out of this place.”
He’s only been here a few months and it’s a damn sight better than the place I pulled him out of, but I don’t remind him of that. “I know.” I wrap a rubber band around the deck of cards in my hand and toss them in my backpack. “Cap’n’s working on it.”
Before he can say what he usually says, which is tell him to work faster, the door to his room opens and a large male nurse pushing a wheelchair strolls in. “It’s that time, Mr. O’Connell.”
Physical therapy. Every day at 2PM.
I watch the muscle in Ryan’s jaw work and clench around what I’m sure are a string of curse words camped out in his mouth. On the mile-long list of things he hates, PT is at the top of the list. If you ask him why, he’ll tell you it’s because it’s bullshit like everything else, but the real reason is because it’s hard and it hurts.
Given the way I’ve spend these last ten weeks, I can relate.
As soon as he’s out the door with a see ya later, fuckface, I zip up my backpack and shoulder. Instead of heading for the door, I make my way to the free-standing cabinet by the bathroom. Opening it, I pull out the worn manila envelope where the nurses in Germany put his personal affects. They gave it to me when I got there because they were pretty sure he was going to die.
Pulling the flap, I pour its contents into my hand.
His dog tags.
A smooth, flat stone about as big as my thumb.
The ring I gave his sister.
I don’t know where he got it or why he has it. Why he’s been carrying it around with him all these years. It doesn’t really matter.
I come here to spend time with Ryan. I coax him into playing stupid card games and talk shit because he’s family and he needs me. Because he is going to get better.
And when he leaves for PT, I pour this envelope into my hand and give myself a gut-check.
I hold the ring I gave Henley in my hand for as long as I can. Until I can’t stand it anymore. Until I feel myself start to crack.
Then I put it away and pretend to move on.
“Conner?”
I hear my name as I pass the nurses’ station and I look up, expecting to see someone I slept with. Prepared to make non-committal small-talk for a few minutes before making an excuse to leave, I’m surprised by who I’m looking at.
“Kaitlyn.” She stands and smiles at me when I say her name, while the pair of nurses behind the counter with her stare at me. I’ve been coming here almost every day for over a month now and haven’t so much as looked at any of them. “What are you doing here?” It comes out sounding much more paranoid that I meant it to.
“It’s my first day.” she laughs, glancing at our audience. “Are you here for—”
“My brother.” It’s the quickest way to describe what Ryan is to me. “I’m here visiting my brother.”
“Oh…” her voice trails off and her mouth twitches to the side. “You’re probably have to get back to work.”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing the usual, a pair of peeled down coveralls over worn jeans and a T-shirt. At least it’s clean. I had the good sense to change it out in the parking lot before I came in. “Yeah, we’re pretty backed up so…” We had two cars in the bay when I left and if I know Tess, she’s already torn through one and is starting on the other.
“Do you want to have coffee sometime?” It comes out of nowhere and as soon as her says it, she presses her lips closed like she’s afraid of what else might come out of her mouth. When I don’t answer her, she frowns. “I mean… I know you’re kind of seeing someone but I thought maybe—”
“I’m not.” I shake my head and try to ignore the fact that when I say it, it feels like a lie. “Seeing anyone.”
“Oh, okay.” She smiles again. “Then coffee?”
No.
No coffee.
Not ever.
But this is what moving on looks like. It looks like coffee with a cute brunette, and even though I hate it, even though it feels shitty and fucked-up and the words threaten to choke me, I say them.
“Sure. Coffee sounds great.”
Fifty-nine
Henley
Everything is back to normal, just like Conner said it would be. After my mother got what she wanted, I emailed my resignation to Margo at the library and packed my bags. Two hours later, I was on private plane, on my way to London.
Jeremy and I announced our engagement on Christmas Eve, surrounded by our families, according to plan. He got down on one knee and put the ring on my finger. It was formality my mother insisted on. She feigned surprise, sniffling and wiping happy tears from her cheeks before getting down to the business of planning the social affair of the s
eason, with Jeremy’s mother.
The entire wedding was planned by New Year’s Eve, right down to the seating chart.
I’ve been on the verge of screaming for nearly three months now.
Jeremy and I don’t talk anymore. Not like we used to. There are no more boat trips around the harbor. No more late-night bitch sessions in my room. He shows up to take me to dinner or to the theater a few times a week. We make sure we’re seen kissing or cuddling. I smile and brush his hair off his forehead. I smooth my hands down the lapels of his suit jacket. Straighten his tie. I make sure the engagement ring he gave me is on full display. Make sure everyone who’s watching us with envy is blinded by its sparkle.
And then I come home, throw it in my bedside drawer and cry myself to sleep.
That’s what my life is. Appearances and photo-ops. Social gatherings and charity events, over and over, on an endless loop.
Sometimes I’ll wake up in the small hours of the morning, when it’s dark and quiet, and the first thing I’ll think is Conner is awake. I like to pretend that we’re the only two people in the world who are and that he’s thinking about me, the way I’m thinking about him.
I expected someone to call. Maybe not Conner but certainly Tess, even if all she did was yell at me for leaving the way I did. For just disappearing again, without so much as a see you later.
She forgave me once, I don’t think she’ll do it again.
That’s okay.
I don’t expect her to forgive me.
How can I expect her to forgive me when I can’t even forgive myself?
Even though it’s January and everything is frozen black and covered in snow, I’m sitting in the garden. It’s the only place in the whole house where I can seem to catch my breath. Even my library is tainted somehow. She’s poisoned everything. Taken away everything I care about. Everyone I love.
She didn’t take anything away.
You gave them to her.
Jeremy will be picking me up in a few hours. His father is hosting a benefit to promote clean energy in third-world counties and we’re expected to attend. That’s where my mother is. She’s on the planning committee. I’m supposed to be getting ready, but I can’t seem to make myself care enough to go inside.
I can’t seem to make myself care about a lot of things.
“There’s a Mr. Gilroy here to see you, miss.”
My head snaps up on my neck, so fast I feel my brain reel around inside my skull.
Conner.
Conner is here.
As soon as my eyes focus on the maid, shivering in the doorway they shift past her to land on the man standing behind her.
Not Conner.
Declan.
“Send him out, Lucy.” I stand up from my seat and watch as he approaches, surprised that my legs will hold me. He doesn’t smile when he sees me.
“Henley?” he says, his face tight with concern, while he takes in the bathrobe I’m wearing. “It’s freezing cold. What are you doing out here?”
“Breathing.” I smile at him before sitting down again. “It took longer than I thought it would.”
“What took longer than you thought it would?” He pulls off his coat and drops it over my shoulders before sitting next to me on the bench. It smells good. Under the scents that are unique to him, I can smell something familiar. Enough like his brother to cause my heart to pound and twist against my ribcage.
“For one of you to come find me so you can tell me how horrible I am for what I did to Conner.” I haven’t said his name out loud in months and saying it now is hard. Harder than I thought it would be. “To be honest, I thought it would be Tess. Maybe Patrick, but not you. I figured you’d be happy about the way things ended.”
“What are you talking about?” He frowns at me. “Why would I be happy about that?”
“You always hated me.” I have to press my mouth into a thin, hard line to keep from crying. “You never thought I was good enough.”
“I never hated you, Henley.” His face loosens, falls from a frown into something softer. “I hated the way you made him feel. I hated that you made him happy. I was a kid. A selfish, asshole kid who…” He swipes a hand over his features and sighs, pushing memories aside. “I’m not here about Conner.”
Something about the way he says it catches in the back of my throat and pulls. “What is it?” I shake my head. “What happened?”
“It’s Ryan,” he says it to my ear. Can’t seem to look me in the eye. “He’s been hurt.”
Sixty
Conner
It’s Coffee.
Just Coffee.
It’s not like I’m going to take her into the bathroom and Gilroy her, for fuck’s sake.
It’s probably what she expects.
Why she asked you out in the first place.
You really think she’s interested in having a conversation with you?
You’re pretty dumb for a genius.
Shit.
One cup.
I’ll stay for one cup and then I’ll tell her I have to go. If she asks me out again, I’ll tell her no. That I have—
“Am I late?”
I look up from the worn paperback in my hand to find Kaitlyn standing over me. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a blood-red sweater that clings and coasts over every curve. Her dark hair is loose around her face. Her eyes are bright. She’s cute and happy to see me.
And I feel like I want to chew my goddamned arm off to get away from her.
“No.” I shake my head, tucking the same scrap of paper I’ve been using as a book mark for the last eight years between the pages of my book. “I’m early.”
Tell her. Tell her you’re early because you left while Tess was on a parts run because you didn’t want to answer questions about where you were going in the middle of the day and why you had to take a shower to do it.
“A guy who’s early.” She smiles at me while she shrugs out of her coat. “That’s a novelty.”
“Well, I’m either twenty minutes early or three hours late,” I tell her, standing up to pull out her chair for her. “There is no in between.”
She grins up at me while I push in her chair. “Consider me warned for next time.”
Next time.
Jesus Christ.
She thinks there’s going to be a next time.
“What can I get you?” I gesture to the coffee counter where a team of green-aproned baristas are steaming milk and brewing espresso like their lives depends on it. She suggested Benny’s but there’ no way I’m doing this in a place where I might actually run into someone I know. Better to humiliate myself in front of strangers.
“Oh,” she looks at my cup on the table in front of her and shrugs. “Whatever you’re having is fine—and a cranberry orange muffin.” She smiles and unwinds her scarf. “We can split it.”
Black coffee.
I can do that.
Muffin splitting isn’t part of the plan.
It’s a fucking muffin, not a marriage proposal.
“Be right back,” I tell her before frog marching myself to the counter. A few minutes later, I make my way back to our table, doing a balancing act with her coffee and pastry to find her reading the back of my book.
I’m barely able to curb the urge to drop everything in my hands and snatch it away from her.
When I set her order in front of her she looks up at me. “I hope you don’t mind I’m checking out your book.”
I do mind.
Because for eight years, Henley and I are the only people who’ve touched it. The only people who’ve read it. That made it ours.
And now it’s not.
She turns it over in her hands and flips through a few pages. “It was on one of my college reading lists, but I never got around to it—what’s this?” she says, her finger pointing to the inscription I wrote in it years again. When she sees Henley’s name, she looks up at me. Whatever she sees on my face has her closing the book and sliding it across the table to
ward me. “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, dragging the book toward me to study its worn cover. “I’m just…” Whatever I’m about to say dies before I can push it out.
I’m just what?
Not built for human connection.
Too fucked-up to have coffee with a woman without worrying about what she expects from me.
In love with someone who’s never going to love me back.
Not the way I need her to.
Kaitlyn’s hand reaches out and covers mine before I have a chance to pull away. “You’re just what, Conner?” Her voice is gentle, like she knows what I’m about to say and wants to make it easy on me.
“I’m just not ready.” I slide my hand out from under hers, taking my book with it. “I want to be. I want to be able to sit here and split a muffin with you and talk about Gatsby, but I can’t because I’m pretty fucked-up.” I stand, tucking my book into my pocket before shrugging into my jacket. “And I think I’m going to stay fucked-up for a long time, so it’s probably best that we chalk this up to an experiment gone wrong and call it quits.”
“Wait.” Her hand comes up again, connecting with the sleeve of my jacket. “We don’t have to talk about Gatsby.” She gives my sleeve a tug and for some inexplicable reason, I let her pull me back into my seat. “We don’t have to talk at all.” She lets go of my sleeve and reaches for her coffee and takes a sip. “I can drink my coffee and you can read your book and we can totally ignore each other.”
“That’s not much of a date.” Even I know that.
She laughs like I made some sort of joke instead of stating the obvious.
“But we have to split the muffin,” she says. “That part is non-negotiable.” Picking up the muffin, she breaks it in half to offer me my share.
I hesitate, but only for a second, before I take it.
Sixty-one
Henley
