by Ward, Megyn
“Wait,” I say, rushing past her to slap my palm against the doorframe, using my arm as a barricade to keep her from leaving. She stops short, inches from my arm but instead of glaring up at me or telling me to go fuck myself, she just stands there, gaze fixed on the hallway behind me. “I’m sorry, Hennie.”
That earns me a glare. She stops chewing. “I told you to stop calling that,” she snaps up at me, and I can’t help but smile because she knows I did it on purpose just to poke at her. The smile earns me an eye roll. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” I flash her my dimples just so I can watch her roll her eyes at me again. “I’d like you to stay for dinner.”
She sighs, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “I really do have to go, Conner.”
I reach out and take the bag from her, sliding it off her shoulder to toss it into the chair by my door. “Tell me what you’re saving your money for first,” I say, trying to buy myself a couple more minutes.
Eyes narrowed, she shoots a look over her shoulder at my desktop. I think she’s going to tell me she’s saving for a computer. “I have to show you.”
I lead her to my desk, and she waits impatiently while I power up my computer and type in the website for an online store that sells rare and vintage books. I type in the call number she gives me and what she’s saving her money for pops up on the screen. A mint condition, first edition copy of The Great Gatsby.
“I figure I need to buy my own copy since you stole mine and won’t give it back,” she says quietly. “And if I’m going to spend money on something, it’s going to be something I want, not something I need.”
A book. She’s saving for a book.
“Hey, fuckface.”
Henley and I turn to find Declan standing in the open doorway of my room.
“What’s up, dickhead?” I say, my tone overly pleasant.
“Jessica’s here to see you,” Declan says, a smug smile on his face. “She’s waiting on the porch.”
Jessica? What the hell? I look at Henley. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek again. “Tell her I’m bus—”
“No,” Henley says, heading for the door. “I told you, I have to go home anyway,” She snags her bag off my chair, swinging it onto her shoulder and just like I predicted, the strap broke, sending books in every direction. She stands there for a few seconds, busted bag clenched in her hand, mouth open in an O so perfect it would’ve been funny if not for the look of utter mortification on her face.
“Let me help,” I stand and cross the room, but she’s shaking her head, kneeling to drag books and papers across the floor, gathering them into a precarious stack.
“No,” she says, shoving papers back into her binder. “You go ahead, I’ll just—”
“Your guests are waiting,” Declan pipes up from the doorway, drawing my attention.
“Fuck. Off.” I say through my teeth, kicking the door shut in his face. I can hear him laughing, the sound of it growing faint as he moves down the hall to his own room.
As soon as he’s gone, I crouch down next to her, gathering a few errant papers while she lifts her stack of books into her arms, seeing the papers in my hand, she lets go of her books long enough to snatch them from me, refusing to meet my eyes. “Henley, please look at me.”
She shakes her head, struggling to stand. “It’s fine,” she says. “I’m just going to go home so you can—” She stops short and looks up at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says before she pushes her way past me and it halfway down the stairs before I can catch up with her.
When I do, she’s struggling to get the front door open, unable to turn the knob in her hand because her arms are full of books. I just stand there and watch her struggle until finally she stops and lets out a sigh.
Through the glass panels set in the door, I can see Jessica Renfro, sitting on the porch railing with one of her friends. Long, tan legs, swinging back and forth. Straight, shiny hair. Clothes that were bought just for them. Shoes that fit. I know Henley can see them, same as me. I know what she thinks.
That I invited them. Want them here.
She’s wrong.
“Will you please open the door for me?” she says quietly without looking at me.
“No.”
“Conner, please.” She reaches for the knob herself, trying to get it open on her own. I push her hand away and cover it with my hand. She glares at my fingers. “I need to leave.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not until you look at me.”
She sighs, sliding her gaze toward mine but it slides right past me. Through me, like I’m make of glass.
“I don’t know why she’s here,” I tell her shaking my head.
She sighs again, offering me a brittle smile. “Yes you do,” she says, holding my gaze for a few moments before looking away completely. “Now open the door.”
She stands there quietly, arms full of books, face still, waiting for me to open the door for her. As soon as I do, she does what I’ve been afraid of for weeks.
She bolts.
Nineteen
Conner
2017
She called me Conner.
That’s the thought that the grabs my brain and shakes me awake, pulling me from sleep in an instant. She called me by my name.
Twice.
It’s possible she came looking for me specifically. It happens. Women talk. A couple of drinks in and they’re telling their friends all about the hot bartender who bent them over a sink in the Ladies’ and gave them the fuck of their lives.
My reputation proceeds me.
Someone starts banging on the roll-up garage door under my bedroom window. “Wake the fuck up, Gilroy,” Tess shouts up at me. “Some of us still have to work for a living.”
Grinning, I roll off my bed and shove the framed glass up on its track. “Not if I fire your ass,” I shout, sticking my head out the window to see Tess standing on the sidewalk outside my shop. It’s a ridiculous thing to say. Tess can re-build a carburetor in under an hour and is the only woman I’ve ever known in my adult life that I didn’t at least think about fucking—which makes her pretty much invaluable. I’d be lost without her, and we both know it.
Or, at least more lost than I already am.
“Jesus, Con—” she says, looking up at me like I just pissed on her. “You wanna put some pants on before I lose my breakfast?”
I look down, suddenly remembering that I’m naked. Instead of ducking for cover, I laugh. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Tessie.”
“That was one time. Once.” She bugs her eyes out. “And we were seven.”
I flash her my dimples. “And you’re still dreaming about it.”
“Nightmares,” she says. “You mean I’m still having nightmares about it.” She throws up her hands. “Now open up—my boss is kind of an asshole, and if he catches me standing around, talking about your dick, he’s gonna fire me.”
“Okay, okay—give me a minute.” Still laughing, I move away from the window and find the pair of jeans I tossed in the corner before passing out last night.
My cell phone lets out a chirp on the nightstand next to my bed. I zip up the jeans, not bothering with the top button before I reach for it.
Henley: Are we still
meeting for lunch?
Shit.
Suddenly, my guts feel like they’re being fed through a meat grinder. My chest feels like it’s been shrink-wrapped. I want to tell her no. Something’s come up. Can’t make it. I’m actually pounding out the text when it dawns on me.
Guilt. I feel guilty.
Which is fucking bullshit.
She’s the one who left. She’s the one who disappeared. She’s the one who moved on before the dust even settled. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s her.
Not me.
Me? I’m just trying to keep from drowning.
“I’m dying out here, Gilroy!” Tess shouts from the street, giving the roll-up a kick with h
er boot. “Open the frackin’ door!”
Me: Yup
I hit send and shove my phone into my back pocket. “Coming,” I call over my shoulder, hitting the steep, narrow stairs that connect my apartment to the shop below it.
Flipping the lever on the roll-up, I pull it up far enough for Tess to duck inside. “What time is it anyway,” I ask her when she pops up beside me.
“After eleven.” She smirks at me, arching a dark brow at me which means she’s about to talk trash. “I hear you landed a whale last night,” she says, giving me the once-over. “And then you got completely shit-faced.”
“And that’s different from any other Thursday, how?” After Mrs. Moneybags fled the scene, I power drank my through a fifth of whiskey, in hopes of knocking myself out while Declan grumbled about how irresponsible and impulsive I am.
“It’s not, you big tramp,” Tess says. “I just can’t believe you’re still able to find fresh ones, dumb enough to sleep with you.”
“What can I say?” I laugh because I’m supposed to, not because I think it’s funny. “I’m the Pied Piper of pus—wait,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. Christ, I need to shave. “Did you say after eleven?” I look at the shop clock in the office to confirm it. I slept. For seven hours straight. That’s never happened to me before.
“Yup,” she says pushing past me toward the heap of greasy coverall I keep piled in the corner. “Which means I’m about forty-five minutes behind on that tranny re-build that’s going to be picked up tomorrow—” She digs a pair of her coveralls from the pile—I know they’re hers because they look like they might’ve fit me when I was twelve. “When are you gonna wash this shit?” She holds them out to me. “Because this is almost as gross as seeing you naked.”
“Fuck you, Castinetti,” I say laughing at her expression. “You want your coveralls washed, you know where the washer is.”
“Doesn’t mean I know how the thing works,” she mutters under her breath while she pulled the coveralls up over her boots. “You working on the Impala today?”
The Impala’s my pet project. I restore vintage cars on the side, just for kicks. Sometimes I sell them. Sometimes I keep them. The Impala’s still a rusted out hunk of metal but she’s a keeper. I can already tell. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to run to the bar for a while. Couple hours, tops.” I still can’t bring myself to tell her Henley is back. I don’t know why. I’ll have to, eventually. But not yet. Not until I get the chance to wrap my head around it. See her and make sure I’m not going to swan dive into a pool of crazy. “I’ll start the Ford when I get back.” The Ford is a dilapidated Windstar that looks like it’s ready for the junkyard.
“How many times are you going to resuscitate that thing before you call it, Con?” Tess casts her gaze across the garage toward the farthest bay at the faded green minivan. “I mean is it even worth fixing? Again.”
Worth it—hell no. It stopped being worth it in 2005, but the single mom who owns it has three kids and two full-time jobs. Worth it or not, she needed it.
“What can I say?” I shoot her a smirk to hide the fact that she’d caught me on the chin with that one. “I like playing God.”
“Uh huh,” She straddles the creeper before lowering herself onto it. “See you when you get back, sucker,” she says before rolling herself under the Buick.
“Fuck off,” I call over my shoulder. I don’t have time to shave, but I can at least take a shower before I leave.
Tess’s laughter follows me up the stairs.
Twenty
Conner
When I walk in, I heard directly to the back ofthe bar. My booth. The one part of Gilroy’s that belongs to me.
I slide across worn red vinyl and pick up the tatty copy of Gatsby I left there, wedged between the ketchup bottle and napkin holder. Chicks are never on time, and Henley will be no exception, I’m sure.
I barely have it cracked before she walks in. Not Henley—the woman from last night.
Gatsby forgotten I watch her. The knee-length skirt is chocolate brown this time, fuller and flowing around her legs, topped with a pale pink blouse, same color as her nails. She stands in the doorway for a few moments, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light of the bar before she looks around. Spotting Patrick behind the bar, she smiles at him and because, hello—nice guy, he smiles back.
She thinks he’s me. Everybody does, even if he dresses like he’s on a perpetual job interview. Looks aside, he’s not me, and she’ll know it the second he starts talking.
I watch as she says something to him and he answers, still smiling, before pointing straight at me.
Fuck. Me.
Just as I predicted, her brow furrows as she turns, her eyes following the trail Patrick’s finger sets for her. They land on me, and for a second, that frown of hers doesn’t lift. I drop the book and run a hand through my still damp hair. I showered. Used soap. I put on a clean shirt without holes. My jeans have been washed recently. What more does this chick want from me?
She started walking toward me, each step she takes stiffening my cock until she’s standing in front of me and I’m sporting an erection so big I feel it press along the length of my thigh. I know I’m supposed to stand up but I can’t so I just look at her and try to remember how to breathe.
This is wrong. All of this is all sorts of fucking wrong. Is this the first time a chick I banged comes looking for me, offering me another taste? No. But it’s the first time I’ve had the urge to throw her over my shoulder and take her up on the offer.
“Hello, Conner,” she says, her hands folded in front of her, pressing a brown leather clutch to her stomach like she’s nervous. Like I make her feel that way.
“Hey, Daisy,” I say casually like I fuck socialites every day. “You lost?”
She looks stung but recovers quickly. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “May I sit down?” She’s wearing those pearls again. Three strands. Enormous blue stone surrounded by diamonds, winking at me. Each one probably worth more than I make in a month. The whole of it worth more than I’ll ever earn in a lifetime. I want to snatch them off her neck. Break them. Watch them bounce and roll across the floor.
I shoot a look at the clock. It’s noon, straight up. Henley’s going to be here any minute, but considering I had Miss Moneybags bent over a makeshift desk, little more than twelve hours ago, I nod my head. “Sure, I’ve got a few minutes.”
I think I know what this is about. We’d still been locked together with Declan started in with his, I’m telling mom on you bullshit, which left no time for the usual, post-fuck wrap-up. All in a night’s work for me but for her, it’d been something entirely different.
In the cold light of day, she’s probably mortified that she’d let a guy like me between her legs. She probably needed some sort of reassurance that I’ll keep her dirty little secret. I open my mouth to tell her just that. Look, you were great. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you got dirty with the help. Have fun counting your money…
She beats me to it. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve—” Reaching up to finger one of the doorknob-sized diamonds studs stuck in her ear, her gaze falls on the book I tossed on the table between us before lifting it up to meet mine. “That’s my book.”
Wait. What?
I lean across the table, staring at her perfect face. A face I absolutely do not recognize. “Excuse me?” I say it harsher than I mean to and she jerks back like I slapped her.
“I—” She shakes her head like she didn’t want to repeat herself. “My book. You kept it.”
I look down. It’s the same copy of Gatsby Henley checked out from the library a thousand times. The book I stole from her to get her to notice me. To get under her skin. After she left, I never returned it.
Henley.
I jerk my gaze away from her face and aim it at the clock. 12:05. Henley would be walking through the door soon.
This was a misunderstanding.
A mistake.
> This isn’t Henley. Covered in freckles and bright orange hair. Quick wit and pointy chin. She lives for the Red Sox and pitches a wicked curveball. She has a chipped front tooth and a nose that’s nowhere near perfect.
This chick is not Henley.
She can’t be.
“You’re not her.” I shake my head, looking at the door, willing it to open so I could be proved right. So I could watch Henley—my Henley—walk through the door. “You look nothing like her.”
“Like who?” she says, looking over her shoulder at the door I’m staring at. “Conner—”
“Henley O’Connell. You’re not her.” This was Declan, teaching me a lesson. Getting back at me. He’s probably holed up in the office, watching me squirm on one of his fucking surveillance cameras and laughing his ass off.
“It’s been eight years since we’ve seen each other,” she says, her tone turning the words into an apology. “I know I owe you an explanation for last night.” She sighs, her fingers reaching up again, this time fingering the pearls around her neck. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop saying that,” I practically come out of my seat, glaring down at her. “What happened to your nose?” Henley broke her nose six times by the time she was fourteen. After the first two times, her mom stopped taking her to Urgent Care to have it set. Her father lost his job, and they didn’t have insurance. The summer she turned seventeen, Henley’s mother left her father, and took Henley with her.
I never saw her again.
She reaches up, lightly trailing her fingers over her perfect nose. “I had it fixed,” she says, looking up at me with those huge brown eyes, wounded and unsure.
And suddenly, I see her.
The real her.
I sit back down slowly, pushed low by the reality of what I’ve done and who I did it to. I look at the clock again.
It’s 12:08 and no one else was coming.
Twenty-one
