by Megyn Ward
When I don’t take the bait, she pushes the basket aside and shrugs. “He seemed to be enjoying his time here.”
Enjoying his time here? Sure, if by enjoy, you mean oscillating between making me come and basically telling me that touching me was a mistake, then yes—Ryan enjoyed his stay just fine.
Before I can answer, Molly pipes up. “Are you talking about Ryan?”
“I am talking about Ryan.” Cari grins at me because she’s found her fount of information. “The two of you seem to really like each other.”
“We do like each other,” Molly says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “He’s my friend.”
“Is that right?” Cari answers her while looking right at me. “Is he your mom’s friend too?”
“I think he wants to be,” Molly says, answering Cari’s question seriously. “But she keeps getting mad at him because he keeps doing dumbs stuff—at least that’s what he says.”
“Jesus.” I say it under my breath, casting a nervous over her shoulder at where Molly is playing ponies on the couch. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah…” Cari shakes her head at me. “I don’t think I am.”
“You are. Completely and totally bonkers.” I give her a sunny smile before bending down to add soap to the dishwasher. When I stand back up, she’s staring at me like she’s suddenly sure I’m a pod person. “What?”
“Something did happen.” Her mouth falls open for a second before she snaps it shut. She looks around, trying to find someone to share her discovery with. When all she finds is an oblivious preschooler and the uncooperative subject of her interrogation, her face falls into a frown. “He’s family, but if he did something to you, Grace, I swear to—”
“Stop.” I say it to her the way Ryan said it to Molly. Firm. Final. It works like a charm. “He didn’t do anything to me.” That’s not exactly true. He did plenty but he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do and he sure as hell hasn’t done enough of it. “He played board games with Molly. He let me sleep in and made me French toast for Christ’s sake—not exactly the sadistic actions of a monster,” I gesture toward the half-eaten burger and cold fries that Patrick brought her, hoping to strengthen my argument. “Exhibit A.”
“Exactly!” She jabs her finger at me, the force of it lifting her out of her seat. “Guys don’t just—”
Her tirade is cut short by a flurry of panicked knocks that rattle the laundry room door on its hinges. “Not over,” she says, giving me another finger jab before sliding out of her seat. “You might get away with your Scarlet Letter routine with mom and dad but—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” I wave her off with a laugh that feels harsh in the back of my throat. Sounds forced because she’s talking about Molly’s father and the fact that I won’t name him. She’s thinks it’s just me being stubborn. Maybe a martyr.
I’m neither of those things.
What I am is a coward.
Maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn’t. What are you gonna do, Grace—line the whole fraternity up for a swab test?
A familiar nausea rolls through me, the acidic feel of it slick and oily, scorching the back of my throat. Gripping the edge of the counter, I look up and find Molly sitting on the couch, bouncing her candy-colored ponies across the cushions like they’re running the Kentucky Derby.
It’s weird that looking at her is the only thing that makes me feel better when it hits me. That when I remember where she came from, she’s the only thing that matters.
“Grace, get your sewing kit,” Cari calls from the laundry room, and just like that, it’s over. Everything is back to normal.
I do what I always do.
I put the shame away and pretend it never happened.
Six
Ryan
I found my cane.
It was tossed on top of Patrick’s desk like it’d been abandoned there. Probably by Declan when he carried me upstairs Thursday night and dumped me on Grace’s doorstep.
Pretending I don’t give a fuck, one way or the other, I stop long enough snatch it off the desk. “Told you it wasn’t lost,” I mutter under my breath while planting the end of it into the floor, ready to use it propel myself out of the office and down the hall.
“You say something?”
Christ.
Swiping my free hand over my mouth, I smother a curse and toss a look over my shoulder. Patrick is a few feet away, just standing there like he’s waiting for me to do something. “Not important,” I say, dropping my hand. I knew he was going to follow me down when I left—half mother hen, worried that I’d fall down the stairs, half pissed off warden because I keep fucking up on his watch and he’s tired of dealing with my shit. “Look, about the shit that happened the other day—”
“What shit?” He looks at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about “Ohhh…” He shakes a finger at me and cocks his head to the side. “You mean when you limped your crippled ass into the stairwell and proceeded to beat the shit out of a bunch of orderlies—that the shit you’re talking about?”
He’s pissed. He has every right to be but as soon as he says it, I feel the back of my neck go hot, my jaw go tight. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to apologize for putting a beating on that piece of shit, because if it is—”
“A beating?” he barks back at me on a laugh. “Did you say a beating? I wish it’d been just a beating. My fucking kingdom for a beating.”
“Okay.” My grip tightens around the head of my cane while I resist the urge to use it as a weapon. “I get it. I fucked up, but—”
“Fucked up? Beating?” He laughs again and seriously, the sound of it is like sandpaper being scrubbed against my last viable nerve. “Well, you’re just the King the Understatements today, aren’t you?” Swiping a hand over his face, he glares at me. “He’s already screaming lawsuit.” When I don’t respond, he leans in and sighs.
He’s going to sue me, Ryan.”
Hearing him say it makes me instantly sick. Like I might throw up, all over the desk. But still, I can’t feel sorry about what I did. Can’t make myself wish I could take it back. “Sue you? For what? I didn’t—”
“You put him in the hospital, Ryan.” Something that looks dangerously close to defeat passes over his face. “For fuck’s sake, you broke his—”
“Good.” Last nerve rubbed raw, I snarl it at him like an animal. “I hope he thinks about me, every time he takes the stairs.”
“Good? Jesus, Ry.” He drops his hand and lets out a heavy sigh like he’s having a hard time keeping it to together. Like trying to reason with me is a goddamned chore. “You can’t. You can’t just go around—”
“Grace.” As soon as I say her name, Patrick’s mouth snaps shut. “Shit…” I drop my ass on the desktop with a weary thump. “Grace and Molly were there, before—they came by the center to see me.” I stop for a second, waiting for him to ask me why in the hell Grace would drive all the way to Cambridge to see my sorry ass, even though I have no idea what I’m going to say if he does. When he doesn’t, I pick the story up again. “Anyway, when they left, I decided to take the stairs.” He knows what that means. We both do. When I decide to take the stairs that means I know Rich and his goons are there, waiting for me, and that I went looking for a fight. “Everything was fine, everyone was getting their fair share, until Rich started saying things about Grace.”
As soon as I say it, Patrick’s entire body goes stiff. “Things,” he repeats in a low, hard tone. “What kind of things?”
Hey, Frankendick—who’s the hot little blonde? Think she’ll let me fuck her? I mean, it’s not like you’re fucking her, right? Maybe I’ll go find her. Show her what a real man can do to her.
“The kind of things that get you put in a hospital if you say them to the wrong person.” I take another swipe at my face. A part of me wants to leave it at that. Pretend I don’t remember, but that other half needs to say it. Needs Patrick to know why I lost my shit. “He threatened her. Asked me i
f I thought she’d let him fuck her. Said he was going to find her. Show her—”
“Rich threatened Grace and your response was to try to kill him.”
Yes.
I remember thinking it. Wanting it. Instead of saying so, I just make an affirmative-sounding noise in the back of my throat because he’s right. I had every intention of killing Rich for the threats he made about Grace and as crazy as that makes me, I’m not sorry for it.
When I don’t say anything else, Patrick clears his throat and nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I say it back to him on a rusty chuckle. “I pretty much just admitted to attempted murder and that’s all you have to say—okay?”
“Last year, I came home from work to find Cari’s ex-boyfriend on top of her in our living room—she was covered in blood and he was choking the life out of her.” He tilts his head a little, the tight angle of his jaw flashing white at the memory. “I can’t tell you for sure what happened after that. All I know is they took him away on a stretcher and I spent the next several hours being questioned by the cops,” he says, flashing me a quick, grim smile like he understands completely. “So, yeah—okay.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised by what he’s telling me—maybe it’s because he’s always been such a Boy Scout. The kid who pretended to sneak us free food at Benny’s when he worked the grill every summer but paid for it out of his own pocket when we weren’t looking. The kid who chased Mrs. McGintey’s dog for her when she let it out and scrubbed her front door after the rest of us neighborhood shits pelted it with eggs.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I say it out of nowhere. Want to cut my tongue out the second I admit it. To make things worse keep talking. “With her—I think I fucked it up.”
Patrick has the good sense to frown at me when I say it because unlike Conner and despite the fact that the two of them have been pushing the two of us together since I made the mistake of expressing more than a passing interest in her, he understands that me anywhere near Grace is a really bad idea.
Bracing myself for the much needed, if you even look at my future sister-in-law, I’m going to break your legs and dump you on the street speech, I’m surprised when he says the one thing I don’t want to hear. “Of course, you did—you wouldn’t be much of a Gilroy if you didn’t.”
Before I can tell him the truth—that I’m not a Gilroy and he can’t just keep forgiving me for the fucked-up shit I keep pulling, Patrick reaches out and lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Come on—I’ll take you to the center so you can get settled into your new place.”
Seven
Grace
“I can’t wear this.”
Because Cari’s in her studio and I’m the only other adult here, I look up from the dining room table where I’m putting my sewing kit back together to find Tess standing a few feet away in the dress I cobbled together for her out of a black tank top with the words Gilroy’s Girl emblazoned across the front of it in fancy script.
“Why not?” I ask, giving her a critical once-over because I’m afraid that maybe it doesn’t fit or maybe she doesn’t look good in it.
No to both.
It’s fits perfectly and Tess, with her petite frame, long dark hair and light hazel eyes set in a pixie face that can only be described as adorable, looks pretty perfect in it.
“Because—” She aims a panicked look downward and throws up her hands. “Because I’m practically fucking naked, that’s why not.”
“You swear almost as much as Ryan does,” Molly interjects from the kitchen counter where she’s squeezing a PB&J so she can lick the peanut butter and jam from its oozing corner.
“Sorry,” Tess says, shifting her panic from the fact that she’s wearing a dress to the fact that she dropped an F-bomb in front of Molly. “I’m not used to being around kids.”
“It’s okay,” I say with a wave of my hand and a laugh. “Believe me, she’s heard worse.”
“Especially if she’s been hanging out with Ryan,” Tess answers with a laugh of her own while she gives the hem of her makeshift dress a tug. “Speaking of Ry—I’m sorry about Thursday, About Declan bringing him up here and dumping him on your doorstep. If I’d thought about it, I would’ve remembered that Cap’n and Cari weren’t here and I—”
“It’s okay.” I say it again, this time the laugh that comes with it feels false. Sounds forced, even to me. “Declan already apologized. Besides…” I roll up my kit and concentrate on tying it closed. “having him here was kinda nice. He played with Grace and made her breakfast.”
“Just regular toast yesterday but this morning we made the French kind,” Molly quips from her seat at the counter. “Can I be done?”
Grateful for an excuse to look away from Tess and the expression on her face, I look at Molly and nod even though all she’s done is squeeze her sandwich into a ball and suck out its guts. “Go wash your hands.” As soon as she’s hopped from her stool and down the hall, I risk a look at Tess. “There’s nothing going on,” I tell her. “Between Ryan and me. Molly’s developed some sort of obsession with him and he’s been nice to her. To me.”
“I keep saying the same thing about Declan,” Tess stops yanking on her hemline long enough to look at me. “I keep telling people that nothing is going on. That even if something was going on, it wouldn’t be a big deal.” She gives me a lopsided smile that seems sad somehow. “But I’m lying. Mostly to myself because no one else is dumb enough to believe me. Something is definitely fucking going on, it’s a big deal, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.”
“That’s different,” I tell her, feeling defensive. “You and Declan have a history. You grew up together. Ryan and I barely know each other.” Even though it sounds reasonable, Tess shakes her head and laughs at me.
“You want to know about our history?” she says, taking a seat across the table from me. Before I can answer her, she continues. “Declan used to steal cars for my dad. He showed up at my dad’s shop one night, needing my help with a boost—stray cat got stuck in the engine. I was pretty prickly about the whole thing and he laughed at me. So I threw a crescent wrench at his face and split his chin open.” She smiles at the memory. “I had to superglue it shut so he didn’t bleed to death on my workbench,” she says with a shrug. “Every story has to start somewhere. Maybe this is the start of yours and Ryan’s.”
“The other night, when Declan brought him up here, I heard Ryan tell him that he should’ve taken you away from him when he had the chance.” I blurt it out, gaze averted. When she doesn’t answer me, I force myself to look at her. “So, like I said—this isn’t the start of anything because there’s nothing going on between Ryan and me. There can’t be.”
Because of you.
Because of the way he feels about you.
I don’t say it but the implication is clear enough for the both of us.
Tess sighs. “Ryan doesn’t love me, Grace.” It’s the tone of her voice that makes me look at her. Like she’s absolutely sure. Like I’m stupid for thinking he might. “He might’ve when we were kids but now I think it’s just…” She shakes her head. “easier to keep pretending rather than face the truth of what’s going on.”
What’s going on.
With Ryan’s brain.
With his body.
I don’t say anything. Don’t let on that I know what she means, mainly because I don’t trust myself to keep my mouth shut. Because what’s going on with his body seems to be sorting itself out and I don’t know if Ryan wants people to know that.
So I change the subject, instead.
“Have you ever waitressed before?” I ask gesturing toward the dress I made her and the reason she’s wearing it.
“No.” She shakes her head and smiles, seemingly as relieved to get off the topic of Ryan and Declan and all the nothing that’s going on as I am. “To be honest, I’m freaking out a little—give me a blown tranny or busted axel and I’m your girl, but put me in a dress and expect me to smile and I’m
lost.”
“I used to pick up shifts at the local bar back home,” I tell her. “If you want some pointers, I’d be more than happy to help.”
Tess smiles at me, so big and wide, the glow of it lights up her entire face. “Don’t tell your sister I said this, but you, Grace Faraday, might just be my new best friend.”
Eight
Ryan
I used to keep an apartment off base. A tiny one-bedroom with saggy, pressed wood cabinets and a refrigerator that hummed too loud in the summertime. Windows covered in cheap, plastic blinds that overlooked the parking lot. Shitty thrift store furniture with lumpy cushions that smelled like other people’s lives.
I didn’t live there.
Not really.
I existed.
I came and I went. Waited for my next assignment. My next deployment. Showered and slept. Picked up women. Fucked them and sent them on their way. Ate take-out standing over the kitchen sink. Forced myself to be polite when one of the team wives would drop by with tidy, plastic containers full of leftovers or baked goods. Pretended to listen when she’d tell me she was worried about the way I was living. That what I was doing wasn’t really living at all. That I needed more than four walls and frozen dinners. That I was worth more than a parade of nameless women and ESPN.
That I needed a home.
A family.
I never told them that I had both.
That I had a sister.
People who’d kill and die for me without a second’s hesitation. A half dozen doorsteps I could darken and be taken in, no questions asked.
That my sister lived little more than a day’s drive from where we were standing, because when we were kids, Henley left me standing on the sidewalk outside our apartment. Looked right at me, a split second before she let our mother shove her into the back of a limousine and take her away.
Because she left me, and I’d rather die alone in a fucking hole than give her, or anyone for that matter, the opportunity to do it twice.