Having Henley

by Megyn Ward

  “Well, then—” I toss back the Jameson, liking the hot spread of it when it hits my gut. Needing the numbness it leaves behind. “Where do I sign?”

  I’m not what she expects. I’m not my cousin, with his earnest smile and save-the-world antics. I don’t spend two nights a week at the library, teaching old-timers how to read. I don’t drag my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn every Sunday to coach kids’ baseball. I’m not pining away for some chick who left and is never coming back.

  No, I’m not Patrick.

  But I look just like him, and I fuck like it’s my natural-born profession.

  Which means tonight, I’m close enough.

  Five

  Henley

  2009

  “What do you mean, someonechecked it out?” I say, staring at the librarian like she told me she took my book out back and burned it.

  “There was a hold on it, Henley,” Margo, the librarian says, her tone calm and reasonable. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “A hold?” I say shaking my head. “I’ve been checking that book out for the last six months, and no one else has ever wanted it.”

  Her fingers click on her a keyboard a few times. “He placed the hold on it three days ago.”

  “He?”

  Margo blanches a bit at my tone. I sound angry. Probably because I am.

  “Yes, a young man came in and picked it up, not more than an hour ago.”

  “What young man?” I feel my spine straighten and my neck go stiff. “What’s his name?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Henley,” she chides me before twisting her mouth just a bit. “But I will tell you he didn’t leave…” her finger comes up off her keyboard and points toward the back of the library.

  I should say thank you—while she didn’t break the rules for me, she certainly bent them—but I don’t. I just spin on my heel and stomp my way across the library, toward the back corner, where some idealistic, young librarian set up a couple of beanbag chairs and a few game tables and proudly proclaimed it the Teen Reading Center. There’s a sign and everything.

  I’ve never seen anyone here but me.

  Until today.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, standing over where he’s slouched into a tie-dyed beanbag chair, my copy of Gatsby held up in front of his face.

  “Reading.” As if to prove it, Conner licks the tip of his index finger and uses it to catch onto a worn page so he can turn it.

  “Why?” I sputter the word out, fists clenched at my side.

  He arches a brow at me, the corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “Because reading is fundamental, Henley.”

  A weird sounding scream comes out of me. Like I’m being strangled. My face is so hot if feels like it’s melting off my bones.

  Conner looks at me over the top of my book, his brow furrowed. Despite the look he’s giving me, he’s on the verge of laughing. “Shhh, people are trying to read.”

  “That’s my book,” I say, louder than I should and more than a few people look at us. Margo shoots me a warning look and it reminds me of my mother.

  Ladies don’t cause a scene.

  He turns the book so he can look at the back cover before flashing it at me, along with another grin. “This book is the property of the Boston City Library—that means it belongs to everybody.”

  I swallow hard, refusing exit to the swell of tears that threatens to pull me under. He doesn’t understand. How could he? With his brand-new shoes and parents who love each other, almost as much as they love him.

  He could never understand.

  So, I kick him.

  Hard. Right in the knee.

  “Fuck you,” I snarl at him, for a moment unable to believe that I said something like that out loud.

  Ladies never swear.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I turn back the way I came and run.

  “Henley.”

  Past the help desk and a gaping Margo. Through the library, my vision blurry. Chest heaving with the effort of keeping it all inside.

  “Hennie, stop.”

  I will not cry.

  I will not cry.

  I will not cry.

  “Come on,” he shouts at me. “I was only joking.” Conner’s limping after me, a few steps behind.

  “Henley!” He shouts my name as soon as I shove my way through the door and onto the sidewalk. Seconds later a hand closes over my shoulder and spins me around.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say, shoving his hand away, my heart jammed in my throat. “Just leave me alone, Conner.”

  “I’m sorry, I—” he stops, shaking his head, hands dropping to his sides. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me? About what?” I scoff at him. “You need to borrow my calculus notes again?”

  “No—”

  “Then what?” I say loudly, advancing on him, hands raised. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

  “I need a math tutor,” he says in a rush.

  “What?”

  He sighs, rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me say it again, Hennie. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Sorry.” He flashes me a grin, even while he’s rubbing the sore spot on his leg.

  “You want me to tutor you?” First my notes and now he wants me to tutor him. I can feel my eyes narrow on his face. “Are you serious?”

  Straightening, he nods. “Yeah,” he says cocking his head to rub his ear with his index finger. “I guess all the sleeping in class is finally catching up to me. My folks got a failure notice in the mail—if I don’t pull my grades up, my dad says no car for my birthday.”

  “Poor baby,” I say, not liking the bitter tone of my own voice.

  “It’s rough. I’ve been relying on my charm and good looks to get dates.” He grins at me again, and I can feel myself bending. My anger evaporating. “It’s also embarrassing to have to pick them up in your mom’s mini-van.” Still grinning, he holds up the tattered copy of Gatsby we’ve been fighting over. “So, whaddya say, Hennie? Tutor me. I’ll pay you in books?”

  I look past the book in his hand, at his face. He’s gorgeous. Dark brown hair. Clear green eyes. Dimples that, when he flashes them at you, make you forget how to breathe. Every girl I know has a crush on him—except for Tess. When other girls start talking about how hot Conner Gilroy is, Tess starts making puke noises. I’ve never told her what I really think of him. How being around him makes me feel. That I’m just like the rest of them.

  “Do I have something on my face?” he asks, his mouth curved into the kind of knowing smile that instantly sets my face on fire. Yeah, Conner Gilroy is gorgeous, and he absolutely knows it.

  Ignoring his question and the look he’s giving me, I advance. “You’ll pay me in cash, Gilroy,” I say, stepping in close enough to touch him, the embarrassed flush threatening to erupt across my face, kept at bay through sheer force of will and a healthy dose of pride. “Ten bucks an hour—I can buy my own books.” I poke him in the chest for good measure, and his grin widens and lightens until it’s so big and bright it blinds me.

  He reaches up and snags my hand before I have a chance to drop it. “Sounds like we’ve reached an accord, O’Connell,” he tells me, giving my hand a quick shake to seal the deal. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  “We can’t,” I tell him, shaking my head while I jerk my hand loose. “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

  “Do you have plans?” He says it casually but he’s looking at me weird. Like he doesn’t like the idea. Probably because he’s a conceited jackass who thinks the world revolves around him.

  He’s still holding my hand.

  “No, but you do.” I feel my face burst into flames the second I say it. “With Jessica.” When he looks at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about, I roll my eyes. “Jessica Renfro. You’re taking her to the movies.”

  Recognition dawns, followed by a lopsided grin. “Stalker much?”
r />   He’s still holding my hand.

  “Please.” I glare at him. “I have third-hour history with her, and she won’t shut up about it. Listening to her talk about you is like being waterboarded, only I have a feeling being waterboarded is more fun.”

  He keeps grinning. “Studying with you is more important to me than seeing a movie with Jessica.”

  My heart starts flopping around in my chest like a fish out of water.

  Because he wants his car. That’s why he’s being nice to you. That’s the only reason why. Because he needs a tutor. That’s it.

  “Fine,” I say, jerking my hand loose to hold it out expectantly. “Tomorrow. Can I have my book back now?” Conner just laughs.

  “Not a chance,” he says, shoving the paperback into the back pocket of his jeans, leaving me empty-handed before turning to head back into the library.

  Six

  Henley

  2017

  “You sure about this?”

  I look up from the dresser drawer I’m digging through and smile. Sure? No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all. I am completely freaking out. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m running away from home.

  “It’s Boston, Jeremy—not Siberia,” I say, for the fourth time in thirty minutes. “Just a short, four-hour train ride away.”

  “You have a fleet of private planes at your disposal,” he says, shaking his head. “Why you’re insisting on taking the train…” He looks up at me, his brow furrowed and set low over his warm hazel eyes. “It’s not safe.”

  I smile, using it to fight the urge to roll my eyes. I love him, I do, but he’s a bit of snob sometimes. “I booked a train private car.” I grab a handful of underwear and shut the drawer, a little too hard. “After which another private car is going to take me to a very safe, very expensive hotel,” I remind him, closing the distance between us. “From which I will call you, upon my arrival.” He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me pack. I toss the handful of bras and panties into my bag without bothering to fold them and watch while his skin practically starts to crawl. The first time he saw my underwear drawer, I was subjected to a forty-five minute lecture about how you do not wad La Perla. Every time I bring it up, his eye twitches. “I’d also like to take this moment to remind you that this whole thing was your idea.”

  “I know.” Reaching into my bag, he pulls out a pair of underwear, folding them in half. “I know,” he says again when all I do is stare at him. “But, hatching plans after day drinking your way through three pitchers of margaritas isn’t exactly what I’d call best practices.”

  “Hey.” I plant my hands on my hips. “I didn’t, day drinking my way through anything, Mr. I-have-a-margarita-machine-on-my-yacht.”

  “You’re right,” Jeremy says, folding again, before smoothing his work into a perfect square. “How do you know they’ll even want to see you?”

  Because we’re family.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I reassure him, watching as he pulls out another pair of underwear. “I’ll do what I have to do.” I lay my hand over his busy fingers and squeeze until he looks up at me. “And then I’ll come home.”

  He gives up on the underwear and squeezes them into a ball. “Will you at least change your mind about taking the train?” Despite the tone of his voice, I can see relief etched plainly on his face. That’s what this is about. He’s not worried about my safety—at least not entirely. He’s worried that if I leave, I won’t come back.

  Six months ago, when he suggested my trip to Boston, he was supportive. Encouraging. Now that I’ve finally found my escape hatch and I’m using it, he’s not so sure pushing me to go through with everything is in his best interests.

  “No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “And you know why.” If I take one of Spencer’s planes, I might as well send my mother a postcard when I get there.

  “I know, I know—” He scowls at me and throws my wadded-up panties back into my bag. “Your sweet, darling mother will hunt you down and drag you home.”

  “Lydia Halston-Day does not drag anything,” I reminded him, reaching between us to zip up my travel bag. “She hires people to do it for her. And there’s nothing sweet or darling about her.”

  For the first time since I started packing, Jeremy smiles. “Cold and calculating?” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Heartless and cruel?” His smile widens into a grin. “Manipulative and backstabbing?”

  “All accurate descriptors,” I say, laughing at his enthusiasm. My mother really isn’t his favorite person but he pretends to keep up appearances. “Which is why I need all the head start I can get.”

  “Okay,” he says, picking up my hand from the top of my bag. “Do what you need to do and come home.” His nudge the ring he gave me with his thumb, peering into it like it’s a crystal ball, able to predict his future.

  “You’re my best friend,” I say, my words drawing his gaze toward mine. “I made you a promise, and I’m going to keep it.”

  He winces, squeezing my hand a little too tight. “You know I wouldn’t have asked if there were any—”

  “Stop,” I tell him, pulling my hand free so I can stand. “We’ve been over this a million times. I’m benefitting just as much as you are, remember? Besides,” I say, lifting my bag off the bed, slinging its strap over my shoulder. “It’s hardly a lifelong prison sentence.”

  And it isn’t a lifetime, or at least it won’t be. Not if everything goes according to plan.

  “We’re really going to do this,” he says, his tone slightly dazed. “We’re really going through with it.”

  “Unless you want to go with plan B,” I say, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribcage. For the first time since we hatched this crazy scheme, I hope he says yes. “There’s still time to change your mind.” Even as I say it, I know he won’t. Jeremy is my best friend. He’s kind and funny and honest—a rarity in this world of wealth and privilege I’d been thrust into nearly a decade ago. From day one, he was the only friend I had. His friendship kept me safe. Gave me instant access and acceptance into a world I’d never really belonged to. I owe him for that. But for all his attributes, there’s one thing Jeremy isn’t—brave.

  Plan B would require too much of something he doesn’t have.

  Courage.

  As if to prove me right, Jeremy shakes his head. “You know I can’t.”

  “Then yes, Jeremy Bradford—” I smile, nodding my head, even though I feel like crying. “As soon as I come home, we’ll announce our engagement.”

  Seven

  Conner

  My phone is ringing.

  At 3AM.

  Fuck.

  Someone better be dead because, Jesus Christ, just because I’m awake doesn’t mean I want to talk to anyone right now.

  Looking at the screen, I feel my shoulders tighten. I recognize the number. It’s my friend, Ryan. We haven’t talked in months, and the last time we did talk, he asked me for a favor I wasn’t too keen on giving.

  Henley’s coming to Boston. She wants to see my dad—can you go with her? Make sure she’s okay.

  Not our dad. My dad. It’s an accurate statement. Jack O’Connell hasn’t been Henley’s dad since she was sixteen.

  Not that he ever really was.

  As soon as Ryan said her name, I’m glad I decided to step into the hallway to take the call. I felt my chest constrict. My palms started to sweat. I had a hard time swallowing. I opened my mouth to tell him no. No, I can’t help you. I can’t help her. Ask Declan. Patrick. Fuck, ask Mrs. McGintey and her shit dog to go with Henley to see your dad. Anyone but me. Because I’m not doing it.

  I can’t.

  When I open my mouth that’s not what comes out. “When?” I say, squeezing my eyes shut the second it comes out and contemplate ramming my head into the nearest wall just to shut myself up.

  “Not sure, really,” Ryan answers. “She’s got a bug up her ass about it, but if I know my mom, she’s throwing up every roadblock she can to
keep her from coming. Doesn’t want her consorting with us dirty commoners.” There’s no mistaking the trace of bitterness in his tone. I pretend not to hear it. “Anyway, it might be awhile.” He pauses, the line between us filling with static before he continues. “I’m heading out on a thing, and I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to call again. I just wanted to make sure she was taken care of before I leave,” he says, talking in code as usual.

  Ryan’s an Army Ranger. A thing could be anything from a routine patrol to toppling a small government. I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to call again means it might be never. Every time one of us talks to Ryan, we are acutely aware that it could be the last time we ever hear his voice.

  “I’ll take care of her,” I say, my mouth making sound without my permission again.

  Fuck me.

  “Alright man,” he says, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

  “Hey,” I say before he has the chance to hang up. “Why me? Why not Declan or Patrick?”

  He could’ve pretended to not understand what I was asking. Feign ignorance. Run some bullshit excuse on me. But he didn’t.

  “You know why,” he said, hanging up before I have a chance to say anything else.

  Yeah. I knew why.

  Now, it’s five months later, and he’s blowing up my phone at three o’clock in the morning.

  “Who is it?”

  I shoot the mass of dark hair and spray-tanned limbs in bed next to me a quick look. “My brother,” I say, which isn’t a lie really. Ryan is my brother, in all the ways that count. “What’s up?” I say into the phone, passing a rough hand over my face. I need to get out of here.

  “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” Ryan says, his voice faint and tinny. Makes me wonder where he is.

  “Nah, It’s all good—what’s up?” I say, clenching my teeth while the woman next to me, turns over and scoots closer, wrapping her arm around my waist. I look down at her dark head tucked into my shoulder and sigh. Reaching down, I lift her arm and slide out from under it before letting it flop back onto the bed.