by Megyn Ward
“What’s wrong with you?”
I look up from the stack of pancakes I’m mutilating to find Tess staring at me over her plate. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and we’re at Benny’s. It’s packed as usual, but we were able to slide right in after running the gauntlet of Nora, the hostess. As usual, I let her smack me around a little and tell her she’s pretty. Just because our booth is always open, doesn’t mean we don’t have to work for it.
“What?” I say, dropping my gaze to my plate, so I don’t have to look at her.
“Don’t what me,” she says, stuffing a neatly cut wedge of pancake into her mouth. Everything else she eats, it’s a complete massacre. Not pancakes. Those she eats with a surgical precision that would be off-putting if she weren’t so damn adorably clueless about it. “You’ve been weird all damn day.”
“I’m not weird,” I say, strangely wounded by her observation. “Your face is weird.” I jab my fork into my food like I’m trying to kill it.
Tess leans back in her seat, laughing so hard I’m afraid she’s going to choke on her pancakes. “Oh, Jesus,” she gasps between loud, braying gaffs. “You’re especially ridiculous today.”
“I’m glad you’re amused.” Finally giving up on my food, I drop my fork and push my plate toward her.
“Amusement is what you bring to this relationship, Gilroy,” she says, nudging my plate back onto my side of the table. “Amusement and pancakes. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
Lifting my coffee, I slam the rest of it before standing. “If you must know, I’m expecting a call,” I say, reaching into my back pocket to pull out my wallet. I don’t tell her from who. I can’t. Not unless I want to launch into a re-hash of why waiting for a phone call from Henley O’Connell has me all fucked up.
“From your doctor?” Tess’s eyes go wide and sympathetic. “Is it herpes?”
“You’re an asshole,” I say, jerking a couple twenties free before tossing them on the table. “A tiny, tiny asshole.”
“And yet, you love me,” she says, totally unremorseful. She glances down at the money I threw on the table before bouncing a frown back up at me. “Are we leaving?”
“I’m leaving,” I tell her. “You can stay and eat as much as forty-dollars will buy you.”
Before I make my escape, she reaches out and snags my hand, forcing me to look down at her.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
This isn’t cocky asshole Tess. This is concerned friend Tess. The Tess not many people get to see.
“Yeah. Just tired,” I tell her, offering her the first real smile I’ve cracked all day. “I had to cover Cap’n’s shift at the bar last night and then...” I don’t finish my sentence. The rest is a given. No explanation needed.
“You don’t have to fuck everything on two legs that bats its eyelashes at you.” Tess lets me go and sits back in her seat. “You know that, right?”
“Well, if you’d just admit how much you want to jump on my cock, I wouldn’t have to,” I say, flashing her my dimples and she groans. The old lady sitting in the booth behind her looks at me like she just swallowed her dentures. Because I’m an asshole, I wink at her, and she nearly faints into her early bird special.
“I’d rather jump on a live grenade.” Tess laughs. Looks relieved. This is us. What we do. How we function. I’m a cocky, perverted asshole and she cuts me to shreds. Keeps me in line.
And I love her for it.
“See you back at the garage,” I tell her, wanting to leave before things get weird again. Turning my back on her, I weave my way between tables, skirting my way around the lunch counter.
I don’t even see my brother until I’m halfway out the door and he’s flagging me down.
“What are you doing here?” I say, my gaze automatically drawn back the way I’d come, silently willing Tess to stay where she is. Dealing with Declan is not something she needs to do right now.
“Jess is doing some sort of bridesmaids thing, so I’m grabbing a quick bite before I head to the bar.” Declan tips his head to the side and rubs his temple with his index finger. “You just get finished?”
If he believes his fiancé is doing some sort of bridesmaids thing on a Wednesday afternoon, he’s either dumb or delusional. “Yup,” I say, hand pressed flat against the door to shove it open.
“So, the booth is open?”
He knows I’m here with Tess—I’m pretty much always with Tess—and this is his not-so-subtle way of asking me where she is. “No, it’s not,” I say, my tone heavy. “So, just sit your ass down and wait your turn like everyone else.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Somehow, I manage to act normal and not like someone is administering electroshock therapy to my balls.
“Later.” Without waiting for Dec to respond, I push my way through the door, leaving him behind. I’m not three steps from the door before I’m digging my phone from my pocket and swiping my thumb across the screen.
Unknown: Hi, Conner.
It’s Henley.
I have an overwhelming urge to throw my phone in the trash and run like a little bitch.
Unknown: Conner?
I need sleep. A good, hard fuck. A gallon of whiskey. Maybe all three. That’s what I need. That’s all. That’s all this is.
Unknown: Do I have the
right number?
Fuck.
Me: Yeah. Busy.
What’s up?
Unknown: Oh. Okay.
I’m sorry to bother you.
Ryan gave me your
number. I hope that’s
okay.
It was okay at 3AM. Now, I don’t know what it is.
Me: It’s fine.
Jesus Christ. Why the fuck am I freaking out?
Me: Did you need
something?
Yeah, for you to stop being a bitchy little asshole. You told Ryan you’d take care of her so nut the fuck up and do your goddamn job.
Unknown: Ryan said he spoke
with you… did he tell you I’m
coming to Boston to see my
dad?
Me: Yup. You know when?
Unknown: I’m taking the train.
I’ll be there Friday morning.
Friday. Tomorrow. Enough time to get my shit together. Figure out how to be around her again without bitching out.
Me: Need a ride from the
station?
If my dad found out I knew she was coming and I didn’t offer to pick her up, he’d break my neck. That’s why I make to offer. Because, despite my daily display to the contrary, I was raised right. That’s it. The only reason I offer.
Unknown: No thank you,
I have a ride.
A ride? From who? My gut clenches and I suddenly want to know where she’s staying. With who. How long she’ll be here.
Stop. You don’t know this girl. Not anymore. So, just fucking stop.
Instead of going all Neanderthal, I lock it down. Why? Because I don’t give a shit. That’s why.
I don’t.
I really don’t.
Me: Alright. Meet me for
Lunch?
Unknown: That sounds good.
Me: Great. Gilroy’s @ noon.
Unknown: Okay. See you then.
Before I can force my brain to come up with a reply, another message comes through.
Unknown: It’ll be nice to see
you again, Conner.
I don’t respond. I just jam my phone back into my pocket and go home.
Eleven
Henley
I lied. To everyone.
Finished packing, I wheel my suitcase across my room and park it in next to the door.
I told Conner I was arriving tomorrow morning.
Lie.
I told my Jeremy I was staying at the Hawthorne.
Lie.
I told my mom and Spencer I was serving my internship at a library in Chicago.
Lie.
I told Ryan I wanted to g
o home to see our father.
Lie.
Wheeling my suitcase across the room, I park it next to the door before checking my ticket. I have a little over two hours before I need to be at the station to check in.
I’m going home.
Pressing a hand against my stomach, I try to smother the flurry of butterflies that suddenly take flight. Looking down at the phone in my hand, I reread the conversation I just had with Conner. Me, proper and polite. Him, short and succinct. The last text I sent went unanswered. His lack of response said everything I need to know.
He’s meeting me tomorrow because Ryan asked him to. That’s it. He has no interest in seeing me again.
Knowing that should make everything easier. It doesn’t.
I almost text him back. Tell him I changed my mind. That I’m not coming after all. That he’s off the hook.
Instead, I turn off my phone and tuck it into my train case, along with my ticket. Loud music seeps in through the crack under the door. Celine and I share the fourth floor. At fifteen, she reminds me of the mean girls I used to have to deal with back in Boston. She looks like a Jessica and Penny clone. Long, shiny blonde hair. Smooth, tan skin.
I try not to hold it against her.
Glad for the distraction, I turn away from the door and give my room a quick once-over. When my gaze lands on the spiral staircase tucked into the corner, I smile. The library is on the fifth floor, directly above my room. As soon as Spencer realized how much I love books and that I’d never owned any of my own, he hired a work crew to cut a hole in my ceiling and install the staircase.
The man gave me a library, and I’ve loved him ever since.
Climbing the stairs, I think about leaving and lying. I don’t feel bad about lying to my mother. But lying to Spencer is a different story altogether.
“What’s the matter, Sparkplug?”
I stop short on the landing. As if my guilt pulled him out of thin air, I find him sitting in the library’s sitting room, in front of a cold fireplace, a book in his lap, a glass of bourbon on the side table next to him.
“What are you doing here?” I say, crossing the space between us to slide into the chair next to him.
“Waiting for you,” he says, raising his glass to take a sip. “I knew you’d make it up here eventually.”
I used to worry about him drinking. What it would lead to. Wonder how long it would take him to disintegrate under the pressure of being married to my mother. I’d imagine having to drag him down the hallway. Roll him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke to death on his own vomit.
Eight years later, I realize Spencer is made of stronger stuff than my father. I don’t worry about him drinking anymore. At least not for those reasons.
“You shouldn’t be drinking with your medication,” I remind him, giving him a sour look.
“I don’t,” he says setting his glass down, giving me a quick wink. “I do them both separately.”
He laughs for the both of us when it becomes obvious I don’t find him amusing. “An occasional glass of the good stuff isn’t going to kill me, Sparkplug.” He closes his book and sets it aside. The Call of the Wild by Jack London. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”
I shake my head, sinking into the soft leather chair. “I’m going to miss my books.” I look up. The mezzanine level of the library is nothing but books. Bright-colored spines, stacked from floor to ceiling.
“They’ll be here when you come back,” Spencer says, trying to comfort me. I don’t know how to tell him that there will be no coming back for me. Jeremy and I will announce our engagement over the holiday season, and then before I know it, we’ll be married. My life here is over.
“Maybe I’ll miss you.” I give him a weak smile, chewing on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
“I’ll be here too,” he says, turning in his chair to lift something off the table. He hesitates for a moment like he’s having second thoughts, before finally deciding to hand it to me. It’s an envelope. Long and thick. Written on its face is an address.
1334 Boylston St.
Boston, MA. #14C
Boylston Street is the apartment my mother, and I moved into when she left my father. We lived there for three weeks while Spencer finalized his divorce from Celine’s mother. Some wannabe actress even younger than my mother. I had no idea he kept it.
As soon as I see it, my heart catapults itself into my throat, I know what it is. What it means. He knows I lied.
“Boston City Library called my office line last month to confirm you received your service contract,” he says before I have a chance to speak. “You put me down as your emergency contact, and they couldn’t get ahold of you.”
“I’m sorry.” I manage to push the words, forcing myself to look at him. “I’m sorry, Spencer.”
“For what? Lying?” He waves his hand at me before I can answer. “I understand why you did it.”
Even though I know what it is, I open the envelope. Cash. A brand-new credit card with my name on it. A set of keys.
“I can’t take this,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t.” I reserved a room at a boarding house not far from the library. I had some savings from the private tutoring sessions I offered in college.
The irony of that nearly chokes me.
“You can,” he says, his usually pleasant face going hard. “And if you want me to keep my mouth shut to your mother, you will.”
I’m still shaking my head. Still refusing when he sighs.
“Then do it for me, Sparkplug,” he says quietly. “Let this old man set things right.”
“What are you talking about?” His words snap my head up on my neck. “You haven’t done anything.”
“I beg to differ,” he says. “What your mother and I did was wrong. We took you away from your life. Your brother.” Spencer sighs, sitting back in his chair. “I wanted your mother so badly I told myself that we were doing what was best for you. I was giving you a better life.”
I think about it. The fact that my mother’s ruthless pursuit of wealth and a life of privilege tore me away from everyone and everything I knew and loved. Thrust me into a life I was never supposed to have. One I never wanted.
However much I want to hate her for that, I can’t because her selfishness led me to Spencer. The man who has been more of a parent to me than my own ever were. “You’ve given me a great life.” The words come out, barely a croak.
“But I took things from you too, Sparkplug.” He looks sad, his fingers closing around mine, squeezing tight. “Important things. I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself for that.”
He gives me a long look like he’s weighing a grenade in his hand, trying to decide whether or not to pull the pin. “I know about Jeremy—I’ve known for a while,” he says. “I know what the two of you are planning—and why.”
No, no, no…
I feel my hands clamp tight around the envelope. My eyes bulge. Mouth gapes. Before I can deny or dispute what he’s saying he holds up a hand, shaking his head. “It’s okay, Sparkplug,” he says. “I… understand.” His face crumples for a moment under the weight of emotion. Love. Fear. Pride. “That’s why this is so important. That’s why you’re going to take my help. Because I took things from you and I want you to go find them before it’s too late.”
Twelve
Conner
I don’t go home.
I hook a left at the end of the block instead of heading straight. Gilroy’s sits on the corner, a two-story brick building that was probably built around the same time Sam Adams was tossing tea into the harbor.
It’s been in our family for damn near a hundred years. Been a bar for sixty-five of them. My grandparents lived over it until they died, passing within a year of each other. The apartment stood empty until my cousin moved in after he graduated from college a few years ago.
Sitting in front of the heavy metal security door he installed is a white panel van with the logo for Gallery Blu stenciled on the side.
<
br /> Gallery Blu is where Cari used to work. It’s where Patrick went last night for the art benefit that featured a series of painting she did of him. Why I had to cover his bar shift for him.
Leaning against the buzzer, I laugh when I hear him shout, fuck off! through the open second-story window. I keep buzzing until he appears at the window. “Are you deaf?” he says, glaring down at me. “I said fuck off.”
“Welcome to Boston,” I say to a couple of worried-looking tourists, rubber-necking their way down the sidewalk. “Have you met our most eligible bachelor?”
Surlier than usual, Patrick snarls and flips them off. Watching them hurry across the street, he aims his glare at me. “You’re a dick.”
“A well-established fact,” I say, squinting up at him. “Come on, Cap’n, let me in. I’m just gonna keep yelling.”
He disappears from the window, and a few seconds later, the door lock snaps open, and I’m off the street. The door is off its hinges at the top if the stairs. When I walk in, I see the reason why.
“Don’t say a word,” he gripes at me, head bent over a clipboard, dragging a pen over in long, heavy sweeps. Next to him is a stack of paintings, wrapped in brown paper, almost as tall as he is. “Not one, or I’ll throw you out the goddamned window.” He clips the pen back to the board and shoves it at the squat, balding man standing in front of him, his eyes wide and ping-ponging between the two of us. It’s a normal reaction to seeing us together for the first time. Most people think we’re twins.
“He’s my cousin,” Patrick snaps before he can ask. Digging into his breast pocket, he yanks out his wallet and pulls out a few bills. “Thanks,” he mutters, pushing the money into the man’s hand. Even when he’s a surly asshole, Cap’n still a nice guy. The guy unhooks his hand truck and is gone a few minutes later.
I watch while he circles the stack, hands dug into the pockets of his dress slacks like he’s trying to find an angle of attack. Finally, he looks up at me. “You gonna ask me what they are?”
“You told me not to say anything,” I remind him, earning myself a string of curses. “Besides, I don’t have to ask—I already know.” I tap my my index finger against temple and smirk. “I’m smarter than the average bear, remember?”