by Megyn Ward
Patrick peels off his three-thousand-dollar suit jacket and tosses it on the bare subfloor. He’s had a hard time matching the original hardwood. “Yeah,” he says, shooting me a pissed off look while he jerks his cufflinks loose. “Well if you’re so damn smart, maybe you can tell me why I just blew a million bucks on a bunch of painting of myself eating fucking cereal and doing laundry.”
“Because you’re a narcissist,” I say flashing him a grin that feels hollow. Feels like a lie. Looking at him is like looking in a mirror. I know how he feels. I know what it’s like to love someone who left you behind.
He laughs, the sound harsh and humorless, jiggling the cufflinks in his hand for a few moments, like he’s considering fast-pitching them across the room but then he stops and looks at me. “You look like shit.”
“I look like you,” I tell him and this time he laughs for real at our running joke. “Late night. Early morning.” I still don’t sleep well. Never more than a few hours at a time before my brain gets restless and started shaking me awake. I’m on thirty-six hours of no sleep, and it’ll be closer to fifty before I close my eyes. Once I do, I might get an hour or two for my trouble.
“I heard from Ryan. Henley is coming.” I don’t know why I say it. Why I told him. Maybe because if anyone might understand what I’m feeling, it’s him.
“When?” he slips the cufflinks into his pocket. And just like that, he’s done feeling sorry for himself. Done griping and bitching about being left and being hurt. If he can do it, so can I.
“Tomorrow.” I pass a hand over my face. “We’re meeting downstairs for lunch.”
“I wasn’t kidding about you looking like shit,” he says, flipping up the cuffs of his sleeve, rolling it up in near perfect turns. “Why don’t you go home. Get some sleep. I’ll cover you tonight.”
If I go home now, sleeping is the last thing I’ll do. I either fuck myself stupid or drink myself blind. That’s how this works. How I get out from under the weight of her. “Appreciate the offer, Cap’n,” I say, forcing a grin. Pushing it deep. Making it real. “But it’s Ladies Night—and I never miss a ladies’ night.
Thirteen
Henley
2009
“You don’t have to walk me home, Conner.” I risk a quick look in his direction, his near-perfect profile illuminated by the glow of the streetlight.
It’s after eight. His mom insisted I stay for dinner, which was weird. Declan, Conner’s older brother, kept staring at us while his mother explained to their dad that I was tutoring Conner in calculus. Mr. Gilroy divides an odd look between us before looking at his wife. Whatever he sees on her face seems to clear up his confusion.
“Well, if you can bring this knucklehead to heel, it’ll be worth every penny,” he says, waving his fork in Conner’s direction. “Afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you, Henley. Dumb as a box of doorknobs, that one.”
Across the table, Declan laughs before scooting his chair back from the table. “Can I be excused?” he says, picking up his plate before standing. “Some friends and I are going to the movies.”
“What friends?” Mrs. Gilroy asks, eyeing her oldest son.
“Ryan, Dean. Caleb—” He shoots a look at us. “Want to go, Con? We can drop Henley off on the way.”
Beside me, Conner stiffens slightly. “No,” he says, before looking down at his plate, his jaw goes tight like he wants to say something but can’t.
Satisfied, his mom nods. “Be home by midnight,” his mom says.
“Always am,” Declan says before carrying his plate into the kitchen. A few minutes later, the back door slams shut.
After dinner, Mr. Gilroy walked us to the door. “Thanks again, for taking this on,” he says. Reaching for my hand, he stuffs a wad of money into it. Unless it’s a bunch of one-dollar bills, it’s entirely too much.
“No, Mr. Gilroy,” I say, trying to give it back. “That’s too much—”
“Did I mention how dumb he is?” His dad shoots him a look, and Conner laughs.
“Thanks, Dad.” He doesn’t sound hurt or offended by his dad’s insult. He sounds relieved. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Just get her home safe, son,” Mr. Gilroy says, patting Conner on the shoulder as we pass through the door before shutting it behind us.
Now, Conner shoots me a quick smile. “Are you kidding?” he says. “My mom tells me to walk you home, I’m walking you home. Because I want to live.”
“Your mom is great,” I say, laughing because I can’t imagine Mrs. Gilroy as anything but nice.
“She is great.” He smiles again, this time there’s nothing quick about it. “She’s also kinda scary.” It spreads slowly across his face, showing me just how much he loves her. How proud he is that she’s his mom. I envy him a lot of things. His mother is at the top of the list.
“I’d take your scary mom over mine any day,” I say, laughing to make the admission sound like a joke.
“Your mom’s not that bad,” he says, and I laugh because we both know he’s just being nice.
“She’s been on this weird kick lately,” I tell him. “Ladies don’t swear. Ladies don’t fight. Ladies don’t play baseball… I miss baseball.” I shrug, suddenly feeling weird about what I’m doing. Confiding in Conner Gilroy. Like he could ever understand what it’s like to be me. “Anyway, I liked it better when she ignored me.”
We round the corner there’s a car parked outside my building. Not just a car. A nice car. One that has a driver who circles around and opens your door for you when you’re ready to get out.
I watch it happen, the driver opening the rear passenger door, holding out his hand to help my mother from the back of the vehicle.
She’s beautiful.
It’s a weird thing to think when you’re being slapped in the face with the fact that your mom is cheating on your dad but that’s what I think. The way her soft auburn hair glows like fire in the shine of the street lamp. Her smooth, ivory skin that she’s always taken care to hide from the sun. Her wide brown eyes. Her full mouth and perfect nose.
My mother is beautiful.
And I hate her.
As soon as she’s out, she turns and leans forward, stooping down to talk to whoever’s still in the car while the driver circles back to his station behind the wheel.
I stop short, and Conner follows suit. Closing a hand over my arm, he pulls me into the shadows of the building, and we stand there, watching.
After a few moments, a hand reaches out to pull my mom closer, just as a face appears in the window’s open frame. It’s a man, one I’ve never seen before. Whoever he is, I can tell it’s not some guy who owns a used car lot in Charlestown.
When he kisses my mom, I feel Conner’s hand tighten around my arm, like he’s afraid I’m going to make a scene. Try to stop them. The thought never even crossed my mind. Maybe it would have if what I’m seeing actually shocked me.
We watch as my mom pulls away with the kind of laugh I’ve never heard from her before. Light. Almost girlish. I hate it the moment I hear it. Hope whoever he is, he takes her away and leaves us in peace. Maybe with her gone, my dad wouldn’t drink so much. Maybe Ryan would be around more.
She steps onto the sidewalk, giving the man in the car an over the shoulder smile and the rear window goes up, seconds before the car pulls away.
My mom is half-way up the stoop when she turns around and peers directly into the shadows where we’re standing. I shrink back, bumping into the solid wall of Conner’s chest, the top of my head brushing his chin. She seems to stare at me forever, and even though I know she can’t see me, I’m almost positive she knows I’m here.
That I saw her.
Conner’s hand tightens on my arm again, like he’s getting ready to drag me back the way we came but then it’s over, and she’s turning away from us to push her way through the front door of our building.
As soon as she’s gone, Conner lets go of my arm, and I turn to find him looking down at me. “I tak
e it back,” he says quietly. “I like my mom better.”
Laughing loudly, I cover my mouth with my hand because even though she’s gone, I still feel like she’s watching me. Us.
If she knew I was standing in the dark with Conner Gilroy, she would not be pleased. I can practically hear her—a neighborhood boy? Over my dead body.
Like someone like Conner Gilroy would even consider a girl like me.
“That makes two of us,” I tell him, pulling my broken backpack out of his arms. Bundling it against my chest, I look up at him. “Good night, Conner.”
A look passes over his face, but it’s too dark and too fast for me to catch it. For a moment, he leans closer, and I think he’s going to do something. Say something. But he doesn’t.
He just steps back with a grin, disappearing even deeper into the shadows. “‘Night, Hennie,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Fourteen
Conner
I can’t sleep.
Which is nothing new, really. Sleep has never been easy for me. Sometimes, I can go days at a time without so much as closing my eyes. That’s what happens when you have a brain that never stops working.
I started walking at nine-months-old. Able to carry complex conversations by the time I was a year and a half. I toilet trained myself by age one. Taught myself how to read by age three. My parents knew something was wrong with me when I began requesting books on quantum mechanics for Christmas at the age of four.
Yeah, I said wrong with me. Because, most of the time, that’s what it feels like. Like my 198IQ is a disease. Something that makes me different. Less human. Less real somehow.
The truth is, I graduated on-line high school, long before it was time for me to actually go, but I saw what Declan had—a normal life—and I wanted it. Even though I was already halfway through my first Bachelor’s degree, via online college, I told my parents that I thought attending high school at the appropriate age would help me develop socially and they agreed. Actually seemed relieved at the prospect.
After a meeting with the school board, and a sizable donation to the school’s library fund, they agreed to allow me to what basically amounts to pretend to be normal for the next four years. I go to school every day, I take tests. I turn in the occasional homework assignment. They get a bump in their standardized test scores and a brand-new library. I get to feel like I’m regular.
I get to feel real.
None of this is what I’m thinking about right now. Right now, I’m lying in the dark, thinking about Henley.
When I finally followed her up the stairs after our tutoring session, I found her sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my bookcase, one open in her lap, several more spread out on the floor around her.
She doesn’t look up when I walk into the room. She wasn’t waiting for me. She doesn’t try to sit next to me. She doesn’t chatter or giggle or ask me a million questions like she’s interested in what I have to say. She doesn’t even know I’m there.
I sit on the floor, across the room from her, back against the side of my bed, and I watch her. The way she gnaws on her bottom lip when something she’s read makes her nervous. The way she leans into the book a little bit when she’s excited. The way she runs the end of her braid through her fingers when she’s concentrating. Watching her, being completely ignored by her, I’ve never felt more real in my life.
Eventually, my mom comes up to get us for dinner. I don’t know what she expected to find when she did, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me sitting ten-feet away from Henley, watching her while she read.
“Time to wash up, you two,” she says, a weird smile aimed in my direction before she heads back downstairs.
Henley’s head jerks up at the sound of my mom’s voice, and she looks around like she can’t figure out where she is. Finally, her gaze falls on me. “What time is it?”
“Seven,” I say, stretching my legs out in front of me. “Seven-o-eight, to be exact.”
She looks down at the book in her lap. “I should go,” she says closing it reluctantly before setting it aside. “My dad is probably worried—”
I stand, crossing the room to stop in front of her. “You’re staying for dinner,” I tell her, offering her my hand. We both know her dad’s not worried. He doesn’t even know she’s gone.
She looks up at me, her freckled forehead crumpled slightly. “Is that right?”
“Yup.” I wiggle my fingers at her, laughing out loud when she slaps my hand away to stand on her own.
Holding the book in her hand tight against her chest like a shield, she looks up at me. “Our tutoring session is over, Conner Gilroy,” she says, her head tilted back so she can look me in the eye. “That means you no longer get to boss me around.”
“Huh. So, what you’re saying is…” I take a half step toward her, and she counters the move, bumping into the bookcase behind her when she does. “During our tutoring sessions, you have to do what I say.” Her wide eyes narrow slightly when I smirk at her. “Good to know,” I say, holding my position.
Her eyes go wide again, her mouth slightly open. “That’s not what I meant,” she finally manages.
“Sorry, Hennie,” I say, letting my mouth turn down at the corners. “No take backs.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Sorry,” I say, letting my gaze wander over her face. Her crooked nose. Her chipped front tooth. The constellation of freckles scattered across her cheeks. I don’t see imperfection. I see her. I like it. I could spend the next fifty years looking at her face and still find something new to see, every time I opened my eyes.
“No, you’re not.” She glares at me. Direct. Unflinching.
“Yeah,” I flash my dimples at her, giving her a crooked half smile. “I’m not.”
She shakes her head, short choppy swivels that barely register as movement. “You make me nervous,” she says baldly, frowning up at me. “I don’t understand you.”
Reaching out, I wrap my fingers around the book she’s holding and pull it from her hands. She lets it go, and her arms hover there for a moment before dropping awkwardly to hang at her sides.
I move closer, reaching past her to slide the book back into its space on the shelf. Hand still resting on its spine, arm angled over her shoulder, I look down at her. She’s looking up at me, her eyes wide. Unsure. Gaze settled on my ear. I could kiss her if I wanted to.
And I want to.
But I don’t. I can’t. Because she’s about two seconds away from bolting and if she leaves now, she’ll never come back.
And if that happens, if she never comes back, I don’t think I’ll ever feel this way again.
Real.
So, I tilt my head down and bring my mouth as close to her ear as I possibly can without touching her and do the only thing I can.
I tell her the truth.
“Same.”
Fifteen
Conner
2017
It’s getting late. Edging toward midnight and no one has piqued my interest. Not that there isn’t plenty of volunteers. It’s Thursday. There are so many women in this place I couldn’t slip a piece of paper between them, and more than a few of them have made it clear they’re down for whatever.
I practically have them lined up around the bar, and I’m not sure if I’m physically capable of caring any less. Because really, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.
But this isn’t about want. It’s about need. I’m crawling around in my own goddamned skin. Thoughts and memories rattling around my skull.
I go through the motions. I flirt, I wink. I mix drinks and call them beautiful. I even laid down on the bar and let a bachelorette party do body shots off my abs, Setting the shot glass in my open fly, I squeezed lime juice and rubbed salt all over my stomach—but that was mainly to piss Declan off. And it worked. Earning his disapproving glare was the best part of my day.
“The suits want to buy the redhead over there a drink,” Declan says, jerkin
g his chin down the bar. He’s standing beside me, yanking the caps off a round of Sapporos for a bunch of suits at the end of the bar. Drafts are on special tonight, and these assholes are ordering bottled imports. I could piss in a bottle, slap a fancy label on it and sell it to these jack-offs for twenty bucks a pop.
My eyes instantly follow and find her. She couldn’t have been there long because there is no way in hell I could have missed her.
Every junkie has a flavor. All alcoholics have a brand. That particular taste they can’t say no to. That itch they have to scratch—damn the consequences.
Mine is perched on a stool at the end of the bar.
Exactly what I need.
“Don’t even think about it—she’s waaay out of your league, little brother.” Declan leans across the taps and says it low in my ear. “Just pour her a glass of whatever and let the Wolves of Wall Street over here do the heavy lifting, okay?”
He’s right. I can see it from here. The money. The privilege. Silk blouse. Black pencil skirt. Heels that cost more than I make in a week. Purse that probably cost more than the shoes. Prim and proper. Pampered and kept. For guys like me, women like her were untouchable. Unhaveable.
It’s like someone waved a red cape in front of my face.
“Sure thing, Dec,” I answer back, wiping my hands on a bar towel before making my way toward her. The closer I get, the more I realize that the word stunning doesn’t even begin to describe her accurately.
She’s perfection. Dark auburn hair falls as straight as an arrow past her shoulders, clipped back to frame a heart-shaped face set with the most amazing pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen, like liquid chocolate, shot with flecks of gold and copper. A patrician nose set over a set of full, lush lips colored a dusky sort of pink that I’d bet my half of the tip jar matched her nipples perfectly. I don’t care about any of that, really.