by Megyn Ward
I remember the ease with which he wrote it last night. Not like he memorized it. Like he understood it.
“I didn’t ask you what it was,” I say, my fingers tightening around the paper in my hand. “I asked you what it means.”
He understands what I’m asking, considers me for a moment before answering. “I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”
“I don’t need to like it, Conner,” I say, standing my ground. “I just need to hear it.”
“Okay… I’m smart.” He says it like he’s telling me he has a terminal illness. “Really smart.”
"How smart?"
"North of Einstein. South of Hirata." When I don't say anything, his brow scrunched slightly. “198. That’s my IQ score.” He says it like he just told me he has some sort of STD. Like he’s ashamed.
198.
I can’t even wrap my mind around what that kind of intelligence might look like.
He sets his gaze on a point just past my shoulder, brow still furrowed, like he’s trying to find the right, best words to give me to help me understand. “My brain—the way it works—makes personal connections difficult.” He looks uncomfortable. Unsure. “Most people, I can see right through them—like they’re ghosts. There’s nothing there. No weight. They’re not…” His frown turns into a wince, his discomfort almost palpable. “real.” Suddenly, his gaze jerks across my face, nailing itself to mine. “I know how that sounds—I’m not a sociopath. I don’t meet enough of the criteria to warrant a diagnosis. I just...” He looks away again and shrugs. “have a hard time connecting.”
“And I’m different?” When he nods I sigh, looking down at the paper in my hand. “Why?”
“Fuck if I know.” He sounds as frustrated as I feel. “Maybe that’s why. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with you, Henley. I don’t know how you work. You feel solid. You’re real to me—I feel real when I’m with you—and I like feeling that way. That’s the best way I can explain it.”
“I still don’t understand what this means,” I say, holding the paper up.
He shrugs. “I like you. I wanted to talk to you. Spend time with you.”
He said it again.
I like you.
Comprehension dawns. “So, you lied about needing a math tutor?”
“Yes.”
“You manipulated me?”
“Yes.”
I don’t know how I feel about his off-handed admission. I know I should be angry, but I can’t seem to get there. “You recognize that you shouldn’t do that to people. Manipulate them. It’s wrong. You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t care.”
“I wanted to spend time with you.” He circumvents the question.
“Because you like me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it,” I say, looking for the loophole. The punchline.
“There’s nothing to get, Henley,” he says. “And I don’t know how many times I can keep saying it—I like you.”
“Why?” I sputter the word, pushing it out on a frustrated huff of breath.
“Why not?” He looks like he doesn’t understand the question.
“I’m not—” I shake my head, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “I’m not pretty. Not by any standard.”
“I like your face,” he says, his tone both irritated and matter-of-fact.
I snort in response. “Right,” I say, shaking my head. “Like you like my freckles.”
“I do like your freckles.”
I remember what he said to me last night when he shoved the piece of paper into my hand.
Don’t tell me what I like, Henley and don’t ever tell me what I want. Because you have no idea.
“You haven’t even asked me if I like you.” I say it loud, angry and confused. None of this is going how I thought it would. “You just automatically assume that I like you back because you’re Conner—frickin’—Gilroy and I’d be stupid not to.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?” I snap at him.
His lips twitch like he’s trying to keep from smiling. “Like me?”
“That’s not the point,” I hiss at him, my fingers tightening around the piece of paper in my hand.
The smile he’s trying to suppress fades. “Then what is the point, Henley?” he says, frustration finally creeping into his voice.
“The point is,” I say, letting out a long, slow breath. “I don’t want people to know.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “That I like you.” It’s not a question. “And that you like me.”
I can’t say it out loud, so I flatten my mouth, clamping it shut, and nod my head. “That’s why I can’t carry your backpack.”
“Because you don’t want people to know we’re together.”
Together. The word makes me feel panicky. Weird, like my skin is too tight and I can’t take a full breath. “Yes.” The word sticks in my mouth and I have to push it out.
“Okay, no backpack,” he says, but his tone says something different. It says it’s not okay. Not at all. “Can I walk you to class?”
“No.”
His brow lowers slightly. “Can I walk you home from school?”
“No.” On my own, I’m invisible. Even Jessica ignores me unless she’s feeling particularly horrible. With Conner, I would be anything but. People would see me. See us.
His jawline tightens. “Can I hang out with you in the library during lunch?”
I shake my head again. “We don’t even have the same lunch period, Conner. You can’t just keep cutting—”
“I graduated high school when I was eleven, Henley. Last count, I have three Bachelors, two Masters, I’m in my second year at Harvard Law, and I was just accepted to the MIT doctoral program in theoretical physics and cognitive neuroscience,” he says over me, killing my argument in an instant. “I pretend to go to high school because I need to develop age-appropriate social skills—so, I can pretty much take whatever goddamn lunch hour I want.”
I stare at him, trying to wrap my brain around everything I’ve learned in the past five minutes.
Conner Gilroy is some sort of genius.
He likes me.
He wants to be with me.
“If someone asks why I’m hanging out with you so much, I’ll tell them you’re tutoring me—okay?” Again, his tone tells me it’s not okay. That’s he’s angry with me for asking him to lie.
“Okay.” I nod, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I gave the money back to your dad,” I say, shaking my head when he opens his mouth to argue with me about it. “I’m not taking your parent’s money for something you obviously don’t need.”
“You did the work, whether I needed it or not,” he argues. “You earned that money.” He nods like it’s been decided. “I’ll talk to my dad. He’ll agree with—”
“No, Conner. It’s non-negotiable.”
His jaw tightens again, his mouth set at a stubborn angle that makes me think he’s going to keep arguing, but he doesn’t. “Will you still come over?” He actually looks worried that I’ll say no. Like he has no trouble believing that the only reason I spent time with him is because I was getting paid.
“Yes. But you can’t do that again.” I hold up a hand to stop him from talking when he opens his mouth. “You can’t lie to me. Manipulate me, just to get what you want. It’s not fair.”
Again, he looks pained. Uncomfortable. Like he isn’t sure where to step. What to say. I have a feeling it’s something he’s not used to. That he’s out of his depth. Finally, he nods. “Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I stand there, unsure of what to do or say next, while he watches me from his seat on the bed in front of me. “Are we dating?”
His face softens. “Yes.”
“What happens now?”
“You come over here and sit next to me.” He must see the panic on my face becau
se he laughs. “I just want you to sit with me. That’s it. You can even open the door first if you want.”
“What if Declan sees us?” I say, exploring all possible contingencies. “What if he—”
“He won’t say anything,” Conner says, shaking his head. “He’s has secrets too.”
I want to ask what that means, but I don’t. Instead, I do what he asks. I open his bedroom door. I make my way back to his bed and sit down on its edge, awkwardly shifting across it until we’re sitting side-by-side, shoulders leaned against the wall.
“What’s next?” I say softly, glancing up to find Conner looking down at me, an odd expression on his face.
“How do you feel about Celtic poetry?” he whispers, leaning into me slightly, close enough to make me dizzy, but other than his shoulder and hip pressed against mine, he doesn’t touch me.
I suddenly find myself wanting him to. I realize it’s something I’ve wanted all along but never thought about. Never let myself think about.
I want Conner to touch me.
Kiss me.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, looking up at him. I don’t know anything right now except that somehow, I’m with Conner Gilroy. For some reason, he likes me. Wants to be with me. I feel like someone’s flung me off a cliff. Like I’m falling, too fast and too far, to ever hope to save myself.
“Then that’s what’s next,” he says with a grin, opening the book in his lap to the page he left off. “We find out.”
Twenty-nine
Conner
2009
May
“Are you listening?”
I look up from her foot to find Henley watching me over the top of the book she’s reading from, a look of puzzled amusement on her face.
It’s Sunday, and somehow, I managed to talk her into the backyard hammock. We’re laying on opposite ends, my feet bracketing her shoulders, hers resting on my stomach. My mom is across the yard behind me, digging in her garden and my dad and Declan are in the house watching the Sox game.
“Yes,” I tell her, turning her bare foot in my hand so I can study the cluster of spots on the inside of her ankle. “How many freckles do you have?”
She glowers at me. “You’re not listening.”
“Sure I am,” I tell her and I am—for the most part. Usually, I’m able to concentrate with laser-sharp focus on any number of tasks simultaneously. Like everything else, being with Henley changes that. She distracts me. Makes it hard for me to see my way past her.
I like it. The way she muddles me. Smooths me out. I’ve come to depend on it.
On her.
Us.
Probably too much, but I don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, I want to tease Henley about her freckles. Make her laugh.
“How many?” I pull her toes apart and look between them. Yup. She’d got them there too. “Rough estimate.”
“Too many.” She lays her book on her chest and wriggles her toes between my fingers. “I’ve got them everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” I say it in a low tone, stroking my thumb along the curve of her ankle bone, casting my gaze up the length of her bare leg, following the trail of freckles that disappear under the frayed hem of her shorts.
“Conner,” Her mouth falls open for a moment, shooting a look over my shoulder to see if my mom is paying attention.
“What?” I say, giving her an innocent smile.
“You can’t say things like that,” she whispers, shaking her head at me.
“Why not?” I say, pretending to be confused. “It’s an honest question.” I give her a shrug. “One I think deserves an honest answer—do you have freckles everywhere?”
That tongue of hers darts out and licks my favorite freckle. The one near the corner of her mouth that straddles her upper lip line. Eyes wide, she nods her head. “Yes, I have them… everywhere,” she tells me, her voice held just above a whisper before she clears her throat and tries to pull her foot out of my hand. “They’re gross.”
“Gross isn’t the word I’d use to describe your freckles, Henley,” I tell her, my grin slipping into something a little less innocent, tightening my grip on her ankle.
She gives up and laughs at me, shaking her head. “You might be the weirdest guy I’ve ever met.”
“I like what I like,” I tell her with a shrug. “I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“Like what?”
“Like you. Like your freckles.” I wrap my hand around her ankle, tugging her deeper into the hammock. “I’d like to count them someday,” I tell her. “I’d start with this one, right here.” I point to a random spot on her toe. “And I’d stop with the one behind your left ear.”
“I have one behind my left ear?” Her hand comes up, finger brushing against her earlobe.
“Yup,” I tell her, flashing her my dimples. “It happens to be one of my favorites.”
“You have favorite freckles?” she says, half incredulous, half scandalized, like she doesn’t believe what I’m saying, but she wants me to keep lying her anyway.
“I do.” I draw the pad of my thumb along the slope of her foot, and she does it again, the tip of her tongue peeks out to touch the freckle on her mouth.
My freckle.
“There’s the one behind your ear,” I say, wiggling my big toe against her neck and she laughs, batting at it like it’s a fly. “Then there’s the one on the inside of your right wrist—it’s a cluster of them, really—shaped like Mickey Mouse.” I watch while she lifts her arm and turns it to examine the spot I indicated. She frowns.
“But my absolute favorite is the one on your upper lip,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “You lick it every time you think about kissing me.”
Her eyes go wide. “I do not.”
“Yeah, you do.” One corner of my mouth kicks higher than the other. “You just did it.” I’m teasing her. It’s my new favorite thing to do. I love the way she blushes. Pretends to get annoyed. The truth is, we’ve doing this for weeks now and I still haven’t kissed her yet. I want to. I want to do more than just kiss her. That’s the problem.
With girls like Jessica, it was easy. Casual. It didn’t really matter because I didn’t really care.
There’s nothing easy or casual about Henley. The way I feel about her. I want to kiss her so bad, half the time I can’t even see straight, but I want to spend time with her even more. I’m afraid if I try to kiss her, I’ll screw it all up.
Scare her off.
So, I behave. Tread carefully.
For the most part.
Sometimes, like right now, I can’t help myself. Probably because times like this are the only times I can get a good read on how I make her feel.
Her mouth falls open again, her gaze jerks up, landing on mine. Her breath fast and shallow in her chest.
“Hey, Hen, Tess is here looking for you.”
I look up to see Declan standing on the back porch, Tess beside him, mouth hanging open like she just saw Bigfoot.
A second later, Henley is jumping out of the hammock so fast she nearly dumps us both on our asses.
She didn’t tell Tess about us.
I know she doesn’t want people to know, but the fact that she didn’t tell her best friend bothers me.
A secret boyfriend is something a girl would share with her best friend, right?
Before I can even untangle myself and stand up, she’s snagged her beat-up shoes from the grass and is pounding her way up the porch steps. “See you later, Mrs. Gilroy,” she shouts over her shoulder. “Bye,” she adds at the end, her gaze darting in my direction without landing as she’s pushing past Declan to snatch Tess by her wrist. She practically runs into the house, dragging Tess along with her. A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam shut while my brother stands on the porch and laughs at me.
Bye.
That’s what I get.
Bye.
She doesn’t even look at me.
Doesn’t even say my name.
Thirty
Henley
2017
I leave before Conner has the chance to throw me out again, reminding myself that he’s not the reason I’m here. Not really. It may have started that way, sailing the Hudson with Jeremy and his boyfriend on a Sunday afternoon. He and Jeremy are careful in public. To the outside observer, Gregg is my flamboyantly gay bestie. Jeremy is my heterosexual, but tolerant boyfriend. They’ve been together for three years and have had the kind of relationship everyone dreams of.
“You need to get laid before we do this thing,” Gregg said, looking up at me from where he was sunning himself on the deck.
“Our girl is saving herself for someone special,” Jeremy said, giving me a sly smile. “What’s his name? Carter? Conrad?”
“Conner.” His name slipped out like it’d been there all along, poised on the end of my tongue. “His name is Conner.”
“That’s right,” Jeremy pats me on my arm like a spinster aunt. “Conner. Our girl has been in love with him since before I met her.”
I smile, remembering. It’s what made our arrangement work. How we were able to fake a 10-year relationship. Jeremy is gay, and I’m in love with someone I can never have. We’re fake perfect for each other.
We’ve hatched all our best schemes on that boat. Our fake relationship to hide the fact he’s gay from his ultra-conservative family when we were seventeen. The fake pregnancy scare that became the talk of our social circle when we were eighteen. Our fake marriage to save his trust fund when we were twenty-five.
We decided on a long engagement. An iron-clad pre-nump because his father will insist. A huge, lavish wedding because his mother will want it. We’ll start to display marital problems halfway through year three. I’ll discover he’s cheating on me a few months later, triggering the infidelity clause in the pre-nump. We’ll see a therapist to try to save our marriage, and it’ll work for a while. Year four will be wonderful, but another round of cheating in year five will shatter the illusion of our fairytale romance. Disillusioned and heartbroken, I’ll file for divorce.
It’s all planned, down to the day.