by Megyn Ward
Yeah, I know it’s weird. That I shouldn’t stare at her. That it’s not normal, the way I can’t seem to look away, but I don’t care. I’m too busy capturing and cataloging every minute detail of her in front of me. Every freckle. Every expression. The way the late afternoon sun steams through the window and sets her hair on fire. The fact that she’s taken her shoes off and left them somewhere. That she’ll spend twenty minutes trying to find them before she leaves. I want to trap it all. Keep ahold of it so I can remember.
The time Henley brought me cookies.
“You’re staring again.” She says it without even looking at me and I grin because she doesn’t sound upset. She doesn’t sound like it bothers her.
“Sorry.”
Her brow crumples slightly and she scoffs at me. “No you’re not.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m not.”
Even though she’s not looking at me, I catch the hint of a smile.
“What are you reading?”
She lifts the book to show me the cover. East of Eden by John Steinbeck. “I know, I know…” she drops the book back into her lap and shakes her head. “The Grapes of Wrath is better.” She rolls her eyes like she thinks I’m full of shit and I can’t help but laugh.
“It is better.” I grin at her and shake my head. Steinbeck has been the subject of many debates between us “East of Eden isn’t even original—it’s a parable for the Cain and Able story.”
She scoffs at me. “No story is original, Conner. Originality doesn’t come from plot. Originality comes from prose. Voice.”
“Prose?” I laugh out loud. A real laugh. One that doesn’t feel shitty or like I’m trying to hurt her with it. “Did they teach you that fancy word at Sara Lawrence?”
She narrows her eyes at me, cheeks flushed, but I can tell she isn’t mad. Not really. “As a matter of fact, they did, Dr. Gilroy.”
And that’s what we do. We talk about books. Argue. Laugh. Agree. Tease. Until she’s somehow migrated her way to where I’m sitting, and she’s got her head on my shoulder and I’m reading to her.
“I miss this.”
I stop reading and look down at her to find her mouth inches away from mine, dark brown eyes wide and unsure.
“Me too.” My voice sounds heavy. Low. My gaze dips to her mouth and I watch as the tip of her tongue brushes along her upper lip, licking her freckle.
My freckle.
“I want...” I wait for it, my heart pounding in my ears, mouth so dry, it feels like I’m chewing on sand. Whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her.
Anything for Henley.
Anything.
Even if it means ripping out my own heart and serving to her on a silver platter.
“I want to start over.”
I feel my face fold in on itself a little. “What?” I don’t know why or how she keeps surprising me. If I’ve learned anything about her over the years, it’s that she’s the one thing I can’t figure out. The one puzzle I can’t solve.
She licks her lips again and I have to swallow the groan that wells up in my throat. “I mean…” Her gaze darts away but she forces it back to mine. Keeps it there. “I did this wrong.” She shakes her head when I open my mouth to speak. “I—I thought what I wanted was a sexual relationship with you.”
“It’s not?” Jesus, I’m literally the smartest man, living on the Eastern seaboard and I can barely string two coherent words together to form a sentence. I open my mouth again. I have no idea what’s going to come out, but I open it, anyway. Again, she interrupts me.
“What I want is this.” She gestures a hand between us. “The way it used to be, before I messed everything up.”
Hearing her say it, I’m both hurt and relieved. How’s that for a total mindfuck.
“That was me.” The last place I want to be is here, having this conversation, but here is where I am and I’m not walking away without saying what I need to say. Not again. “I’m the one who forgot what this is and what it isn’t. I’m the one who jumped track and made everything weird. That’s on me, not you.”
“I’m not talking about the other night—” She sighs, shaking her head. “I’m talking about that night. When we were kids. The night I tried to get you to—”
I kiss her.
Lower my mouth to hers and turn toward her enough to slip my hand into her hair. Hold her to me because I’m afraid of what she’ll say if I let her go. I’m afraid she’s going to tell me that she never really wanted me. That she’d built up a silly fantasy of me in her head and the reality—the ridiculously fucked-up reality—of what I am wasn’t what she signed up for. So, I kiss her. Until her lids flutter shut and she sighs softly into my mouth because if she’s going to end this then I want something to hold on to. Something to remember.
The time I kissed Henley.
I feel the shift. This is it. The place where she goes warm and achy. Where I put my hands on her and she moans. Where I stretch her out on my floor and get her naked. Where I do everything and anything she wants me to do.
But, regardless of what her body is telling me, that’s not what she wants.
Not anymore.
I break the kiss, pulling away from her just enough to look her in the eye. “We’ll start over.” I smile at her. “Just—” I swallow hard to clear my throat. “Just friends, okay?” I say, even though it kills me.
Fifty-four days.
That’s all I have left.
Fifty-four days.
I don’t want to spend them fighting. Confused and angry. Feeling invisible. Feeling used.
Having her without being able to keep her.
Hoping for a miracle that will never come.
That she’ll choose me.
Stay with me.
“Okay.” She barely whispers it, her deep brown eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Her mouth soft and swollen from my kiss. “Just friends.”
Thirty-five
Henley
When I was a kid, I imagined being a librarian would consist of days filled with books. Shelving books. Helping people find the book they’re looking for. Checking out books.
The truth is that, while do those things on occasion, being a librarian consists of a lot of paperwork. Meetings. Applying grants. Getting your grant proposals rejected. Re-applying for grants.
Margo put me in charge of revitalizing the Teen Reading Center and so far, I’m doing a pretty dismal job of it. The budget I’ve been given is laughable. I’ve spent more on a single pay of shoes. The fact that I’m expected to turn a dusty, old corner of the library into a place where kids want to hang out with what basically amounts to pocket change is as frustrating as it is disheartening. I’ve been staring at my computer screen for over an hour, trying to come up with some ideas but everything costs money. Money I don’t have. I’ve forgotten what being poor feels like. I’m ashamed to say I don’t miss the feeling.
At all.
Giving up with a sigh, I close down my computer and gather my stuff. Slinging my purse strap over my shoulder, I shut off my lights and lock my door. Waving to the other librarians, I make my way to the elevator. Staff offices are on the second floor, sandwiched between the main floor of the library and third-floor reference.
As usual, thinking about the third-floor makes me think about Conner. Thinking about Conner sends a rush of warmth skating down my spine where it spreads through my belly. Settles between my thighs.
Shifting uncomfortably, I chew on my lower lip. Suddenly, lack of funding isn’t the only thing I’m frustrated about.
It’s Thursday and I haven’t so much as heard a peep from Conner since that Sunday afternoon at his parents’ house. After he kissed me, it was like he flipped some sort of internal switch and that was it. Whatever had been happening between us was over.
Declan and Patrick showed up and we all ate dinner together. We laughed and joked. He told his mother about the day I chipped my tooth and even though I shouldn’t be, I’m surprised and strangely touched that he remembers every
detail. Seems almost proud when he tells her about the way I knocked him off the plate and won the game.
After dinner, his mom stood up and started to gather dishes and like he always did, Conner’s dad took them from her and said, nope, that’s my job. I looked at Conner when he said it to find him watching me, his expression telling me he’s remembering the same thing I am. The day he showed up at my apartment and I made him pancakes. The day he fucked me in front of the window and asked me if he could stay.
The day I told him no.
Then he blinks, and the memory is gone. He gives me one of his cocky grins. Then he stands up and helps his dad clear the table.
When I left, he and his dad were cleaning the kitchen, elbow deep in dishes, rinsing them off while his dad loaded them into the dishwasher. I gave Mr. Gilroy a hug and thanked him for having me over. He laughed at me and told me to stop thanking him.
“Goodbye, Conner,” I say, feeling awkward and a little ridiculous considering what we’ve been doing together when no one else is looking. But that’s over now. Conner and I are friends.
Just friends.
And friends say goodbye to each other when one of them leaves.
“See you around.” He shoots me a quick smile over his shoulder while he passes a dinner plate over to his dad, so he can load it into the dishwasher.
That was it.
That was the last thing he said to me.
See you around.
So yeah, I’m a little bit surprised when the elevator doors slide open and I find him leaning at the information desk, talking to Margo.
Holy shit, does he have to be so hot? Do I have to feel like I’m on the verge of a catastrophic event, every time I look at him?
The elevator doors start to close, and I scramble to get off of it before they shut in my face. Recovering, I smooth my hands down the front of my dress and take a deep breath before starting toward him.
Friends.
Just friends.
Like I said it out loud, Conner turns, mid-sentence, to look at me. As soon as he sees me, he straightens himself and says his goodbyes to Margo before leaving her behind the desk to meet me in the middle.
People are looking at us, but I’ve come to accept that people are going to always do that. We’re too different. He’s too beautiful. He seems oblivious to it, the way people look at him. I don’t think he’s oblivious at all. I think he’s just used to it.
Has learned to ignore it.
Pretend it doesn’t bother him.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt it out, my impulsivity staining my cheeks.
My blunt question quirks at the corner of his mouth. “Hello to you too.”
“I’m sorry.” His greeting stains my cheeks, admonishes me for being rude, whether he meant to or not. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just—”
“Wondering what I’m doing here?” he says, giving me another grin. “I got that.”
Shut up now, Henley. Just stop talking.
When I don’t say anything else, Conner shrugs. “I thought maybe you’d want to try seeing your dad again.”
Oh.
“But it’s Thursday.” Jesus, thank you Captain Obvious. I take a deep breath and start over. “I mean, don’t you have a shift at the bar?”
“I’m on hiatus,” he says, his tone telling me that it’s more than that. That he’s been benched and doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I can’t go like this.” I look down at my dress. My heels. The pearls Jeremy gave me for my twenty-first birthday. “I—”
“I’ll follow you home,” he says, his tone easy and reasonable. “You can change and then we can go.” I wait for him to give me an out. To tell me I don’t have to go if I don’t want to.
He doesn’t.
He knows what I’m doing. He knows me better than anyone. I’m afraid. I’m stalling and he’s doing what he’s always done for me.
He’s waiting for me to catch up.
Finally, I nod. “Okay. Let’s go see my dad.”
Thirty-six
Conner
I’m not sure why I’m pushing this. Why I want her to see her dad so bad. Maybe because there’s a small, black part of me that wants her to see what happened to him after she left. Maybe because I’m a complete asshole. Maybe because I haven’t seen her in four days and I’m on the verge of losing my goddamned mind.
Who the hell knows.
All I know is that I called my buddy, Logan, this afternoon and told him I needed to find Henley’s dad. I texted him a picture and he called me back forty-five minutes later, telling me where I can find him.
I also know that these past four days have been the hardest of my life. I keep fighting the urge to show up at the library while she’s working or at Gilroy’s when I know she’s there with Tess or on her doorstep in the middle of the night like a stray dog.
I want to be her friend. I want to give her what she wants but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to be around her without wanting to kiss her. Touch her. It was easier when we were kids because I didn’t know what doing those things to her felt like. I didn’t know what it was like to be inside her. What she sounds like when she comes. What it feels like to hold her while she sleeps.
So, yeah, I’ve been a fucking mess, these past four days. Wracking my brain, trying to figure out how to be around her without wanting her.
Which was stupid because I can’t. I know I can’t. I never could. Even when I was just a stupid kid, totally oblivious to all the ways she was going to fuck me up. So, that means I do what I do best.
I pretend to be someone else.
I pretend to be the guy who doesn’t love her.
Doesn’t want her.
I watch her cross the lobby through the passenger side window. She’s wearing jeans and boots. The kind of bulky sweater meant to hide what’s underneath. I’m sure, all told, the entire outfit cost more than I make in a month, but she’s ditched the diamonds and pearls.
“Hi.” She slides into the passenger seat next to me, giving me a nervous smile. I like to think she’s nervous about the fact that we’re about to go see her father and not the fact that she knows I’m about three seconds away from throwing my ride into park and dragging her into the backseat.
“Hey.” I let my gaze coast over her. Freckled face scrubbed clean of make-up. Hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. Cheeks pink from the crisp autumn air. Dark eyes wide and nervous.
One second, I’m fine. The next, I’m hard enough to break boulders with my cock. I look away from her, hoping against hope it’ll help me form more than one-syllable words. Because right how that’s all I’m working with. Words like fuck.
Lick.
Come.
Kiss.
“Are we going to go somewhere or…”
Shit. Right. I clear my throat and shoot her a quick scowl. “As soon as you put on your seatbelt,” I say, like that’s the reason we haven’t moved and not the fact that I can’t decide of I want to take her to see her dad or if I want to take her home and—
You’re not taking her home, genius. That’s not what she wants, remember?
“Oh.” She looks down at herself and blushes. “Sorry.” Reaching behind her, she draws the seatbelt across her chest and clicks its buckle into place before looking up at me with a smile. “Ready for takeoff.”
Shifting into drive, I pull out of the lot and head south. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. She doesn’t try to make small talk. She just leans her head back on her seat and watches Fenway slip past her through the window. I’m starting to wonder if she fell asleep when she finally speaks.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” This could end horribly, but what the hell.
“Why did you hang out at the library when you were a kid?”
I laugh out loud, the question bizarre enough to force me to look at her. “What?”
She blushes and shakes her head. “Margo put me in charge of revitalizing th
e Teen Reading Center at the library and I’m at a serious loss and the budget I have to work with is laughable.” She sounds genuinely distressed. “I’ve never been in touch with what teenagers—even when I was a teenager—I…” she finally runs out of steam and sighs. “I want to do this right. I want to build something important before I—”
Before I leave.
That’s what she was going to say.
Before I leave.
“It’s where you were,” I tell her, cutting her off because I can’t listen to her say it. I just can’t.
“Excuse me?”
“You asked me why I hung out at the library when I was a kid. That’s my answer.” I flash her my dimples. No matter how many times I say it, she’ll never stop being surprised when I tell her how I feel about her. It’s both endearing and infuriating. “Because it’s where you were.”
“Oh…” she looks down at her hands, her cheeks stained a soft pink. “Well, I don’t think that’s going to help me much.”
“Probably not.” Letting the subject drop, I pull down a side street before turning down another narrow alleyway. Dead ahead is a dive called Willy’s. According to Logan, Jack’s been here since noon, slumped on a barstool, drinking his way through the better part of his disability check.
Seeing the building in front of us, Henley’s face loses some of its color. “Are you sure he’s in there?”
“Yeah.” I pull the car to a stop and kill the engine. “He’s in there.”
She nods. Takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly while rubbing her sweaty palms on the legs of her designer jeans. “How do I look?” She turns to look at me, her wide terrified and unsure. “I can’t do anything about my nose or my teeth, but I tried to—”
“I’d know you anywhere.”
When I say it, her expression softens, and she lets out a long, slow breath. Her hands stop their frenetic rubbing. Her shoulders relax under the bulk of her sweater. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“There’s nowhere else for me to be.” I give her a reassuring smile. “Ready?”