Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bryan
Truittism Number 19: In the event of total catastrophe, Boots-on-Couch can be just as—if not more valuable than—Boots-on-Ground.
The sun is in my eyes. It slips through the crack of space where the blinds end and the windowsill begins, stealthily creeping across the carpeted floor, seeking out the delicate tissue of my eyelids.
Why, why, why haven’t I spent the money on the stupid blackout blinds yet?
I do what I always do—I squeeze my eyes shut against the burning glare. I’m almost back over that line between asleep and awake when I feel a shift in the energy of the room. Someone has come in, very quietly, disturbing the stagnant air around me.
“What is it, Helen?” I mutter hoarsely.
She waits so long to reply that I force myself to open my eyes and look up at her. What I expect to see is her bright red mouth, puckered with disdain. Instead, I see her bright blue eyes, weighted heavily with concern.
“I’m worried about you,” she says at last. “Why aren’t you sleeping at home? You can’t be comfortable here…”
With considerable effort, I drag myself up into a sitting position, coughing and snarfing as I rub my eyes.
“I’m more comfortable here,” I inform her. “Besides, I’ve been working so late, it’s just easier to stay here than drive home.”
She perches on the arm of one of the chairs facing me, watching as I run my hands through my hair.
“Bryan, you can’t go on like this. It’s been almost a month since you got back, and it’s like you’re a zombie. You just go from meeting to meeting. Where’s your fire—your excitement? What happened to getting what you want?”
“You don’t understand, Helen,” I start with some frustration. “There isn’t anything here that I want. Ever since…”
“Her.”
I don’t respond; I just give her a long, hard stare before leaning forward and putting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I haven’t had a drink in weeks, so why do I wake up every day feeling like I’ve got a hangover? My first days back in California were agonizing. Everywhere I looked, I found myself disgusted by the glitz and glamour. I’ve adapted a little better as time’s gone on, but still, nothing feels real to me anymore. Helen’s right, I’m just going through the motions of my business dealings as if I’m on autopilot. Iowa, Missouri, Idaho.
“Bryan, I’m going to give you a piece of advice—and it’s not some cookie-cutter platitude that I pulled out of a self-help book, okay?” When I don’t respond, she continues. “There are a lot of jobs out there—a lot of opportunities. If one doesn’t come along today, it’ll likely come tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. But love is a different animal. There are no guarantees that it’ll come at all. And if it does—and you let it go—there are certainly no guarantees that there will be another chance at it. Ever.” She pauses, and I glance up to see her pained expression. Clearly this is not an easy conversation for her to have with me, so I sit up and give her my full, respectful attention—as she deserves.
“You let it go,” I say quietly.
She nods.
“I did. I was young and foolish and thought I had all the time in the world. I didn’t, Bryan. And love has never darkened my doorstep again…despite all my hopes and prayers. But here’s the thing—I knew while there was still time to make it right, but I was just too damn proud to ask him to try again. And I know in my heart that he would have.”
I know what she’s saying to me—it’s about as subtle as a frying pan to the head. And yet, somehow, I need to hear it.
“You think I should go back to Mayhem.”
“I think you should go back to Hennessy O’Halloran. You need to make her hear you. And when she’s listening—really listening, Bryan—you have to tell her how you feel about her. You have to show her your heart. It’s big and strong and there’s more than enough room for her inside it. But you have to make her hear you.”
“And how do you propose I do that? You don’t know this woman—”
She shakes her head, and the orange, cotton-candy hair wafts from side to side with the motion.
“I don’t need to know her, because I know you. Do you love her, Bryan?”
I actually gasp at the question. It’s an involuntary response, but an honest one. I can’t say it, so I just nod.
“All right, then. What are you waiting for?” she demands.
I swallow hard.
“What…what if she doesn’t want me, Helen?” I ask in a voice barely above a whisper.
Helen considers me for a long moment and then gives me a soft, bittersweet smile.
“She may not, honey. But, believe me, the reward is worth the risk. And if you don’t, you’ll be stuck in this limbo for the rest of your life wondering ‘what if?’ Trust me on this. Do not wait another minute. Go to her. Now.”
I stand up, moved by her call to action. She’s right—I’m done with sitting around and waiting for the next thing to happen to me. Professionally, I’m a go-getter. I don’t flinch from anyone or anything. I take risks all the time without giving them a second thought. I suppose now it’s time to adopt some of that into my personal life.
“All right,” I say slowly. “I’ll do it. But where do I even start?”
Helen jumps up and is talking to me over her shoulder even as she’s moving toward the door and her desk out in the vestibule.
“You start at the beginning. Go home and pack up your parka. I’ll have you in Mayhem before midnight,” she calls back to me.
I take a deep breath and nod to myself. Time to roll the dice with Hennessy O’Halloran again. Only this time, the stakes are much higher than a piece of property. This time, it’s a piece of my soul that hangs in the balance.
…
It’s exactly ten thirty when I pull into the driveway of the O’Halloran home. I tried both the pub and the apartment upstairs with no luck. I considered going to Jameson’s house, but the thought of dealing with Win is more than I can stomach right now. There are a few different cars in the driveway, one of them with a baby seat, so maybe she’s here anyway.
“Who is it?” a gruff voice demands after I ring the bell.
“Walker? It’s me. It’s Bryan Truitt.”
There’s a long pause from the other side of the door until finally it opens with a loud creak.
“Why are you here?” she asks suspiciously.
“Walker? Who is it?” I hear Jameson call out from inside the house. So she is here, then.
“I’m looking for Hennessy. Can I please come in? It’s freezing out here.”
For a second I’m sure she’s going to slam the door in my face. Instead, she slowly opens it, and I step into the entryway.
“Walker? Who’s here at this—” Jameson stops short when she comes around the corner to find me standing there.
“Bryan,” she breathes softly, her green eyes growing large with surprise.
“I’m looking for Hennessy. Is she here?” I repeat before I lose my courage and turn my butt around.
“No,” Jameson says, shaking her head.
“I went to the apartment,” I explain, “and she didn’t answer. Is she there?”
“No.”
I sigh with exasperation.
“Jameson, I really need to speak with her. Can you please just tell me where she is? It’s important.”
“I can’t, ” she begins softly. “I mean…she’s not here. She went back to the Twin Cities a few weeks ago.”
“Wait, wait, wait…I’m confused. I thought she was going to quit.”
“Well, you might as well come the rest of the way inside,” Walker grumbles, moving to shut the front door behind me. I follow the sisters through the living room, where the red-headed menace, Jackson, is sound asleep in a playpen, and into the kitchen, where the blond-headed menace, Bailey, is stirring a pot of hot chocolate on the stove.
“Bryan!” she squeals, dropping the wooden spoon onto the stove with a dull thunk and throwing herself at me for a hug. “I knew it! I knew you’d come back!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Walker interjects. “Let’s not get so chummy just yet. What do you want?”
I extricate myself from the youngest of the Whiskey Sisters and sit down at the kitchen table, not even bothering to take my coat off. I want to hit the ground running as soon as I find out what’s going on here.
“Okay, so…what happened? She told me she wanted to quit her job and stay here in Mayhem. Why’d she go back to St. Paul?”
Jameson and Walker exchange glances.
“What?” I demand. “What is it?”
“The pub. That’s what happened,” Walker spits at me. “Dude! What’d you think? She was going to just hang around and watch you level the place?”
Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone?
“What are you talking about? I’m not doing anything to the pub. I don’t own it.”
They exchange glances again, but this time their faces are etched with confusion. Yeah, welcome to the club, ladies. Jameson is the first one to respond.
“But the purchase was anonymous…and the buyer gave us permission to keep doing business until all the paperwork cleared. I mean, we just assumed it was you.”
“You mean it wasn’t you?” Bailey asks, looking crestfallen.
“Bailey, I tried. I wanted to buy it and give it back to you. But the trustee wouldn’t accept my offer, no matter how high I bid. So, no, it wasn’t me. I’m sorry about that.”
And I am. More than I can say.
“And what about that fraud thing? Was that really just your father?” Walker asks suspiciously. Obviously someone, at some point, told the O’Hallorans what really went down in my past.
“Yes, it really was just my father. He— You know, this is really hard to say, and that’s why I don’t. Say it, I mean. I don’t volunteer this information. Not just because I’m afraid people will suspect me of being complicit in the whole thing, but also because I’m embarrassed and ashamed. But you deserve to know the truth. My father hurt a lot of people, and then he tried to raise reasonable doubt in court by implicating me. We have the same name. Or, rather, we had the same name. I changed it the second I was exonerated, and then I got as far away from him as I could.”
While the three women seem to consider this, I hear a cry from the living room.
“Uh, Win’s out of town—again,” Jameson says, “and I decided to stay over here tonight. Poor Jackson’s not used to so much commotion this late at night.”
She starts to get to her feet, but I wave her away, jumping out of my chair.
“Where’s my buddy?” I call out as I lope over to his playpen, suddenly eager to see the little terror.
The moment he sees me, Jackson’s eyes grow wide with excitement. Is it possible he recognizes me after all these weeks? Do kids his age retain stuff like that?
“Brybry Dooooooooosssshhhh!!!!”
I guess so.
The kid’s squeal is so piercing that I find it painful to get close enough to pick him up.
“Hey, little man! Boy, it’s good to see you,” I murmur, holding him close to me. I nearly stop breathing when I feel him rest his tiny head on my shoulder and pat my arm.
When I turn around toward the kitchen, I find all three women standing there, staring at me. I give the child a hug and pass him to his mother.
“Look,” I say, meeting their eyes in turn. “I don’t know if it’s right that I tell you this before I tell her…but I love Hennessy. And I don’t want to spend another night away from her.”
“She’s going to Boston,” Bailey blurts and is punished with an elbow to the ribs from Walker. “Hey! Cut it out! He wants to be with her, and we all know she’s unhappy. Let him go talk to Henny, and let her decide for herself.”
“Wait, wait, wait. She’s going to Boston? Why? When?” I ask, my head spinning with this new development.
“She has a friend from law school who opened up a firm out there, and he’s been wanting her to come join him for ages. She decided she needed a fresh start.”
“And when is this fresh start supposed to happen?” I ask quietly.
For a second no one answers my question. Crap. That’s not a good sign.
“Tomorrow,” Bailey says at last. “She’s moving tomorrow.”