Twenty-five

 

Conner

 

Watching her leave, I think about the last timeI saw her. Really saw her. Standing in the middle of the street while her mother shoved her into the back of a sleek, black town car. The same black Town Car we watched her mother get out of a few months before. Henley didn’t look around for help. She didn’t fight or push her mother’s hand away. She didn’t cry or fight when she saw me.

She just looked right through me.

There were plenty of people watching. Ryan stood a few feet away from them, his face as still as stone. Hands and arms lank and lax at his sides. Mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. Kids from school, openly staring. Their parents, whispering to each other behind their hands. Mr. C and Tess. I can feel my own mom and dad behind me. Declan. Everyone is there, watching her get taken and no one does a thing.

I feel myself moving before I even realize it. I can’t let her leave. That’s all I remember thinking. I can’t let her leave. Beyond that, there’s nothing.

And then she shakes her head at me, the barest of movements, telling me no. My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. My ribs crumbling to dust. I’m being buried alive by my own bones, and she’s telling me no. Keeping me at arms’ length. Away from her because someone might see.

Know that I love her.

And that’s not allowed.

I didn’t chase her then, and I don’t chase her now. I want to, but I don’t.

“Am I seeing shit, or did Henley O’Connell just punch you in the mouth?”

I look up to find Patrick standing over me, a bottle of Jameson in one hand a couple of glasses in the other. The question has me momentarily panicked. I’m about to ask him how he recognized her, then I remember that he’s the only person I told that she was coming.

“That was her,” I say, touching the tip of my tongue to the corner of my lip. I taste blood. Wince at the sting. “Don’t let the crown jewels fool you—she hasn’t changed much.” Even as I say it, I know that’s not true. Sliding the paperback off the table, I jam it into my back pocket while Cap’n pours a couple of fingers into each glass before sliding into the seat Henley just vacated.

“You alright?” he says, tipping his glass toward him to stare at his whiskey.

The way I feel about Henley has never been a secret, and neither is the fact that losing her took me apart and put me back together wrong. Having her gone made that easy for everyone to ignore. Made it easy for me to pretend that who I am now is who I’ve always been.

Staring her in the face, eight years later makes it impossible to keep believing the lie.

So, no.

I’m not alright.

“Dandy, Cap’n,” I say, lifting my glass to my mouth to drain its contents, liking the sting of it when it hits the cut on my lip. “I’m fuckin’ dandy.”

 

My shop is only a few blocks from the bar, so the walk home only takes a couple of minutes. Even before I see it, I can hear it. Tools clanging against the cement floor. The heavy clank of the hoist chain. The phone ringing. Tess’s questionable music choices floating through the open bay door.

Once it comes into view, I feel a momentary swell of pride. The sign above the door says Gilroy’s Garage. It’s mine. I earned it, and no one can take it away from me.

I remember the doorknob-sized ring Henley hit me with, and that sense of pride falls flat. I could own a hundred grease-pits, and I’d never be able to afford to give her something like that.

“Hey,” Tess calls out from under the Chevy in the main bay as soon as she sees my boots. A moment later she pokes her head out from under the truck. “You’ve got company—think it’s your whale. Tried to get rid of her for you but she won’t leave.”

I immediately look to my left. Sure enough, there’s Henley. She’s perched on an upturned crate inside my cramped office, hands clutched around her purse, looking like she’s afraid to touch anything.

I look down at Tess to see if she’s fucking with me. She and Henley had been best friends until Henley moved away. No shit-eating grin. No smothered urge to laugh. No what the fuck were you thinking glare. Tess has no idea the woman waiting for me is Henley. The fact that she didn’t recognize her made me feel better.

“What happened to your face?”

Without thinking, I reach up and touch my mouth. Swollen. Cut. Probably bruised. “How long has she been here?”

The curiosity upticks into mild concern. “About a half-hour. What happened to your face?”

“Take the rest of the day off,” I say to Tess without answering her question.

“What?” Tess says. “No. The Chevy is scheduled for a 10 AM pick-up tomorrow, and you’re gonna need—”

I hook the toe of my boot around the frame of the creeper she’s on and pull Tess from under the Chevy. I finally look down at her. “Take the rest of the afternoon off, Tess.”

She stands before dividing a look between me and Henley who notices us looking at her through the window like she’s an exhibit at the zoo. “Was it her husband?”

I tear my gaze from Henley and fix it on Tess.

“What?”

“Little Orphan Annie in there—” Tess tips her chin in Henley’s direction. “Was it her husband who wrecked that pretty face of yours?”

“He’s not her husband yet,” I say, way more defensive than I have a right to be. “And no. She did it.”

Tess’s sharp hazel eyes go wide. “The hell you say,” she says before letting out a sharp, one note laugh. “That lady hit you?”

“See you tomorrow, Tess,” I say, taking the socket wrench out of her hand before pulling her coveralls open to reveal her usual tank top and jeans underneath.

“You’re usually smarter than this, Con,” she tells me, stepping out of them while craning her neck so she can see into the office over my shoulder. “I’ve never known you to bring your work home with you.”

“Haha,” I say, stooping over to pick up her discarded coveralls. “Work home with me… I get it.” I wad them into a ball and throw them in the corner with the rest of them. “It’s funny because I’m a whore, right?”

My tone must’ve been sharper than I thought because Tess stops in her tracks. “That’s not what I mean,” she says even though we both know it’s exactly what she meant.

“It’s fine,” I tell her, even though it doesn’t feel fine. It feels like shit. I take a quick look through the office window. Henley’s standing now, watching our exchange. “Tomorrow morning, okay?” I smile at Tess, trying to reassure her.

“Okay,” she says, casting another, decidedly more wary look over my shoulder before pressing her lips to my cheek in a very un-Tess like move that was half apology, half warning to the woman standing behind us. “See you tomorrow.”

As soon as she’s gone, I climb onto the creeper and wheel myself under the Chevy to finish the oil change Tess started. About five minutes into it, I hear the click of Henley’s heels coming toward me.

“You didn’t tell Tess who you are either, I take it?” I say as soon as the clicking stops.

“No,” she says over the whisper of silk like she’s nervous and fidgeting. “I have the feeling you don’t want people to know.” She sounds hurt by it, and I’m glad. I’m glad she knows what it’s like to be kept a secret. How shitty it feels.

“Do you live here?” she says, making an awkward attempt at small talk.

“Yup,” I say, thinking about my cramped apartment above my equally cramped office.

“Do you work for Tess’s dad?” she says, and even though I have the feeling she already knows the answer, I play along—because really, I don’t want to have this conversation any more than she does.

“I bought the place a few years back,” I say, fitting the socket wrench over the lug nut. “Tess works for me.”

“That must be hard for her,” Henley says. “I know she always figured this place would be hers someday.”

Hard for Tess. It’d devastated her, although she never said a word about it beyond a tight smile when I made the offer and a terse, I’m glad it’s you. Remembering it makes me feel bad. Like I stole something from her. I talk shit about Cap’n and his reluctance to take the money my dad gave him but to be honest, I know exactly how he feels.

“Look, I’ll cast a few lines,” I say without looking in her direction. “There’re only a few bars left in the neighborhood that still let him belly up so finding your old man shouldn’t be too hard.” Now I’m being an asshole on purpose, trying to make her feel bad by reminding her that her father is a lowlife drunk, but I can’t help it. I want her to feel as shitty about herself as I do.

“That’s not why I’m here,” she says it quietly, and I finally look over to see a pair of nude pumps about six inches from my face. I can see a light smattering of freckles trail along her ankle bone. They’re faint but not as faint as the ones on her face. The contrast makes me wonder what she did to herself to get rid of them.

Her freckles. Her nose. Her teeth. Her hair. Nothing is the same. None of it is her. It should make it easier for me to stay away from her. Keep her away from me. Instead, I find myself inviting her in.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I say while I pull the lid to the oil pan and set it aside. “Why are you here?

“I’d like to apologize.”

“You already did that,” I tell her even though I feel like I’m the one who should be apologizing to her.

“I’d like to do it again.” She sighs quietly. “And I’d like to explain… about last night.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” I tell her, trying to let us both off the hook. “We both had a good time so let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

“Please, Conner.”

I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the way she says my name. Maybe it’s the word please. Whatever it is, it pushes me out from under the Chevy, and I find her standing over me, face angled down, her long fall of straight auburn hair casting shadows across her face. “I’m listening,” I tell her. Instead of speaking she reaches down and offers me a hand up. The ring I’d seen there earlier is gone.

“Did you get mugged or something?” I say, taking her hand before she has a chance to pull it back.

“Mugged?” she says like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “What—oh.” She turns her hand in my grip. “No.” She pulls me up, taking a cautious step back while fumbling in her purse to pull out a ridiculous lace-edged handkerchief. “It’s not even mine, really—”

“Not yet, right?” I say, throwing her earlier words in her face while I take the handkerchief from her and stuff it into the front pocket of my coveralls. “You said you want to explain.” I pull a worn bandana from my back pocket and start to rub at the dark smudges my hand left on her knuckles. “So, explain.”

“I took an earlier train,” Henley says, chewing on her bottom lip for a second before shaking her head. “I… I wanted—”

“How ‘bout we skip to the part where you came into the bar and failed to say, hey, Conner, it’s me, Henley before you let me bend you over the fucking desk.” I pull her hand toward me, focusing on its palm. “You lied to me.”

“I never lied.” Her fingers curl inward, making a fist around mine. “I manipulated, but I never lied.”

“I fail to see the difference.” I turn her hand over. “I also fail to understand your reasoning. Why would you—”

“Would you’ve done… that if I told you who I was?” She talks over me, voice raised and insistent. “Would you have bent me over that desk if you’d known it was me?”

“No.” I tell her the truth, all my attention focused on getting my filth off her hand. Suddenly, I can’t scrub hard enough. Can’t get her clean enough.

“That’s why I lied.”

I hear something in her tone that jerks my gaze upward. Anger. Hurt. Acceptance. I look up to tell her how wrong she was. How stupid and reckless, but then she does it. That pink tongue of hers pushes between her lips to touch the spot on her upper lip where her freckle used to be.

My freckle.

My wayward cock responds immediately.

“I’m not doing this. I need you to leave.” I let go of her hand, all but tossing it back at her. “Right now.”

“Why?” Now she looks like she sounds. Wounded. Angry. For some reason, I think about the night I kissed her. The night she offered her virginity to me. She looked just like this when I told her no. How did I not recognize her last night?

Maybe you did. Maybe she’s not the only liar in this little equation, huh, fuckface? Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing and who you were doing it to.

“Leave.” I turn away from her, stuffing my bandana into my pocket as I walk away. Hell, let’s be honest, I’m not walking. I’m running.

“I was good enough to fuck last night,” she calls after me. “But now that you know it’s me, you can’t stand the thought?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Daisy,” I toss over my shoulder. “I forgot about it before it even happened.”

I know what I’m doing.

I’m protecting myself by hurting her. It’s a shitty, selfish thing to do but I’m protecting her too. She has no idea what she walked into with me. What she’s asking for.

“Then what are you objecting to, exactly? Rich girls?” she shouts. “Redheads?”

I finally turn, nailing her with a glare I hope to Christ will get my message across. “Repeats.”

She squares her shoulders and looks me dead in the eye, even though that ugly red flush is creeping up her neck. “What if I paid you?”