Twenty-eight

Henley

2009

April

This time I don’t hesitate. As soon as I’mplanted on his front porch, I raise my fist and knock loudly. After Conner left, I crawled back into bed, the piece of paper he gave me clutched in my hand, and stared out the window.

Ryan came home just before sunrise, unable to look me in the eye as he crawled through my window.

“Thanks, Hen,” he says, walking past me, heading straight for my bedroom door. He’ll go to his own room and sleep all day. If our father wakes up and needs to be dealt with, that’ll be my job.

I got dressed and sat on the end of my bed and watched the sunrise. As soon as it was light enough, I stuffed the paper Conner gave me into my pocket and left.

This time it’s Conner’s father who answers the door.

I can hear kitchen noises—the smell of bacon and coffee reminding that it’s early. Too early to be here.

Regardless, Mr. Gilroy looks glad to see me. “Henley,” he says, his voice deep and booming, face instantly split in two by a wide, genuine grin that quickly dies when he sees the bruise on my face. “Is everything okay?” This is a real father. I think it every time I see him. One who doesn’t smell like cheap liquor and sweat. One who works hard and loves his family. Takes care of his wife. Protects his children.

I don’t answer, I just reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope full of cash and hold it out to him.

He looks at it like he has no idea what it is.

“Mr. Gilroy,” I say, ignoring the slight tremor in my tone and what it means. “We both know Conner doesn’t need a calculus tutor.”

For a second, I’m sure he’s not going to take the money back, and I can feel my face tighten. My jaw setting itself at an odd angle. My eyes burn and tingle at their corners. Seeing I’m on the verge of tears, Mr. Gilroy snatches the money from me, like he’s hoping it’ll keep me from bursting into tears.

“I stand by what I said,” he tells me, feeding the money into his front pocket. “That boy of mine is as dumb as a box of doorknobs.”

I laugh. It’s a watery sound that will drown me if I let it. “Is he awake?” I say, carefully brushing my fingertips across my bruised cheek. “I’d like to talk to him.”

He opens the door wider, inviting me in. “He’s upstairs in his room,” he says, closing the door behind me. I’m halfway up the stairs when he calls my name.

“Henley.” I look down to find Mr. Gilroy standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me. “Do I need to have a talk with your father.”

His concern squeezes my throat, making it hard to answer. “No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Please don’t.”

“Alright.” I can see his jaw muscles flex and tighten, but he agrees, giving me a stiff head nod. “This time.”

I don’t argue. “Thank you,” I say before turning and pushing myself up the stairs and down the hall.

His door is open. I can see his bare feet hanging over the side of the bed. When I reach the open doorway, I stop. Standing in it, I see Conner. He’s awake, sitting on his bed. Back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, book in his lap, head bent over the pages.

I suddenly don’t know what to do. Why I’m here.

“Can you come in and shut the door?” he says without looking up from his book. “Declan’s a nosy bitch, and I don’t want him hearing whatever it is you came to say.”

I force myself through the door, turning to shut it slowly. When I hear it click, I take a deep breath, my heart slamming against my ribcage, hard enough to hurt. When I turn around, Conner’s watching me.

Waiting for me to catch up.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the piece of paper he gave me last night. “What does this mean?”

His gaze flickers away from my face for a moment, looking at what’s in my hand. “It’s Schrödinger’s Equation,” he says.

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 because 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.”