Forty-nine

 

Conner

 

Mam says to come to dinner.

That’s the text I got from Declan a few hours ago, reminding me that 1) It’s Sunday 2) I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and that was only because I let Tess hustle pancakes out of me and 3) I promised my mom’s Bronco a tune-up about five-hundred miles ago.

Despite all of that, I’m tempted to ignore the summons altogether. As tempted as I am, I don’t because the first and last time I ignored a Sunday dinner invitation, my mom showed up and dragged me home by my ear.

She and Tess have a lot in common.

Me: K

Declan: Da says to stop

by the bar and grab a

bottle of red.

Wine? Who’s coming to dinner, the Queen of England? Then I remember Cap’n’s gone fancy on us. Hanging out with that chef friend of his has landed him some bad habits.

Declan: And beer.

Bring beer.

Da says to stop by the bar is code for, Da asked me to stop by the bar, but I don’t want to so I’m, passing the buck.

Me: Whatever fuckface

Declan: Mature

Me: Better than being

a fuckface.

I jam my phone back into my pocket, ignoring my asshole brother’s follow up text. Closing and locking the roll-up, I head upstairs. Fighting the urge to launch a full-scale assault, I settle for a quick scrub, getting the majority of grease and grime off my hands. No use in bothering with more if I’m going to work on my mom’s car before dinner.

Jamming a change of clothes into a backpack with the plan to shower before dinner, I shoulder it and leave out the back, tossing my bag in the back seat of my car. I feel like an asshole, driving the few blocks between here and my parents but there’s no way I’m juggling a bottle of wine and a case of beer down the street.

Fucking Declan.

At the bar, I dig up one of the expensive bottles my cousin keeps in the office and a case of Harps, tucking a few strays in the deep pockets of my coveralls for good measure because fuck if I’m coming back here on another beer run.

Tossing the case into the backseat with my bag, I drive the few blocks to my parents, going slow through the neighborhood, on the watch for kids chasing balls into the street or street hockey games in progress.

Dec’s truck is already in the driveway, so I park on the street, reaching through the open window to grab my bag and the bottle of red for Cap’n. My dickhead brother can get his own beer.

Yesterday, I would’ve peeled a few from the case, probably would’ve tossed my first empty in the trash before I even crossed the yard. Today, I don’t even want it. Barely even think about it.

Anything for Henley.

Whatever it takes to make her stay.

Because you’re a pathetic shitsack.

And now I want to put my head through a wall. Awesome.

After what happened Friday night, I’ve taken a step back. Or at least tried to. Have to really, because every time I think about her, I’m there, right there, all over again. Tasting her pussy. Hearing her moan my name. Feeling her fingers in my hair, caressing the back of my head, holding me against her while she comes apart in my mouth.

I need more than a step. I need twelve of them because it’s not booze I’m having a hard time kicking.

What I really need is time to adjust. Find my bearings. I mean, I haven’t seen her for nearly a decade and Bam!, we’re fucking like rabbits.

But it’s going to be fine. I can make it work

I can do this.

Besides, what’s the alternative? Stand by and watch her work out her rich girl frustrations on some sweater-vest-wearing fuckstick like that dickface Dalton from the bar the other night. That’s not happening.

Because committing murder and going to prison aren’t what I consider legitimate life goals.

So, yeah. If this is what Henley wants, if it’s what she needs, I’m going to be the one to give it to her.

Again, because you’re a pathetic shitsack.

I let myself in. “It’s me,” I shout, tossing my bag up the stairs. On my way toward the kitchen, I pass through the living room where Da, Dec, and Cap’n are watching game one of the playoffs.

It’s her.

Henley.

Sitting on the loveseat next to my cousin, watching the Sox game, with my family like she belongs here.

Like she never left.

She’s wearing jeans. One of Patrick’s team shirts, the hem tied in a knot at her waist to eat up some of the length. What looks like brand-new cross-trainers. It’s not the jeans or shoes that get me. It’s the shirt. Seeing her wear my cousin’s clothes does something to me.

Something bad.

I can feel my vision start to go dark. The blare of the television goes flat. Muffled.

She knows I’m here. That I’m looking at her, but she won’t acknowledge me.

Funny. It hurts just as much as it used to.

“Where’s the beer?”

I swing my gaze toward the back of my brother’s head, sitting on the couch in front of me. “In my car,” I practically snarl because I know. I know he’s the one who brought her here. I don’t even have to ask. “Go get it your goddamned self,” I say before he can say anything else. My tone jerks everyone gaze from the game in front of them, everyone but Henley’s. I glare at her. Wait for her to look at me. Acknowledge me.

Admit I exist.

That I matter.

She does none of those things. She just keeps watching the game, eyes glued to the screen. Back straight. Hands folded in her lap. Knees pressed together and angled away from me, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s waiting for someone to serve her some goddamned tea.

Same as always, it’s like I’m not even here.