Conquering Conner Page 16

She shakes her head, swallowing hard against the obvious lump in her throat. “No.”

  “Great.” I widen my smile, flashing her my dimples. “Let’s go.”

  Thirty-seven

  Henley

  It’s dark in here. Smells like stale beer and sweat. Like hopelessness and regret.

  The only thing keeping me from turning and bolting out the door is Conner. His arm slips around my waist, more holding me up than staking any sort of claim. That’s why I allow it. Because without his support I’d be scrambling for the door.

  He spots my father before I do. I know because I can feel the shoulder I’m tucked under stiffen above mine. It reminds me of the way he reacted that night. When my father shoved me back while I tried to help him during one of his drunken stupors. I can still see him standing over us. Jaw clenched. Fists ready. Chest spread wide. Gaze zeroed in on where my father lay beside me, watching him like he was waiting for him to do anything more than breathe.

  And then I see him too. Slumped on a stool at the end of the bar, shoulders hunched over. Forearms braced on the edge of the bar, the only thing keeping him from pitching forward, face-first.

  The years haven’t been kind to him.

  “Guinness?”

  I look over to find a man, nearly as large as Conner’s father polishing a glass with a dirty bar rag. He’s bald. Sharp, dark eyes. Barrel-chest. Thick arms. Hard, distended pad of fat stretched across his belly. A pro-wrestler or NFL linebacker, put out to an unsavory pasture.

  Conner’s fingers dig into my hip. “Coffee.” He gives his one-word answer before pushing me forward, toward the man that used to be my father. “We can leave right now,” he whispers to me as we make our way down the length of the bar. “We don’t have to do this.”

  He’s wrong.

  I do have to do this.

  I should’ve done it a long time ago.

  He must see the resolve on my face because he lets out a long, rough breath, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. Unwinding his arm from around my waist, he reaches for my hand, uses his hold on me to pull me along behind him. When we get to the end of the bar, he stops in front of my father, holding out his arm when I try to step forward.

  “Jack.” There’s something familiar about the way he says my father’s name. Something that tells me this isn’t the first time he’s gone looking for him. The first time he’s found him slumped over on a barstool, too drunk to stand.

  At the sound of Conner’s voice, my father lifts and turns his head, bleary eyes finding and trying to focus on his face. “Who’s askin?”

  I try to step forward again. Again, Conner stops me, his arm blocking my way. “It’s Con.” When all my father does is stare at him, the muscle in his jaw starts to twitch. “Come on, Jack—quit dickin’ around. You know who I am.”

  Before I have a chance to say anything, the bartender appears with the cup of coffee Conner asked for. Instead of setting it in front of Conner, he sets it in front of my dad.

  “I ain’t drinkin’ that shit,” he sneers at the bartender, pushing the cup back with shaking hands, slopping tepid brown liquid all over the bar. Sloshing it over the back of the bartender’s hands.

  “That’s it, motherfu—”

  Conner pulls his wallet and drops a bill on the bar. “Thanks.” He gives the bartender the sort of knowing look that says they’ve done this before and they both know what happens next. Whatever it is, it’s enough to take the wind out of the bartender’s sails.

  “Whatever,” he huffs, shooting Conner a quick, nasty look before snapping the money off the bar. “Piece of shit drunk is none of my damn business anyhow,” he sneers as he stalks off down the bar, snapping his dirty towel off his shoulder to contaminate more glasses.

  As soon as he’s gone, Conner reaches for the cup of rejected coffee and places it in front of my dad again. “Drink up, Jack.”

  “I said I ain’t drinkin’ it,” My dad says loudly, soft jaw set at a mutinous angle. “Coffee here tastes like shit.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what it tastes like,” Conner steps into him, dropping his voice, probably in hopes that I won’t be able to hear him. “You’re gonna drink it or I’m gonna drag you out back, smack you around, and toss you in the dumpster.”

  Scowling, my dad lifts the cup to his lips and takes a bracing sip. “All of it,” Conner tells him before he can set the cup down.

  When my father finally puts the cup down, it’s empty. “Happy?”

  “No.” Conner’s shoulders slump a bit and he drops his arm. “I have someone here who wants to see you.”

  “Who are you?” my father says, his dull gaze finding me, seeing me for the first time since we walked in.

  I forget that I look different. That it’s been eight years since he’s seen me. That he never looked for me. Never tried to contact me. Reach out to me.

  “Hi, dad.” I step closer, surprised when Conner lets me. I can feel him behind me, poised to pull me away if things go wrong. If my dad gets belligerent. When he doesn’t do anything but stare at me, I clear my throat. “It’s me, dad. It’s Henley.”

  His face changes, gets this tight, panicked look that he aims at Conner before settling on me again. When he still doesn’t say anything, I try again. “It’s Henley. Your—”

  “I ain’t your dad.” He shakes his head at me, fingers wrapping around the empty cup in front of him. “You ain’t my daughter.”

  “It’s me, dad.” Anxiety tightens my chest. Slicks my palms with sweat. “I know I look different but it’s me. It’s Hen—”

  “You ain’t hearin’ me.” He shakes his head at me, casting a helpless look past my shoulder, at Conner. Suddenly he looks stone sober and so out of his depth, he seems to be drowning. “I know who you are, Henley Rose—but I’m not your father. I never was.”

  Thirty-eight

  Conner

  Fuck.

  As soon as Jack drops the bomb, I feel Henley go stiff, her shoulders snapping tight against my chest. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t demand an explanation. Doesn’t scream and call him a liar. I can practically hear her mother.

  Ladies don’t make a scene.

  “You’re not my father.” She repeats it slowly, like she’s trying to figure out how they fit together.

  “No.” Jack chews on the inside of his cheek and shakes his head. “Your mom… she never said who was, but I know it ain’t me.”

  “I see.” She nods her head, the top of it brushing my chin. “Okay…” she holds her hand out to him and he takes it. It’s shaking like a leaf. “Thank you for your time.” She shakes his hand like he just interviewed her for a job. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She turns and walks out, leaving me to stare after her.

  “I had to tell her, kid.”

  I turn to look at him, jaw clenched so tight, the tendons in my neck start to ache. “Not like that, you didn’t.”

  “For the best,” he says, looking away from me. “She ain’t mine. She ain’t my blood.”

  I reach out and haul him off his stool, give him a rough shake. “Blood doesn’t matter, Jack. She’s your daughter,” I say, pushing the words through clenched teeth. “She loves you. Despite all the shit you put her through—the drinking and the puking and the screaming—she loves you.” Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know what I’d be willing to do to have her love me, even a little bit? I want to scream it in his face. Shake him until his neck snaps. I want to kill him, so I don’t say it. I let him go, shoving him back into his seat. “She deserves better than you.”

  “You’re right.” He looks me in the eye, giving me a glimpse of the man he should’ve been. “She deserves better than both of us.”

  It’s the truth. I know it is but hearing his say it out loud breaks something inside me. Something that’s kept him safe from me and all the things I’ve wanted to do to him since the night I watch him shove her into the toilet when she tried to help in one of his drunken stupors.

&nb
sp; “You don’t know a goddamned thing about her, Jack.” Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet again, this time taking out every bill I have. “You never did.” I signal the bartender, tossing the money onto the bar in front of him. “Have fun drinking yourself to death,” I say, shoving my wallet back into my pocket before I walk out the door.

  I find her waiting by my car, arms wrapped around her stomach like she’s been stabbed, face pale, eyes wide and shell-shocked. I’m torn between getting her the fuck out of here and going back in there and making good on my threat to throw that bastard in the dumpster.

  Deciding that getting her somewhere safe supersedes my bloodlust, I lean into her, keys in hand to unlock her door, careful to avoid eye contact.

  “Did you know?”

  Her question, delivered softly and so close to my ear, I can feel her breath on my neck, freezes me in place.

  I look up to find her looking at me, her eyes so wide and wounded I suddenly want to throw my own ass in the dumpster. Shit. I key the lock, finally managing to get her door open. “Get in the car.”

  She doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Did you know?”

  “Hen—”

  “Don’t Henley me,” she snaps. “You brought me here.” Her eyes go wide, her mouth falling open when the realization hits her. “You knew, and you still brought me here. Didn’t warn me. Didn’t—”

  “Ryan made me promise not to.” I made her a promise a long time ago, not to lie to her, so I tell her the truth. “I didn’t think Jack would—”

  “Ryan knows?” She sounds so small. So confused. When I nod her bottom lip starts to tremble and she looks away from me, pressing her mouth into a hard, flat line. I watch her throat work and struggle against the tears that are trying to push their way out. Finally she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. When she finally looks at me again, her mouth is steady. Her eyes are dry. “Why? Why wouldn’t he want me to know? Why would he want to keep something like that from me?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, even though I have a pretty good idea. But that’s not my truth to tell. It belongs to Ryan and I won’t take it from him. He’s been fucked over by us Gilroys enough to last a lifetime. “I wanted to tell you, but I made a promise to your brother, at a time when he really needed to be able to trust me and I—” I gesture at the passenger seat she’s so far refused to take. “Please get in the car.”

  Her jaw tightens at my tone and for a second, I think she’s going to tell me to go fuck myself. Instead, she slides into the seat and waits for me to close the door behind her.

  We’re halfway to Fenway before she speaks again. “You and my—” She stops herself, rethinking her words. “Jack seem to know each other pretty well,” she says, choosing her words carefully. I cut her a quick look. She’s sitting with her knees pressed together and turned away from me, legs crossed at the ankle. Hands folded primly in her lap, her poise and training locked around her like a shield. Tight and hard. An impenetrable shell of propriety and etiquette.

  “We’ve done that dance number a few times.” I shrug, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. The truth is, tracking Jack O’Connell down and making sure he’s not dead in an alley somewhere is a sort of hobby of mine. “I send up the bat signal every few weeks and I get a call from whatever bartender he’s currently abusing.” I pass Boylston. I don’t even tap the brakes. If she notices I’m not taking her home, she doesn’t seem to care. “I drag him home, toss him in the shower. Pour a gallon of coffee down his throat and make sure he wakes up the next morning.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a while, digesting what I told her. Finally she turns toward me. “You take care of him.”

  “Yes.”

  I can feel her looking at me. Trying to figure me out. Why I would care about a useless drunk like Jack O’Connell. A man I’ve pretty much despised since I was a kid. “Did Ryan ask you to do that too?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” She turns toward me, her brow crumpled slightly. “Why would you do something like that?”

  Entering a residential neighborhood, I slow down. Keep an eye out for kids. “Because you’d have wanted me to.”

  She goes quiet again and I let her. Tell the truth, I don’t want to talk about her dad anymore and I sure as hell don’t want to listen to her talk to me in that Stepford Wife tone she uses when she’s feeling out of her depth.

  When I pull the car to a stop, she looks out the window, her mouth falling open slightly when she realizes where we are. “What are we doing here?” She gives my parent’s house a long look. “We can’t just drop by, unannounced.” She says it like I’ve committed some sort of mortal sin. “It’s rude.”

  “Is it? I’m going to have to start keeping a list.” I kill the engine and get out of the car, circling the front to open her door. “Come on, Henley.” I hold out my hand and wiggle my fingers at her, urging her to take it. “I won’t tell Miss Manners if you won’t.”

  She stares up at me, hands clasped together in her lap, so tight I’m afraid her fingers are going to snap off. “Why?”

  Because you need your family right now.

  I want to say it, but I don’t think she’s in a place to hear it right now, so I shrug and flash her my dimples. “Because I’m hungry and I’m broke.” It’s the truth. I gave Jack every dollar I had. “Come on. We’ll say hello to my parents and then we’ll going to go out back and throw a baseball around until dinner is ready and then we’ll eat.” I keep my smile easy. Friendly. Wait for her to come to me, the way I used to. Wait for her to settle. “After that, I’ll take you home.”

  Her fingers loosen but she doesn’t take my hand. “Are you sure your mom won’t mind?”

  Mind? She’ll be over the fucking moon to have someone over for weekday dinner. “I’m sure.”

  She takes my hand and lets me pull her from the car. “I’m still mad at you for not telling me.”

  “I know.” I lean past her to shut her car door. When I straighten, she’s standing on the curb beside me.

  “Thank you.” I look up to find her close. Too close for me to think straight. I could kiss her if I wanted to. Lean in and press my mouth against hers. I want to. Jesus Christ, I want to.

  But I can’t.

  Instead, I clear my throat. “What are friends for?” I say, giving her hand a squeeze before letting it go.

  Thirty-nine

  Henley

  We started over.

  It was like the last three weeks never happens. Like the last eight years never passed between us. Like we’ve never been apart.

  Almost.

  Conner is Conner—a strange blend of who I remember and who he turned into. Gentle and irreverent. Thoughtful and careless. Surly and sweet. We see each other every day. We talk about books over late-night coffee and pancakes at Benny’s. We meet at his parents every Sunday for dinner. We hang out at Gilroy’s after work.

  He hasn’t so much as held my hand since that Thursday night outside his parents’ house.

  He hasn’t even tried.

  That’s the difference. When we were kids, he’d hold my hand. Put his arm around me when we sat together in his father’s chair, so I could rest my head on his shoulder. Touch my ankle and tease me about my freckles.

  Now, it’s like I have this invisible force field around me. Like we’re orbiting each other. Never closer than arms’ length. And we’re never alone. Even when it’s just the two of us, he always makes sure we’re in a public place.

  He’s my friend. Like his cousin and his brother. It’s exactly what I asked for. What I said I wanted.

  And I hate it.

  “Hey,” Tess says, her mouth full of food. “Are you in there?”

  “Right here and listening.” I nod and smile. We’re sitting in Conner’s booth at the back of the bar while I watch Tess eat enough food to give an elephant a food baby. “You just want to come over tonight, then? Help my pass out candy?” It’s Halloween and in a few
hours this place is going to be packed with drunk, scantily-clad college girls and drunk bros, who’s favorite pick-up line will be, what are you dressed as? Tess just got finished telling me she doesn’t want to be here tonight and to be honest, neither do I. Conner is working and the last thing on this planet that I want to do is spend the next several hours watching him field advances of every slutty nun /nurse/witch/princess/angel/serving wench in Boston is not my idea of a good time.

  Before she can answer, the devil himself slides into the booth next to her.

  Literally.

  Conner is wearing a pair of glittery red devil horns. He’d look ridiculous if he wasn’t so fucking hot.

  “Hey, Tessie.” He plants a noisy kiss on her cheek and she shoves him away, laughing. “Hi, Henley.” He winks at me and I feel my guts knot up before they drop to my feet. That’s another thing. He doesn’t call me Daisy anymore. He doesn’t even call me Hen or Hennie or some other silly nickname. Henley. Just Henley. Every time he says it, I want to scream.

  “Hi.” I force myself to smile at him. “Nice horns.”

  He rolls his eyes upward, pointing them at the horns perched on his head with a grin but before he can say anything, Tess scoffs. “Halloween—the one night a year, he shows the world his true face,” she says, patting his cheek. “The poor, helpless women of Boston never stand a chance.”

  He laughs at her joke while shooting me a quick look. Something flickers in his eyes, so fast I’m not even sure he felt it.

  Guilt.

  Shame.

  What Tess said bothered him but it’s like he doesn’t even realize it. Like he’s been pretending to be this version of himself for so long that he fully believes the lie. Doesn’t even remember what the truth is anymore.

  “You’re so cute when you get jealous,” he teases her, giving her ponytail a playful tug. She snorts and

  slaps his hand away. He looks at me. “Got a costume?”