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Fifty-seven
Conner
It’s 10AM and I’m sitting in my booth at the bar, getting drunk.
And even though it’s over, even though I ended things, it still feels like a betrayal. Like I’m breaking promises no one is holding me to but me.
Because I’m the only one they matter to.
The most fucked-up part of all of this is that a week ago, I would’ve said yes. Hell, before last night I would’ve jumped at the chance to keep her, even if it meant diminishing and perverting everything I feel for her. Living with pieces. Being invisible.
I would’ve done it because I’m a pathetic shitsack. I would’ve been miserable, and I would’ve hated myself, but I would’ve done it.
Anything for Henley.
Anything.
As long as she’ll let me stay.
But then she fucked everything up. She asked me to stay with her. Asked me to read her and let me hold her while she slept. Told me she loves me. Wanted to choose me.
I knew it was a lie, but it didn’t matter because I wanted it to be true. I wanted it so goddamned bad that I let myself slip.
Let myself hope.
And there was no going back after that. The second I crossed that line, it was over. The moment I let myself believe I mattered to her, I couldn’t go back to pretending I didn’t deserve to.
So here I am, working my way toward a good, blackout drunk, hoping I get there before the idle thought of setting fire to every place I ever kissed her goes from idea to action.
“What are you doing?”
I look up to find Patrick standing over me wearing jeans and an old team shirt. He’s got a hammer in his hand and drywall dust in his hair.
“Thinking about burning my garage down.” I lift my glass and drain it before setting it down again. “Maybe my parents’ house too. And the library.” I tip my half empty bottle over its rim and give it a refill. “You?” I know what he’s doing. I’ve been listening to him, banging and sawing, upstairs for an hour now.
“Curing cancer.” He tosses his hammer on the table in front of me. If my arson plans concern him, he doesn’t show it. “You plan on drinking all that?” He jerks his chin at the row of Jameson bottles I have lined up in front of me.
I shrug. “It’s important to have goals in life, Cap’n.”
He sighs, running a hand over his hair, the gesture sending a flurry of drywall dust spinning through the air. Some of it lands in my glass. Sliding into the booth across from me, he frowns. “That’s about a thousand dollars in profits and you’re just gonna end up pissing ‘em out.” He doesn’t give a shit about the money. He’s trying to apply to my practical nature.
Lifting my glass, I slam whiskey and construction debris in a few hard gulps before dropping my glass with a hard bang. Reaching into my front pocket, I pull out a wad of cash as big as Declan’s fist and toss it onto the table. “Keep the change.”
“Jesus Christ.” His eyes bulge, bouncing between the money and my face. “What the fuck did you do?” The question and his concern are valid. There are about a dozen things I could do in the space of thirty minutes that would land me that much cash. At least half of them would put me in a federal prison.
“Sold my Cuda.” I refill my glass, but don’t take a drink. There’s been a guy sniffing around, waving his money in my face for months now. I called him as soon as I left my parents’ house and told him if he could meet me at my shop in ten minutes, it was his. He was waiting in front of the roll-up when I got there.
“What?” He’s back to frowning at me. “Why? You love that car.”
Why? Because it’s where Henley looked at me and asked me to stay with her and now I can’t even put my key in the ignition without wanting to drive it off a goddamned bridge.
I push the glass away completely.
“What happened?” More frowning.
I look at his face and it’s like looking in a mirror. On the surface, my cousin and I are as close to identical as two people can possibly be.
Same eyes.