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Sixty-five
Conner
I find him, sitting in our booth at Benny’s, working his way through of Nora’s Denver omelets. He’s alone like he usually is. I like to think it’s because he’s such an enormous asshole that no one can stand his company, but the truth is, he likes it that way.
My brother’s always been a loner.
When he sees me standing over him, he keeps chewing. Looks down at his plate and uses the side of his fork to cut into his omelet. “Better sit down before Nora catches you menacing.” He looks up at me and stuffs another piece of omelet in his mouth.
Benny’s is neutral territory. We don’t fight here. We got into it in the parking lot once, a few years ago, and Nora made it clear that if we did it again, she’d 86 us for good. The look on her face when she said it told us she meant it.
I sit down and signal Tina. “You’re lucky I like pancakes.”
“Yeah?” he sits back in his seat, taking his cup of coffee with him. “Why’s that?” He sounds bored. He probably is. We have this conversation a few times a week.
“Because you called Henley,” I tell him, my tone flat and matter of fact. “And if we were anywhere but here, I’d probably kill you.”
“She’s here?” He doesn’t look bored anymore.
I nod, my neck so stiff the back of my skull starts to ache.
“I didn’t call her.” Now he looks sorry. “I went to see her.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?” I say it loud enough to draw a warning look from Nora from the front of the restaurant. I force myself to settle back. Consider sitting on my hands so I don’t launch myself across the table and break his neck.
“Because someone had to and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to be you,” he says in a rational tone that does nothing to help his chances of getting out of here with his neck intact. “Tess would step in front of a speeding train for you. Patrick is buried under his own two tons of bullshit with Cari coming home next week.” He wipes his mouth and goes quiet when Tina shows up with my coffee and pancakes. As soon as she’s gone he shoves the syrup at me. “That leaves me.”
“You?” I laugh a little when he says it. “Because you’re suddenly so worried about Henley and her feelings.”
The bottom half of his jaw slides away from its top before it pops back into place. “Well, someone needed to tell her about Ryan.”
Shit.
“That wasn’t your call to make.” Even as I say it, I know I’m wrong. It was his to make because he was the one with the balls to do it. “Ryan didn’t want her to know.”
“If you were hurt I’d want to know,” he says it to his omelet. “I’d deserve to know, even if you wouldn’t want me to. Even if you hate me, I’d still deserve to know because we’re family and family may fight and scream and try to kill each other but it doesn’t turn its back and it doesn’t shut you out.”
I don’t want him to be right. I don’t want to agree with him. I want to fight. I want to flip this fucking table over and tear into him with my bare hands.
He seems to know that I’ve run out of things to say because he slides out of his side of the booth and reaches for his wallet. “I’m calling Logan in to cover your shift tonight,” he says, pulling a few bills from his wallet before shoving it back into his pocket. “You’ve got some business to take care of.”