Page 138

Seventy-one
Conner
As soon as Henley’s stepfather left, I closed the shop for the day. It’s Friday. I’ve got a volunteer shift at the library until eight. I run a movie night. Order pizza. Try to keep kids out of trouble. I wish someone had done it for Ryan. For my brother. If someone had, things might’ve turned out differently. After that the library, I’ll jump behind the bar and sling beer until close. After that, I’ll find Tess. Tell her I’m sorry for being such an asshole. She’ll forgive me, as long as they’re pancakes involved.
Upstairs, I hit the shower to scrape off my daily layer of grease and engine dust. I still can’t step in the shower without thinking about her. Can’t walk into the library without looking for her. Can’t look at a book without wondering it would sound like if she read it to me out loud.
I suspect it’s going to be like that for a while.
Probably forever.
But that’s okay.
Right now, I’m focused on the next thing. Then the next thing after that. I’ll keep moving. Keep going. That’s how you live.
You keep going.
Because Henley got on a plane forty-five minutes ago. She made her choice and it wasn’t me.
Shutting off the water, I grab a towel and give myself a quick rub down before slinging it around my hips, I leave the bathroom, stepping almost immediately into the kitchen.
Henley is sitting in my chair.
Our chair.
Jesus, she looks good.
Bright red hair, pulled away from her freckled face. Jeans and boots. A sweater I recognize as one of her favorites.
Please let this be real.
“What are you doing here?”
As soon as she sees me she stands. She seems nervous. Like she doesn’t know what she’s doing here. “I want my book back.”
For a second, it doesn’t register. When it does, my heart starts knocking and thumping against my chest. “How many times do I have to tell you, Hennie? That book doesn’t belong to you.”
“What if I gave you something for it?” She chews on her bottom lip and wipes her hands on her jeans. “Like a trade.”
I move toward her slowly, crossing the short space between us until I’m close enough to touch her. She’s looking at me.
At my tattoos.
The story of us, I inked into my skin, so I could keep her with me.
I let her look. I want her to. I want her to see me. The real me.
The me who loves her.
“It’s gonna cost more than a couple of cookies this time. I’ve grown attached to it.”
“I don’t have any cookies.” Her mouth quirks at me and for a second, I see her. The skittish, awkward girl I fell in love with. “But I have something else you might be interested in.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. Opening her hand, she holds it out to me.
A ring.
“It’s a Claddagh.” She says it quietly, face still aimed at the hand she’s holding between us. “Someone told me once that they have their own secret language…” She reaches for my right hand and slides it onto my middle finger. “When you wear it with the point of the heart aimed at your own, it means you belong to someone.” She finally looks up. Looks right at me.
She finally sees me.