Page 5

Three
Conner
It’s the first Monday in October. That means Tess and I are about to be up to our chins in oil changes and tire rotations. Cap’n will be here any minute, with his parade of work trucks needing service.
He gets his employees to drive them in and drop them off while he waits here until they’re all accounted for so he can shuttle them back to their various worksites in the company van. Then Tess and I get to bust ass, getting fifteen trucks serviced by the end of the day.
Can’t complain though. The money he offered when he suggested the whole thing a few months ago was too good to pass up. It enabled me to give Tess a healthy raise and funds my classic car addiction. All it costs me is one, day-long headache, every two months.
He’ll be here at 7AM. Cap’n never late but I can’t seem to push myself out of bed. Bed is a strong word. It’s a metal-framed futon I bought when I moved in here a few years ago. The kind that’s made to be used as a sofa more than it is a place to sleep.
Which makes it perfect because I might lay on it a few times a week if I’m lucky. I stretched out a few hours ago and closed my eyes, hoping I’d be able to catch a few minutes of sleep.
Nope.
Per usual, my brain, which is a complete asshole, said, sleep? You don’t need sleep. What you need to do is relive every interaction you’ve ever had with Henley.
And work on your boards.
And recite poetry to yourself. In Gaelic.
And every law encyclopedia you ever read, you should recite those too.
And then think about Henley some more.
Even though I knew about thirty seconds after I lay down that sleep wasn’t going to happen and despite the fact that Cap’n is going to be here in about five minutes, I keep laying here, staring at the ridiculously dainty handkerchief I found stuffed into the pocket of my jeans. I took it from her a few days ago when she took it out of her purse to clean smudges of grease off her hands after I touched her. Its pale pink edged with delicate, handmade lace. Something a lady would carry.
Ladies don’t fuck.
Jesus.
Where are Mrs. McGintey’s crochet hooks when I need one?
As usual, Tess rescues me from myself by sending up a flurry of noise, banging against the roll-up with the toe of her boot.
Because she’s gonna start yelling if I don’t let her in, I stuff the handkerchief under my pillow and push myself up until I’ll standing. Find my pants and put them on. Snag a random shirt from the pile of clean clothes I tossed in my chair a few days ago on my way out the door.
She keeps kicking, even though she knows it’s a safe bet I’m not sleeping because even though I’m not sleeping, there’s a good chance I’m so lost inside my own goddamned head that I might as well be dead.
I want you to kiss me.
Nope.
Not doing it.
Not going there.
Hahaha… Like you have a choice, fuckface. Thought you were supposed to be smart.
Taking the stairs, two at a time, I jerk the garage door up on its track just as Tess starts to kick hard enough to put her boot through it.
“I’m going to sew your key to your goddamned—”
Tess is standing on the other side of it and she’s not alone. She’s got Shadrach perched on her shoulder and she’s making a racket, yowling and purring, her front paws kneading against Tess’s shoulder blade, long dark tail twitching and swishing. Gaze and lamentations aimed at the man standing behind her.
Declan.
Behind him, I can see the company van Cap’n uses to shuttle his guys back to their jobsites after they drop off their trucks. My cousin is nowhere to be seen.