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I need more than a step. I need twelve of them because it’s not booze I’m having a hard time kicking.
What I really need is time to adjust. Find my bearings. I mean, I haven’t seen her for nearly a decade and Bam!, we’re fucking like rabbits.
But it’s going to be fine. I can make it work
I can do this.
Besides, what’s the alternative? Stand by and watch her work out her rich girl frustrations on some sweater-vest-wearing fuckstick like that dickface Dalton from the bar the other night. That’s not happening.
Because committing murder and going to prison aren’t what I consider legitimate life goals.
So, yeah. If this is what Henley wants, if it’s what she needs, I’m going to be the one to give it to her.
Again, because you’re a pathetic shitsack.
I let myself in. “It’s me,” I shout, tossing my bag up the stairs. On my way toward the kitchen, I pass through the living room where Da, Dec, and Cap’n are watching game one of the playoffs.
It’s her.
Henley.
Sitting on the loveseat next to my cousin, watching the Sox game, with my family like she belongs here.
Like she never left.
She’s wearing jeans. One of Patrick’s team shirts, the hem tied in a knot at her waist to eat up some of the length. What looks like brand-new cross-trainers. It’s not the jeans or shoes that get me. It’s the shirt. Seeing her wear my cousin’s clothes does something to me.
Something bad.
I can feel my vision start to go dark. The blare of the television goes flat. Muffled.
She knows I’m here. That I’m looking at her, but she won’t acknowledge me.
Funny. It hurts just as much as it used to.
“Where’s the beer?”
I swing my gaze toward the back of my brother’s head, sitting on the couch in front of me. “In my car,” I practically snarl because I know. I know he’s the one who brought her here. I don’t even have to ask. “Go get it your goddamned self,” I say before he can say anything else. My tone jerks everyone gaze from the game in front of them, everyone but Henley’s. I glare at her. Wait for her to look at me. Acknowledge me.
Admit I exist.
That I matter.
She does none of those things. She just keeps watching the game, eyes glued to the screen. Back straight. Hands folded in her lap. Knees pressed together and angled away from me, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s waiting for someone to serve her some goddamned tea.
Same as always, it’s like I’m not even here.