Page 108

Fifty-two
Henley
“That wasn’t about you. You know that, right?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Patrick turn his head, giving me a quick look before refocusing on the road. “Not really. Those two have a long history of knocking the shit out of each other, and finding any excuse they can in order to do it.”
I know he’s right. Conner and Declan have never been close. Their relationship has always been complicated. When Conner slammed out of the house, Declan surged to his feet. “What the hell is his problem?” he says to no one in particular. “I was just trying to—“
I look at Patrick. “Can you take me home please?” I need to get out of here. I shouldn’t have come. “If not I can call a car.”
Patrick looks up at me, jaw tight, neck stiff. He looks angry and so much like his cousin that for a moment, I have a hard time breathing. Before he can answer me, Declan rounds the couch and charges down the hall, muttering something about someone being a fucking crybaby.
I don’t realize I’m following him until I’ve got my hand on the back door knob and I feel Patrick’s hand close around my arm. “Don’t go out there,” he says, pulling me back. “Come on,” he says, giving my arm a gentle tug when the punches start flying. “I’ll take you home.”
Thinking about what happened, I know he’s right. Conner’s issues with his brother go further than me. But he’s also wrong.
“Declan never liked the fact that Conner and I were together.” This is the first time I’ve ever acknowledged the fact that Conner and I were anything more than friends to anyone but Tess. “He didn’t think I was pretty enough. I was a prudish, dirt poor bookworm his brother had to hide so he wouldn’t catch shit from his friends about dating.” I face angled away from him, so I don’t have to look at him when I say it. “He was right. I was all of those things.”
“Con’s never been one to care about what others had to say about him.” He didn’t try to lie. Tell me that I was overreacting. That no one would’ve cared if they’d known we were together. I appreciate it as much as I’m hurt by it.
“That’s because he was Conner Gilroy.” I turn my head a bit, catching sight of Patrick’s profile. “Gorgeous, popular, brilliant Conner Gilroy with his great family and perfect life. No one ever had anything bad to say.”
“And you didn’t want to be that something bad?”
That’s part of it, but if I’m being honest with myself, it was because I was selfish. I didn’t want to break the spell he was under. I was afraid if people knew, they’d eventually start to whisper about it loud enough to intrude on the bubble we existed in. That Conner would wake up and look at me and see what everyone else saw. He’d realize they were right.
I don’t say any of that though. “We didn’t belong together. We still don’t.”
“Then why are you here?”
Because I wish we did. I want us to.
“I don’t know.” I don’t know what else to say. How to explain something I don’t even fully understand myself.
Pulling into the portico in front of my building, Patrick shifts into park before turning to look at me. “About a year or so after you left, Conner disappeared.” He looks conflicted like he’s telling me something he shouldn’t. “He told his mother he was going to the library, walked out the door and that as it. He was gone for three days. No one knew where he was. He didn’t call. He was just gone.”
“But he came back…” My heart is hammering against my ribcage, my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I don’t know why. It was years ago. Obviously, Conner came home. He’s fine. “Where did he go?”
Patrick shakes his head. “He never said, but when he came home, he wasn’t Conner anymore. At least not the Conner he was when he left.”
Before I can say anything else, the passenger door is opened from the outside. My doorman's hand appears to help me out the car. “Thank you for driving me home.” I offer Patrick a polite smile. “I’ll have your shirt cleaned and bring it to the library when you come into volunteer.”
“Keep it,” he says, returning my smile. Whatever he was trying to tell me is gone. His frustration dissipated. “I’ve got about a hundred of them.” He shifts into drive. “You did good today. You should come to the game next Sunday. We can always use another coach.”
“I’d like that.” I smile again before allowing my doorman to help me to my feet, moving to shut the door but he stops me before I can.
“There’s no such thing as perfect, you know,” he says, his gaze aimed straight ahead. “Not for anyone.” Before I can answer him, he turns to look at me and smiles. “Goodnight, Henley.”
“Goodnight, Patrick,” I say, stepping away from the curb. The car door is shut, and he drives away.
I take a shower, taking more time that I needed to scrub my face and wash my hair. I have to fight with myself to not follow up with my usual regime of skin lotion and face crème from my dermatologist. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I feel myself start to panic. It’s only been a few days, and my freckles are already starting to darken. Like the girl I used to be is slowly sneaking up on me.
Turning away from my reflection, I throw my hair into a quick braid and pull on a pair of yoga pants and another sweater.
Jeans and yoga pants in one day.
My mother would die.