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Forty-seven
Henley
I hide at Tess’s for as long as I can. When I get finally get home, my dad is on the bathroom floor, flat on his back, snoring loudly. Pants undone and at half-mast. Despite the effort, he’s pissed himself.
Again.
Sighing, I leave him where he is for now and head down the hall toward my room to drop off my books.
I bump my bedroom door open with my hip and use my elbow to switch on the light.
Conner is sitting outside my window.
He’s sitting on the landing, facing my room, feet braced on the sill, forearms hanging from his knees.
I drop my books on the bed, and then I just stand there while we stare at each other through the window. He doesn’t say anything or gesture for me to let him in like last time. He looks dug in. Like he’s been here for hours. Like he’s not going anywhere.
I skirt the bed and open the window for him before leaving my room again to deal with my dad.
In the hall, I grab a stack of towels from the linen closet and head back to the bathroom. Dropping the towels on the floor, I kneel next to my dad, giving the situation a quick assessment.
“Dad.” I whisper it, nudging his shoulder. He’s out cold. My dad isn’t a big man but getting him up off the floor by myself will prove impossible. I’ll have to roll him onto his side unless I want to run the risk of him choking on his own vomit.
Conner is behind me, standing in the hallway. Blocking him out, I grab my dad’s urine soaked waistband and start jerking his pants up until I have them high enough to get them buttoned.
Next, I grab him by his shoulder and hip and start the struggle to get him rolled onto his side. He rouses at the movement, his bleary eyes opening slightly. “Fuck off,” he mutters. Planting his hands, one on my shoulder, the other on my face, he shoves, knocking me into the toilet before slipping away again.
From the corner of my eye, I see Conner lunge forward, hands out of his pockets.
I right myself, holding up a hand to stop him from coming any closer. “Don’t,” I say, wiping my hand across my mouth before looking up at him. “He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Conner shakes his head, fists clenched, glare dead centered on my father like he’s waiting for him to make a move.
“Conner,” I say his name, my tone sharp. He looks at me, and I shake my head again. “He’s my responsibility. I can do it myself.”
Nodding his head once, he retreats to the doorway while I struggle on my own to get my dad rolled over onto his side. Thankfully, he doesn’t wake again. I finally manage it, shoving him back against the sink so he won’t end up on his back again. Then I fold a towel and slip it under his head. Spread the rest out around him. With any luck, that’s where he’ll throw-up when it starts. That way, all I’ll have to do is wash a load of towels.
Finished, I push past Conner, who’s still standing in the doorway, looking at my dad. His fists are still clenched.
In the kitchen, I wash my hands and face. It’s filthy. Sink full of dishes. Garbage can in the corner overflowing. Old food left out on the counter. I think about Conner’s kitchen. Clean and tidy. His mom making dinner. His dad at the table reading the paper.
Promising myself I’ll clean it in the morning, I walk into the living room long enough to turn off the television before heading to my room.
Conner is sitting on my bed, looking at his hands.
“You can’t keep doing this, Conner,” I tell him, shaking my head. “You can’t keep walking into bathrooms and waiting for me after class. You can’t keep coming here and trying to hold my hand. People are going to—”
“What?” he says, jaw set. “People are going to what, Henley?” He’s angry, his tone hard and sarcastic. “Ohhh, that’s right. I’m not supposed to want to be with someone like you—whatever the fuck that means.”
“Conner—” I close my eyes against the sight of him because I can’t look at him and say what I have to say next. “This isn’t going to work,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t think we should—”
“No.”
The word comes at me like a slap, popping my eyes open. I watch him stand, practically charging at me. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to break up with me just because things get hard.”
I wrap my arms around my middle, fingers digging into my kidneys, hard enough to hurt. “It’s not up to you.” I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the dry, bitter lump stuck there. “You should go.”
“I don’t want to.” He’s close. So close I can see the flecks of black scattered around the green of his irises. “Is this about Declan? What he said about Jessica?” he says in a desperate rush, like he knows time is running out. Like he’s running down a hallway full of locked doors, jerking on every knob, trying to find one that will turn. Let him inside. “Because he’s a fucking idiot. I don’t want anything to do with her. I want—”