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Chapter Twenty-seven
Ryan
Well, shit.
I didn’t mean to do that.
I didn’t mean to kiss her.
No matter how many times I’ve thought about it, no matter how much I’ve wanted to, I had every intention of keeping my mouth and my hands to myself because what she said last night is true.
I’m being unfair to her.
Confusing her.
Truthfully, I’m confusing us both.
But in that moment, I felt like myself. I felt whole. Like someone who wouldn’t ruin her entire life just by being in it. Someone who wouldn’t be a burden. Someone who could take care of her when she needs it.
I got selfish.
Greedy.
It’s a recently developed problem and she’s at the center of it.
Grace.
Pulling away from the sidewalk, I check the rearview, just in time to watch her walk through the set of main doors to disappear inside the building.
If she can nut up, then so can I.
Easing back into traffic, I head for Fenway and with rush hour officially over, I’m pulling into the parking lot of Patrick’s center in record time.
Parking Grace’s car, I spot Henley’s Mercedes, which I expected and Con’s Mustang, which I didn’t.
It’s good that he’s here.
It’ll save me a trip.
Switching the car off and unfolding myself from the driver’s seat, I swallow the groan that pushes against my throat when I’m forced to put weight on my damaged leg. Leaning against the side of the car for a second, I try to remember what I’m doing here in the first place.
You’re here to apologize to your sister for being a giant fuckface, remember?
Yeah.
I remember.
Hitting the fob, I lock the car and start shuffle lurching my way across the parking lot toward the service door that’s propped open with a rock while a team of delivery men carrying professionally packed furniture. Squeezing my way past them with a muttered excuse me, I keep pushing forward until I’m inside.
Stepping aside to make room for the delivery crew, I look over and catch sight of a little room tucked into the corner, its door is standing open. Sitting at a desk inside of it is Conner. The engraved plaque on the door says:
Conner Gilroy
Legal Aid
“What the hell are you wearing?”
When he hears me, Con’s head pops up from the thick, leather-bound book it’s buried in, a pair of dark-framed glasses perched on his nose. Cutting me an unamused smirk, he reburies his head “It’s called a suit, fuckstain,” he says, without bothering to look at me. “People wear them when they want to look professional—you’d be surprised by how many people feel uncomfortable taking legal advice from a guy with tattoos on his neck and grease stains on his jeans.” When I don’t answer him, Con lets out a sigh and sits back in his chair. Reaching up to pull his glasses off, he tosses them on to the desk next to the book he was reading. “How did you get here?” he asks, his gaze immediately falling to my leg. “Where’s your cane?”