Page 114

FIFTY-NINE
Patrick
Ryan’s quiet while the building inspector and I arebusy with the walk-through. All I can hear as he walked around the empty and newly renovated apartment is the shuffling thump of his feet, followed by the cane he begrudgingly uses for support. I know what he’s doing. He’s digesting what I said in the car. Trying to figure out exactly what I’m up to.
“You’ve exceeded expectations, as always, Patrick,” the inspector says while scribbling something on his clipboard before looking up at me with a polite smile. “I wish all my inspections were this easy—whoever gets this place is a lucky guy.” He looks past me, watching Ryan lurch around the apartment behind me.
“Thanks, for coming early Bill,” I say, taking my copy of the paperwork he’s offering me. “You’ll have to swing by and check things out as soon as we’re open. We’d love to have you.” I walk him to the door and see him out. As soon as the inspector is gone Ryan speaks up.
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his shuffling thump coming to a stop in front of me. “You want me to move in here and live with Mrs. fucking McGintey?”
“I’m not asking you to spoon her, asshole,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not even asking you to live in the same apartment. I’m asking you to live in the same building.”
“So she can babysit me?” The question sounds like an accusation.
“No,” I say, fighting to keep a lid on my frustration. “If anything, you’re going to be the one keeping an eye on her.” It was a lie. Of course, I want Ryan to move in here because he needs a babysitter. But saying so won’t get me what I want, so I just rub a hand over the top of my head and sigh. “Look—I bought the building on impulse. The previous owner was selling it and the developer he was dealing with wanted to tear it down.” I drop my hand to dig it into my pants pocket. “Mrs. McGintey would’ve… I bought it so she wouldn’t have to move, okay?” This time it’s not an out and out lie. More like a half-truth.
Ryan looks at me like he can’t decide if I’m lying or not. “You bought a three-story apartment building so an old lady wouldn’t have to move?” he says, summing it up neatly. “Are you on drugs?”
“Pretty much—and no,” I say, huffing out a short laugh. “I’m not on drugs.” I take a trip to the window and look out. I can see the bar from here. The apartment.
Our apartment.
I wonder if Cari’s there.
What she’s doing.
“The building was half empty. Everyone else still living here was relocated and the second and third-floor apartments were renovated…” I leave out the part where they were renovated to meet Boston Housing Authorities wheelchair accessibility requirements. Turning away from the window, I lean against the sill and look at my watch. I’ve got a few hours before the client dinner—another thing Declan left me to contend with on my own. “I’ve got plans for this place but I need your help to pull it off.”
“Plans?” Ryan lifts his cane, pointing its tip at me before thumping it back onto the floor. “When a Gilroy makes plans, an O’Connell is usually left holding the bag.”
I wince because it’s true. “Not this time—I’m the good Gilroy, remember?”
“If you say so, Cap’n,” he mutters, using the nickname Con saddled me with years ago. Until now, I wasn’t even sure he remembered it. “These plans involve the community center I’ve been hearing about?” I catch that tone in his voice again. Accusation. Indignation. Like what I’m doing here isn’t welcome.
“I’m just trying to help—that’s all.” I lift my hands, palms up, and shake my head.
“Who said I needed your fucking help,” Ryan says, grinding the words flat. Mood turned on a dime, aggressive and mean.
“There you go again, dickface,” I shoot back, shoving my hands into my pockets again. “Thinking everything’s about you. You think you’re the only soldier on the planet who came back from that place wrong? The only vet who needs a leg up?” I scoff at the idea. “Get the fuck over yourself already.” Since he’s been back, I’ve learned the best way to deal with his mood swings it to meet them head-on. He expects you to back down. Mollycoddle him. Apologize. Because that’s what everybody does when they find out how he got hurt.
They feel sorry for him.
He fucking hates it.
“And how the hell is this supposed to help anybody?” He crosses his arms over his chest and sends a glare around the room. “I don’t even get what you’re trying to do here.”
Yes he does. He’s stubborn, not stupid. Instead of arguing, I explain it to him again. “The plan is simple—offer reduced rate housing to vets. In exchange, they put in volunteer hours at the community center. Vets get a nice apartment and something to do that’s worthwhile. Neighborhood kids get a place to hang out and decent role models to look up to.” I give him a grin. “Everybody wins—even asswipes like you.”
He narrows his eyes at me again. “And I don’t have to spoon Mrs. McGintey?”
“Only if you want to.”
Ryan laughs. It sounds forced. Practiced. I made a joke, so he laughs because that’s what he’s supposed to do. It’s what a normal person would do.
The problem is, Ryan isn’t normal. Not anymore. I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever be normal again.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, heading for the door, the thumping shuffle of his cane fading as he goes.