Page 105 of Conquering Conner

Fifty-five

Henley

There is a stack of neatly folded clothes on the nightstand, six inches from my face. My shampoo and conditioner lined up, just as neatly beside it.

Conner went to my apartment.

The thought tightens my gut. Jeremy is there. When I left, he was sprawled across my bed, asleep. I thought about waking him up and making him mover to the guestroom but in the end, I left him where he was because I didn’t have an intention of coming home anyway.

I don’t want to think about Conner’s reaction to finding Jeremy in my bed.

Finding my sweater and pulling it back on, I gather my things and creep down the hall to the bathroom. I’m not sure why I’m sneaking around, the house is as quiet as a tomb. No television in the living room. No laughter in the kitchen.

Nothing but silence.

I’m not sure why it bothers me, but it does. Fills me with a sense of foreboding that makes me want to skip the shower, throw on my clothes and run out the front door.

Quit being ridiculous, Henley.

My mother’s voice rings in my ears, chastising me, from across the ocean and the thought makes me laugh.

Shutting the bathroom door, I start the shower. Waiting for the water to warm up, I pull off my sweater. Taking a good look at myself in the mirror, I feel a flush of heat erupt over my skin. Conner is everywhere. The marks left with his mouth on my breasts. My belly. My neck. Between my thighs.

I get that feeling again. That I should be ashamed. That I should be angry. Horrified by what he did to me.

That I let him mark me.

That I wanted him to.

That I want people to look at me and know I belong to him.

You look like trash, Henley. Poor, common trash.

“Shut up, mother.” I say it out loud before turning away from the mirror, stepping into the shower.

Coming downstairs, I expect to find another note from Conner. Another math equation, propped against the coffee pot. Maybe stuck to the fridge with a kitchen magnet. Instead, I find him standing at the kitchen counter, arms cross over his chest, staring out the kitchen window. On the table behind him is a neat stack of legal-length paper, several inches thick.

“Good morning.” He hears me, I know he hears me, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say good morning back. Moving toward him, I pull a mug from the rack next to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup. I don’t really want it, it’s just a prop. An excuse to move closer so I can see his face. Leaning against the counter next to him I blow carefully across the rim of my mug. “Did you sleep?”

The corner of his mouth jerks, quick and sharp. Not a smile. More of a grimace. “Nope.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. I turn my head, aiming my gaze in the same direction as his, trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

The hammock.

He’s looking at the hammock, struck between two bare branched oaks. He talked me into it once. Talked me into taking off my shoes and reading to him while he counted the freckles on my feet and teased me about how much I wanted him to kiss me. He was right. I did want him to kiss me. I still want him to kiss me. I suspect I’ll want him to kiss me for the rest of my life.

“Conner.” I try again, saying his name in that calm, gentle tone that he hates. “I—”

“I want you to tell me about the compromise,” he says, dropping his arms. “The one you and Bradford agreed to last night. The one you came over here to tell me about.”

“You talked to Jeremy.” My voice sounds strange. Strangled, like it’s being shoved through the eye of a needle. “I wish he hadn’t—we…”

“Tell me,” he says it softly, his tone at complete odds with what I’m seeing in his eyes.

I can feel panic, a wild fluttering in my throat, and I have to take a deep breath through my nose and let it out slowly to try to calm it. I try again. “I told him that I love you. That you love me, and I want to stay with you. I want—”

“Just tell me.” He shouts at me, and I can’t help it, I flinch away from him, my hands coming up to protect my face before I can stop myself. He stares at me, horrified by my reaction, that he did something to elicit it.

He moves away from me, putting distance between us because he thinks I need it. Thinks I’m afraid of him. Lowering himself into a kitchen chair, he braces his elbows on his knees before dropping his head into his hands. “Just tell me.” He pushes his fingers through his hair, tightening his grip like he’s going to pull it out. “Please, Henley just…”

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