Page 35 of Beautiful Lies
My mom sighed loudly. “Sometimes I don’t know where you come from, Ava. I tried to raise you right. With good morals and values. Just like Seamus did with his boys.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I drew blood. “It couldn’t have been easy for that man. Left on his own like that … and those boys had trouble written all over them. It didn’t surprise me when Killian killed that man in a fight either. He’d always been violent … getting into all those street fights like he did…”
“He’s not violent. And Johnny’s death wasn’t his fault,” I said through gritted teeth.
My mom sniffed. I was wasting my breath. In my mom’s book, the Vincent brothers would always be bad news. She’d made up her mind a long time ago and nothing they did now would ever change it.
It was useless trying to argue with her. She saw the world as black and white, right and wrong. She saw what she wanted to see, and even when she was wrong, she refused to listen to reason. My father was a saint for putting up with her for thirty years.
Before I left, my mother hugged me and told me I looked beautiful. “I love you. I only want what’s best for you.”
I knew she loved me and wanted the best for me. But she wanted whatshethought was best for me, regardless of what I wanted.
As I rode on the back of Connor’s bike, my arms wrapped around him, I thought about the peacock Connor had sketched for our waitress. A reminder that she could walk tall and proud and find her inner beauty. I’d nearly cried when I saw it. That was what Connor did though. He tried to make people’s day just a little bit brighter.
Connor had always been sensitive, attuned to people’s feelings. He felt their pain and suffering so deeply. When we were in high school, he used to do sketches of homeless people. He would bring them coffee and sandwiches. Hang out for a while and talk with them. In the winter, he bought them blankets, hats, and gloves. He used the money from his job stocking shelves at the supermarket to fund it. Most people would have kept walking, turned a blind eye, but not Connor. He couldn’t bear to see anyone suffer.
Maybe that was why he’d started doing drugs. The real world was too much for him sometimes.
Connor didn’t take me out of Brooklyn, but he took me back to a place I rarely ventured now. Park Slope. As we passed the brownstone with turrets where Killian and Connor lived for four years, I looked up at the windows of the second-floor apartment they used to rent, and I imagined us at eighteen … so impossibly young. Invincible.
The drive-by had been on purpose, a blast from the past that wasn’t on our way. The restaurant he took me to was in Crown Heights, a short walk from Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, one of my favorite places. After a ten-minute wait, the waiter showed us to a two-top and handed us menus. I sat with my back to the exposed brick wall and studied the menu. It was a toss-up. Pancakes topped with fresh fruit or eggs benedict.
Connor saw my struggle. “Should I pick a hand?”
“Why would you do that?” I asked coyly. That was our thing. When I couldn’t decide between two menu items, Connor helped me.
“You look undecided.”
Pancakes. Left. Eggs benedict. Right. “Okay.”
He squinted at my hands on the table and tapped the right one. “What is it? Pancakes or eggs benedict?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He knew every stupid, little thing about me, right down to the two items I would choose on the menu. “The eggs.”
Connor wasn’t as predictable as me. “Shredded kale salad and a smoked salmon omelet?” I asked when the waiter left our table. Killian had always been the health nut, not Connor. “They have burgers with bacon and cheese and French fries…”
His mouth quirked with amusement. “Yeah, I read the menu.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.” I looked around the restaurant, admiring the art deco light fixtures and the glossy wood bar across from me. It was a hipster haven filled with pretty people, more subdued and fancier than the restaurants we used to frequent in the past.
A family of four was sitting next to us, the parents speaking in modulated tones. The two little boys were identical twins, dressed in matching Polo sweaters over white button-down shirts, their hair slicked back so perfectly I could see the comb marks. The mother reminded me of Lana, with styled hair, perfect makeup, and a black wrap dress that was probably designer. Her smile was tight and looked forced to me. Her husband was non-descript, wearing a blue Oxford shirt and khakis. I got the feeling they weren’t Brooklynites. They looked too uptight for city dwellers.
When one of the boys talked with his mouth full, his mother reprimanded him. I tuned her out while she coached her sons on proper restaurant etiquette.
The waiter delivered Connor’s Virgin Mary and my sparkling water and pomegranate juice. Connor handed me his celery stick and I chomped away on it absently. He hated celery. Always had. “This is weird,” I said, taking a sip of my drink to wash down the celery. “Does it feel weird to you?”
He nudged the toe of my boot with his under the table. “Just go with it. Weird isn’t bad. You’re a weirdo, but I still like you.”
I laughed. “Tell me about this shop you’re buying.”
“Jared and I are meeting with the lawyer on Tuesday to sign the papers.”
“Wow. That’s a big deal.”
“I know.” He pushed up the sleeves of his Henley and rested his folded arms on the table, putting him too close to me. Instinctively, I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms then uncrossed them, trying not to look like I was on the defensive.
“Are you nervous?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Jared gave me a crash course in accounting this morning. My head still hurts.”
