Page 46 of Reaching Ryan

Chapter Twenty

Grace

Henley stayed.

Between the two of us, we killed the bottle of wine she opened, plus another. We also polished off the potato chips, an entire package of Oreos and a half a bag of mini powdered donuts. I ate most of the chips and donuts while Henley took care of the wine.

“Now that I know about your sister’s secret addiction, I’m kinda pissed at her for holding out on me,” Henley says. She’s stretched out on the couch, rubbing a perfectly manicured hand over the slight bulge of junk food in her stomach, the simple silver ring on her finger, winking dimly in the lamplight. “Whenever we hang out, it’s always hummus and pita chips or a charcuterie board.” She sounds disgruntled and more than a little drunk when she says it.

“That’s because you’re fancy,” I tell her around the donut in my mouth. “Cari and I grew up poor. We spent most of our lives being tormented by perfect girls like you.” It tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it, my mental reflexes dulled by an expensive wine buzz and too much sugar. When Henley’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open, I realize what I said. What I did by saying it.

“Shit.” I struggle to sit up in the chair I’m slumped into. “That’s not what I meant.” Jesus, way to make friends, Grace. “I just meant that you’re absolutely gorgeous and—”

That’s when she started to laugh at me. A real belly laugh that had tears streaming down her face and her hands pressed against her gut like it had started to hurt in earnest. “Holy shit,” she gasps, eyes going wide as she stops, mid-laugh. “I’m Jessica.” Instead of upsetting her, the revelation sets off a fresh round of gut-busting laughter.

“You are not.” Finally managing to sit up, I shake my head emphatically, the fast twist of it sending my brain into drunken orbit. “You’re nothing like that bitch.” I only met her the one time, at Anton’s but I hated her on sight. The way she talked to Tess made want to punch her in the throat. For that alone I’d bet my life that Henley and Jessica are worlds apart. “I’m sorry. You’ve been nothing but nice to me and I—”

“I used to be ugly,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone that snaps my mouth shut. “And poor,” she adds for good measure.

“I highly doubt that,” I say, taking in her flawless cheekbones and full mouth. Her straight nose and perfect teeth. “There is absolutely no way you were ever ugly. Poor maybe—but never ugly.”

“Ugg—lee.” She nods her head for emphasis. “Nose job,” she says, touching the tip of her finger to her nose. “Veneers on my teeth.” Her finger moves to her mouth. “My hair was horrible. Bright orange and frizzy. I looked like Ronald McDonald’s ugly kid sister.”

“You were never ugly.”

The voice, slightly annoyed and distinctly male, lifts my gaze from Henley and I find Conner standing a few feet away, leaning against the kitchen counter, hands dug into the front pockets of his jeans like he’s been standing there for hours.

If she’s surprised by her fiancé’s sudden and seemingly magical appearance, Henley doesn’t show it. “Your opinion doesn’t count, Gilroy,” she says struggling to sit up to look at him over the back of the couch. “You’re completely biased.”

“Daisy, my opinion is the only opinion that counts.” Conner gives her a lop-sided grin. “Biased or otherwise.”

She grins back at him and I get the distinct impression that both of them have completely forgotten that I’m here. “Do I want to know how you found me?”

That lop-sided grin deepens into something that can only be described as sinful. “Probably not.”

She gives him an exasperated sigh, her deep brown eyes dancing with humor. “God, you’re weird.”

“And still not sorry.” Pushing himself away from the counter, he pulls his hands out of his pockets and closes the distance between them. Stopping in front of her spot on the couch, he gives the empty junk food packages and wine bottles a quick survey before letting out a quiet chuckle. “Okay, Daisy—let’s go home.”

“Okay.” She lets out an audible sigh of contentment when he reaches for her, slipping his arms around her and under her to pick her up. He murmurs something to her in a language I’ve never heard before and she nods her head against his shoulder, the loop of her arms tightening around his neck.

Turning with Henley nestled in his arms, Conner finally acknowledges me. “Thanks for keeping her company,” he says quietly. “She’s had a rough day and needed the girl time.”

“Me too. I had a good time.” I think about what she told me about Ryan. What he did after I left the center. “Is he okay?” I don’t elaborate. I don’t have to. We both know who he is.

Ryan.

“Depends on what your definition of okay is,” he tells me. “He’s currently downstairs getting completely shitfaced with Tess.”

“Oh.” I nod my head. What does it say about me that my take away from that revelation isn’t that Ryan is downstairs, drowning his sorrows but that he’s downstairs, hanging out with Tess. That he’s more than likely been down there for hours now and he probably hasn’t even given so much as a passing thought to the sad, desperate, single mother upstairs.

Probably not even that much.

Jesus, Grace. When are you going to give it up? How many times does the guy have to tell you no before you accept it and move on? What he said doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to want you.

That’s the takeaway, here, Grace.

Ryan doesn’t want to want you.

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