Page 102 of Having Henley
“Oh, I know that,” he says, tipping his hat back a bit so I can see his face. “The fat lip Con’s walking around with can attest to the fact.”
His comment, delivered on a calm, even tone, shames me instantly. “He deserved it,” I say, sounding like I’m twelve.
I haven’t seen Conner in three days. Not since he made me come, twice, on his kitchen floor before kicking me out of his apartment.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Patrick laughs, firmly closing the subject. “You still play?”
I haven’t touched a baseball in almost ten years. Not since my mother came to this very park when I was fifteen and hauled me away from a pick-up game, her thin fingers digging into the meat of my arm like talons.
Never again, Henley Rose. Do you understand me? If I so much as suspect that you’re down here, playing and running around with that trash, you’ll be sorry.
Conner was on that field.
So was my brother.
“No.” I shake my head emphatically, even as the palm of my hand starts to tingle. The muscles in my arm start to ache. “I haven’t thrown a ball in years.”
Patrick grins at me, and this time it’s genuine. “You want to?”
