Chapter Fourteen
Connor turned right at the end of the street and continued toward the high school, his sneakers pounding the pavement.
His headphones filled with the rhythmic thump of double bass overlaid by a chorus of hoarse growls.
When he ran, he liked to listen to death metal—SepticFlesh, Abysmal Dawn, Paganizer.
It helped him push through the discomfort.
Running cleared his head, and after the events at the festival earlier that evening, Connor was in desperate need of clarity.
He’d returned to his apartment only to find he couldn’t sit still.
He was annoyed at himself for being so obvious, torn between his growing feelings for Sam and the need to not be that creep who hits on his employees.
Connor was starting to realize he’d probably carried a torch for Sam since sophomore year.
Less a flame than an ember, because he’d been so violently in denial at the time he hadn’t been able to acknowledge—let alone understand—his attraction.
Sam’s return to Oakdale had thrown him into a sort of reverse vortex where he was only now working through these feelings.
How many times—then and now—had he stared at the man’s soft, sloping lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss him?
He ran faster to distract himself from the loop of conflicting thoughts.
It didn’t help that Sam was impossible to read.
He could be open and playful then suddenly distant.
They had these exchanges that felt like flirting, would lock eyes in a way that made Connor’s stomach flip, yet it was all somehow platonic.
He should just tell him. Clear the air. But that would make things awkward if Sam didn’t feel the same.
He might decide to quit, and having to go without Sam’s endearing smiles and easy conversation didn’t bear thinking about.
The obvious choice was to simply try harder to repress his selfish impulses and focus on remaining friendly.
Which meant Connor needed to get a grip on himself and not do stupid things like getting caught staring at Sam like a besotted puppy.
And yet... He shrank from the possibility, almost too afraid to hope. If there did exist a reality in which Sam wasn’t completely repulsed by him, Connor would always regret not taking that chance.
He jogged through the side entrance of the school and on toward the football field.
It was deserted most nights after practice, which allowed him to complete several laps in solitude.
The route from his apartment to the school had already caused him to break into a sweat, and he upped his pace, relishing the burn in his calves.
He’d made it halfway around the field when he saw the flicker of a smoldering cigarette in the distance. He could just make out the shadow of a person sitting beneath the floodlight down by the end zone. Curious, Connor continued his circuit and moved closer.
When he was several feet away, he realized it was Sam, sitting cross-legged on the grass and staring off into space. Connor slipped off his headphones and headed over, slowing to a walk. “I’m getting flashbacks,” he said when he was within earshot, still breathing hard.
Sam snapped his head up, startled. He dropped the hand with the cigarette and stubbed it out in the grass.
“Afraid I’ll narc?” Connor asked.
Sam managed a half smile. “It’s a bad habit.”
Connor shrugged. “It’s a tough one to break. Took me the better part of two years.”
“Hmm.” Sam twirled the smoke in his fingers, his face set in a brooding frown. He was wearing a too-large overcoat and looked like he’d left the house in a hurry.
“What are you doing out here?” Connor asked.
Sam appeared to ponder the question. “Hiding,” he said flatly.
“It’s a good spot for that,” Connor said, flopping onto the grass beside him.
“You’ll mess up your run,” Sam protested.
“I was done anyway,” Connor lied.
“I’m impressed. I still remember when you cut holes in your gym shorts so you didn’t have to do sprints.”
Connor laughed at the memory. “That’s right. I got out of gym class and into detention. Fair exchange, mind you.”
“You were a real renegade, Finnis. No one could touch you.”
The sweat cooled on Connor’s skin. It was strange to think about the him from before. In a way, Sam was right; Connor hadn’t cared whether he was popular or derided, labeled a loser or a burnout. Yet the prospect of anyone seeing who he really was had filled him with a paralyzing terror.
“Classic self-sabotage. When you think you’re nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose.”
Sam studied him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t still think that, do you?”
Connor shook his head with a smile. “I ditched the nihilism around the same time as the piercings.”
They sat in silence. The floodlight towering above them cast an eerie shadow across the blanket of neatly mown grass.
“Do you ever feel you’re having the hardest time, only to find out everyone’s doing much worse?” Sam mumbled. He was staring down at the grass, yanking it blade by blade from the ground. “So then, how can you justify how useless you are at dealing with your own shit?”
The question landed square in Connor’s gut. He recalled Mrs. Bryant’s observation: “He’s more sensitive than he lets on.”
“You don’t have to justify it,” he replied. “All you can do is work with what you have.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Sam muttered. “How poorly set up I am to deal with the world.”
Not for the first time, Connor was compelled by an overwhelming urge to pull Sam close. It took all his restraint to keep his arms fixed at his sides. “From where I’m standing, you’re doing a pretty decent job.”
Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds before Sam looked away. “You’re sitting down.”
“All right, smart ass,” Connor said, getting to his feet. “You’re coming with me.”
Sam stared up at him, puzzled.
“I’ve just started watching Fleet Street, and you could use some cheering up.”
Sam hesitated for a moment before he stood, brushing the dirt from his hands against the sides of his jeans. “Okay.”
Connor lived in a neat one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of a small residential complex a couple of blocks from the school.
It didn’t take them long to walk there. As Connor stepped up to unlock the front door, Sam found it difficult to tear his gaze from the hem of the man’s shorts as they rode up his lean, muscular thighs.
In his old life, Sam had loved eyeing the goods on offer, looking at men, and having men look at him.
A friend used to call it window shopping.
A whirr of possibility accompanied each stolen glance.
Sitting beside Connor on the grass, Sam had seen the tufts of black hair peeking from beneath the arms of his tank top and caught a hint of his musky scent.
It made him miss the closeness of being with someone, laying claim to their limbs and lips, the comfort of their familiar smell.
The past few months had left him bereft.
Connor looked so different in his running gear; Sam hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d been zoned out, smoking a cigarette he knew he shouldn’t be smoking, when Connor had appeared out of nowhere, catching him by surprise.
Sam wasn’t sure why he’d ended up at the high school after storming out of his parents’ house—perhaps those old yearbooks had spurred a bout of nostalgia.
It certainly wasn’t because the place conjured any fond memories.
Once inside the apartment, Connor excused himself to wash up, and Sam stood in the living room, flipping through his impressive collection of LPs—Paul McCartney, Depeche Mode, The Black Keys, Slipknot.
It didn’t strike Sam as an attempt to capitalize on a new trend but more a full-blown obsession.
Browsing Connor’s music collection was like staring into the mysterious depths of his soul.
When Connor emerged from the shower in a hoodie and gray sweats, wet hair dripping onto a towel around his shoulders, he looked so charming and fresh-faced Sam tried not to think of him only standing naked under the hot water only moments before.
Sam studied the sleeve of an early Fleetwood Mac album to distract himself.
“You have a bunch of limited editions,” he remarked. “But a weird way of categorizing. Bob Marley next to Metallica’s Black Album?”
Connor smiled and rubbed the towel through his hair. “Surprisingly complementary.”
Sam laughed and placed the record back on the shelf while Connor stepped into the kitchen and began filling the jug in the sink.
“Coffee, tea, cocoa?”
“Just water, thanks,” Sam replied, moving over to the bookshelf and running his finger along the spines.
There were a couple of graphic novels he’d heard about, a handful of classics mixed in among the pulpy action thrillers, and too many trivia books to count, including 1,000 Facts to Know Before You Die and The Complete Encyclopedia of American History.
“What, no comments?” Connor baited from the kitchen.
“Your books are as obscure as your taste in music. You’re a tough nut to crack there, Finnis.”
“I told you, I’m full of surprises.”
Connor brought a steaming mug of tea and a glass of water into the living room and set them down on the coffee table. Then he picked up the remote and turned on the TV to queue up the show.
Sam crossed the room and took a seat on the couch. “Only now getting into it, huh?” Fleet Street, a British mockumentary-style comedy about the employees of a printing press, had made the rounds back when Sam was in college.
“I know. Like, a decade late,” Connor admitted, plopping down beside him. “I’ve always been crap about TV shows. Only finished watching The Sopranos last year.”
The opening credits began to play, and the familiar riff reminded Sam of happier times.
He’d been hesitant about accepting Connor’s invitation, but as he relaxed into the show, he felt as though a weight had lifted.
He forgot about his sister’s dismissive remarks and his parents’ handwringing.
It felt nice to be away from all that, with someone who’d known him at his least impressive and wanted to hang out with him anyway.
They binged three episodes in a row, and Connor couldn’t contain his laughter.
The setup was pretty formulaic with lots of character play, and Sam had thought it fairly clever when he’d watched the show with his roommates in college.
But for Connor, tears forming in his eyes, Fleet Street might as well have been the funniest thing ever made.
Sam liked how he gave himself permission to enjoy what he wanted—the music, the books, some random TV show.
He wasn’t caught up in being seen a certain way or making sure he liked the right things.
Early in his relationship with Felix, when Sam started spending nights at his place, he left behind the book he was reading as a small reminder of him—only to find it missing the next time he came by.
After asking about it one day, Felix had called the book “commercial trash” and admitted to tossing it, saying, “I didn’t want anyone to think it was mine.
” Sam hadn’t brought any more books after that.
Sam stared at Connor sitting beside him, bathed in the flickering light of the TV, and couldn’t stop the goofy smile that broke out across his face. At that moment, Connor turned his head, catching Sam looking. The heat rushed to Sam’s cheeks, and he averted his gaze back to the screen.
Connor picked up the remote and paused the show, the actors’ faces freezing midgag.
He swiveled on the couch, and Sam had no choice but to face him.
“I wanted to ask,” Connor said quietly, his forehead furrowing.
“I guess it’s not really a question...” He let out a nervous laugh.
“But I... can’t shake this feeling when I’m with you.
” His eyes darted from Sam’s face to the screen and back again. “Am I way off base here?”
Sam felt it too—a closeness when they were together, the mutual attraction behind their innocent flirtation.
He’d been numb for so long and hadn’t expected the tendril of desire that had unfurled, daring him to imagine the pressure of Connor’s hands on his body.
The last time he’d experienced this heady flutter of anticipation, it had led him into a nightmare. But Connor wasn’t Felix.
Sam’s mouth moved on its own, betraying the truth. “No.”
Connor reached out and traced the contour of Sam’s jaw with his thumb, sending a surge of warmth to his stomach. “Can I kiss you?” he murmured.
Sam grasped at the sliver of hope Louise had given him, and with his heart pounding in his chest, he nodded. Connor tilted his head and leaned in, brushing Sam’s lips with his own. The kiss was soft and searching, tapping into a deep well of longing.
It was as if all those months of nothing had unleashed a flood.
Sam took Connor’s face in his hands and pressed against him.
Connor slipped his arms around Sam’s waist, one hand sliding beneath his shirt, warm fingers grazing bare skin.
He smelled clean and comforting, and his mouth was hot and slick.
Sam’s mind went blank, aware only of the two of them together, Connor finally his to explore.
And then the memory surfaced, words that pierced like pinpricks, letting the air out of the balloon: “Maybe you should consider why I’ve had to look elsewhere.”
Sam broke away. This was a bad idea. Here he was at his lowest—what could he expect to offer someone like Connor? He imagined bringing the man back to the squeaky foldout cot in his childhood bedroom, his mom hovering just outside the door. What a fucking joke.
“I’ve got to go,” he muttered.
Connor blinked, blindsided. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s just late. Things have been a little weird for me, and my mom’ll be worried if I’m not home.” Sam winced, hearing how that sounded. “Sorry, that’s embarrassing.”
Connor smiled. “It’s not.”
And still, Sam lingered, finding it impossible to pull away.
He brought his face close, more tentatively this time, and Connor moved to kiss him once again.
He leaned into Connor’s touch and let out a low moan when Connor slipped his tongue into Sam’s open mouth.
He’d never felt like this before, hungry and wanting yet—safe.
“I really should go,” Sam said when they parted.
“Maybe we could, um, do this again sometime?” Connor said, his cheeks flushed.
And despite all his misgivings, Sam couldn’t bring himself to say no. “Yeah,” he managed. “Okay.”