Chapter Seventeen
“Pass the potatoes, Connor,” his mom said as she stood beside his dad at the head of the table and ladled gravy onto his meat. She’d already cut it up into little chunks, a policy Connor knew his father hated. That and the fact that she served him every meal like he was a child.
Connor rose from his chair and handed her the dish of mashed potatoes across the table.
She plopped a spoonful onto his father’s plate and returned to her own seat.
Connor picked up his knife and fork and dug in.
He figured the quicker he could shove food into his mouth, the less conversation he would have to make.
Sunday-night dinner at his parents’ house was one of their few standing rituals. The definition of forced family fun.
“I swung by the rest home earlier today and dropped off a bag of your father’s old clothes for the gents there,” his mother announced, scooping a portion of green beans from the bowl in front of her. “They’re all falling off him now.”
“That’s nice of you,” Connor replied, spearing a chunk of meat with his fork.
“Don’t mind me, just over here wasting away,” his father grumbled from his wheelchair.
When Connor’s dad had gotten the chair eighteen months earlier—doctor’s orders—they’d been lucky that his parents’ house was single story and relatively accessible.
Connor had built a ramp to the front door and asked a plumber friend to swap out the bath for a level-access shower to accommodate his old man’s new wheels.
But it had been the death knell for Ian Finnegan’s enduring denial about his diagnosis.
Shortly afterward, he declared he was stepping back from the business.
He’d gone from spending most days at the office, poking his nose into everything and bugging the hell out of Connor and Sheryl, to sitting in the easy chair at home, blankly watching TV.
“Well, eat something, then, Ian,” his mother nagged. “Or you’ll end up in Connor’s baby clothes.”
Connor shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth, refusing to pick sides. His mother was a saint, not just for having spent the past thirty-odd years married to his father but also for having weathered the storm that was his illness. A burden all three of them bore in their own silent ways.
“How’s the office boy working out?” his dad asked. “Fired him yet?”
Connor’s whole body stilled at the mention of Sam, and he felt a rush of tenderness.
Sam had left Connor’s apartment late on Friday—apologetic yet affectionate—after they’d spent the evening making out on Connor’s bed.
It was surprisingly refreshing to take sex off the table.
They’d lain together fully clothed, grinding and kissing like a pair of teenagers.
Sam had lingered at the front door as he was leaving, still bound to some self-imposed curfew, before turning back to kiss Connor full on the mouth, freezing time in place.
The entire night—the movie, the café, and later his apartment—had been unexpected, indescribable, the closest he’d come to living an Arctic Monkeys song.
Connor realized he was staring at his hands and looked up at his father, masking his expression.
“He’s doing just fine, thanks. And office boy isn’t a job. Try office manager, administrator—”
“Receptionist,” his dad cut in. “But we can’t call him that, can we?”
Connor gritted his teeth.
“That’s Lily’s son, isn’t it?” his mother asked.
Connor nodded. “We went to school together.”
“Well, there’s trouble,” his father remarked.
His mother tutted. “No, Ian, Lily’s boy made excellent grades and went off to college. She hasn’t said much about why he’s back.”
Connor recalled the way Mrs. Bryant’s eyes had welled up when she’d spoken of Sam at the supermarket. He hadn’t been brave enough to ask Sam about Austin, but there were tells the man was working through some things.
He’d tried not to show it, but Sam’s inability to communicate what he liked had unsettled him.
Sam seemed willing to go along with whatever he wanted.
Connor knew about the pressure to fit within a certain category of preferences.
He’d encountered it himself when he’d started meeting other men wanting to explore.
Sex and labels were inherently tied up in the gay experience, but perhaps because it had taken Connor so long to come to terms with who he was, he found himself unwilling to go along with what didn’t feel right.
And sex was supposed to feel right; as soon as it didn’t, it needed to stop.
He wondered if Sam had been in a situation where he felt unable to make that call—or if he’d done so, only for it to be ignored.
Then he remembered Plimmerton and the ridicule that had followed.
The denial of Sam’s refusal. Connor’s stomach clenched.
He had to make sure he was listening—even if what Sam was saying couldn’t be heard out loud.
“Anyway, I’m glad it’s all working out,” his mother said.
Connor nodded, concentrating on his dinner to avoid stepping on another mine.
“Earnings were up last month,” his father said to no one in particular. “Does that have anything to do with Mr. College Degree?”
Connor swallowed a mouthful of food. “It does, actually. Sam’s set up a website and automated our booking tool. He’s also a bit of a whiz with digital marketing, which has brought in some new customers.”
“Is that right? Maybe he should be running the business.”
Connor felt the familiar stab of resentment. It was a well-worn groove his father had been tending for years. He turned to give his dad a wide smile. “Maybe he should.” Then he lowered his head and continued to eat his meat and potatoes in silence.
Sam collapsed back onto his pillow. Even in the throes of release, he pricked his ears for a creak from the hall, the soft thud of a door closing, anything that might signal his parents were near.
One hand still gripped the hem of his T-shirt, which he’d yanked up quickly to avoid being streaked by the mess cooling on his stomach.
In many ways, moving home had felt like a regression, and sure enough, here he was—reliving his horny adolescence.
Sam blamed Connor. Since their first kiss, his body had roused from hibernation and forcibly reasserted itself.
He’d rushed home from Connor’s apartment on Friday night, thrumming with unmet need.
Connor’s slow, deep kisses—his hands roaming over Sam’s clothes—had gotten him so worked up he’d headed straight to his room and frantically jerked off, coming in record time.
Now it was Sunday night, and all he could think about was Connor—the firm press of his limbs, the dizzying heat of him, how he’d brought his mouth to Sam’s ear, imparting a low murmur of shiver-inducing commentary.
God, he knew what he wanted. He’d just let his insecurities get in the way.
It was like his body and his mind couldn’t get on the same page. At least not at the same time.
Sam cleaned up in the bathroom and straightened his clothes, staring at his flushed face in the mirror above the sink.
He waited until his pupils were a little less dilated before sneaking downstairs to raid the fridge.
His parents were watching TV in the living room, and snippets of canned studio laughter filtered in from the next room.
He was making himself a sandwich when his dad stepped into the kitchen and pulled out a seat across from him at the counter.
“Samuel.”
“Hmm?” Sam attempted to appear nonchalant as he opened the lid on a jar of pickles, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his postnut glow might as well be advertised with a neon sign.
“I’d like you to call your sister.”
“I’m not going to apologize.” Sam speared a pickle from the jar with a fork.
“I’m not asking you to. I just think you should call her.”
“And say what? Thanks for being so supportive?” He snorted and sliced the pickle in half lengthwise.
“She cares in her own way.”
Sam glanced up to catch his father’s stern expression.
It had always been like this—his dad siding with Georgia and his mom coming to his defense.
Maybe his dad saw himself in her. Focused and pragmatic, Georgia was not inclined to emotion and more concerned with barefaced facts.
Neither his father nor his sister seemed thrown by life’s many complexities.
They simply powered through, arms swinging.
His dad had always met Sam where he was, not bothering to waste time with what-ifs. He’d happily paid for theater camp and hadn’t pushed Sam into Little League—despite his love for the sport—or made him tag along on one of his many fishing expeditions.
That didn’t mean Sam hadn’t internalized the expectations.
His father was his earliest example of what it meant to be a man.
Of course Sam had compared himself and seen how he measured up—emotional, easily rattled, eager to please.
His dad was none of those things. In that way, Sam understood Connor’s dilemma.
Ian Finnegan had made his expectations crystal clear.
Sam felt a newfound respect for Connor, who’d seen his father’s example and decided he could do better.
Sam sighed and placed the slices of pickle on his sandwich. “Fine, I’ll talk to her.”
“That’s the spirit. You’re better at these things than she is. Finding a middle ground. Knowing what’s really important.” His dad rapped his fingers against the countertop. “You know, I admire your grit, Sam.”
Grit?
“You’ve had your share of difficulties, but you always get back on your feet,” his father went on. “You should be proud of yourself. I am.”
Sam stared down at his plate, touched. “Thanks, Dad.”
“All right. Well, I think we’re done here.” His father slapped his palms on the counter and got to his feet as though adjourning a work meeting.
Sam couldn’t help but smile. His dad wasn’t one for subtlety.
When he got back to his room, he grabbed his phone and called his sister before he could talk himself out of it.
“What?” Georgia said when she picked up. Sam took that as a good sign. She could have just hung up.
“Dad told me to call you.”
She gave an indignant huff. “Typical.”
Whenever Sam spoke to Georgia, it was like they were kids again. Neither of them seemed able to shake their entrenched positions after years of the same arguments.
“Anyway,” he continued pointedly. “I know you don’t care, but I’m fine, okay? So back off.”
“You’re deluded. I’m going to spell it out: If you take too much time off, you fuck up your trajectory. No one’s going to hire you with a giant gap in your résumé.”
“It’s not a gap; I’m working.”
“What you’re doing isn’t work,” she snapped. “It’s goofing off.”
If she only knew, Sam thought wryly.
“Look, I’ve got a bunch of contacts in the city—marketing, PR, promotion. I can ask around, get a feel for what’s out there.”
Sam had to acknowledge it was a nice—albeit misguided—gesture on his sister’s part. “Is this your attempt at an apology?”
“Why would I need to apologize?” she replied archly. “You’re the one who told me to fuck off.”
“Because you were being a bitch.”
“Here that’s considered a good thing.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not looking for another job right now.”
“Really? Because Oakdale’s such a boomtown?”
“I’ll keep it in mind, okay?”
“Just don’t get too comfortable, Sam,” she warned. “Remember, you don’t belong there. You never did. Mom and Dad don’t seem to get that, but I do.”
Sam swallowed. It was hard to pretend Georgia’s words didn’t brush a little too close to the truth.