Chapter Twenty-Two
Sam sat at his mom’s craft desk and flipped through the pages of the old screenplay Brian had given him.
It was equal parts ridiculous and endearing, like peering through a portal into the past. He cringed as he read the halting dialogue with its clunky undertones written by a pair of kids who thought they were being provocative.
The story was derivative, an homage to the movies he and Brian were into at the time.
But it also reminded Sam of another version of himself—freer, imaginative, less concerned about what people thought. Maybe Brian was onto something.
On the bed, Sam’s phone began to ring. It was Connor. He picked it up. “Hey.”
“Hey, Sam, uh...” Connor sounded oddly panicked. “I have no clue what to wear tonight. I’m kind of freaking out over here.”
The week had flown by, and while Connor seemed blasé about the impending awards ceremony, Sam had a feeling he was more nervous than he let on.
Admittedly, Sam had been a little pushy putting him forward like that, but he thought it would be good for Connor to step out of his comfort zone.
And he had. He’d even kept his word to Sam and invited his parents.
That might explain the panic. Sam could understand why having his dad in the audience was more nerve-racking for Connor than the actual results.
“Thought you didn’t care about this thing,” he teased.
“Yeah, yeah,” Connor muttered. “But I don’t want to be the only guy who shows up looking like an electrician.”
“Do you want me to help pick something out?”
“Yes, please.”
Sam laughed. “It’s cute how frazzled you are. I’ll be over in fifteen, okay?”
When Sam arrived at Connor’s apartment, he found the man’s wardrobe empty and its contents strewn across the bed.
“This is what I wore to my grandfather’s funeral,” Connor said, picking up a boxy black suit from the pile. A red-and-gray-striped tie was looped around the hanger.
Sam made an idle murmur, not wanting to reject it out of turn before he’d seen the state of Connor’s remaining clothes.
“It’s a start. Let’s see what else you’ve got.
” He waded through T-shirts, double-kneed work pants, sportswear, and swim trunks before coming across a couple of decent-looking button-downs.
“With your skin tone, you should really avoid light pastels,” Sam said absently as he flicked through the shirts. “Stick to cream, navy, warm browns.”
Connor chortled. “What is that, color theory?”
“It’s a science,” Sam huffed, but his cheeks warmed as he realized he’d let his guard down. He felt so relaxed around Connor he’d forgotten to censor his weird little quirks.
“I’m not making fun,” Connor assured him and gave Sam’s earlobe a playful tweak. “I am but your humble student. Teach me your ways.”
“The trick is, not everything has to match. They call it spezzato—a broken suit.” Sam pulled out a cream-colored shirt and paired it with the black slacks from the funeral suit. “If you have another jacket in here somewhere, we might be onto something.”
Sure enough, under a pile of record-store tees, they found a tan blazer. “Try this on.” He ushered Connor into the bathroom with the pieces they’d selected. “See if it works.”
When Connor emerged, he was grinning broadly, looking very sharp in his new ensemble. Sam stepped over to smooth the tuck of the shirt and straighten the buttons on the collar.
“I never would have put this together!” Connor turned to admire himself in the mirror on the closet door.
Sam smiled. “What color ties do you have?”
Connor looked sheepish. “Just the funeral one.”
“Let’s go for a dark blue. I’ll lend you one of mine.” Sam rummaged through his bag. He’d brought a few along with him—the only item in his wardrobe that Connor could fit. Sam looped the tie around Connor’s neck and began on the knot. He had to think carefully as he did the routine in reverse.
When he was done, Connor stood back and looked again in the mirror. He smoothed out the fabric of the jacket, unable to hide his smile. “Wow.”
Sam couldn’t get over the difference. He looked like the kind of man who would catch his eye on the streets of Austin, buoyed by blind confidence and good looks. Sam was glad Connor liked what he saw—a version of himself untethered to the weight of his responsibilities.
Connor wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and nuzzled against his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered in Sam’s ear.
“You’re most welcome,” Sam replied, a tingle shooting down his spine. “You look great.” He tilted his chin, and Connor captured Sam’s mouth with a rumble of pleasure.
“How late is it?” Connor murmured against his lips.
Sam gave a soft chuckle, and his hand slipped to the buckle of Connor’s belt. “We have time.”
When Connor’s mother opened the front door, her eyebrows shot up, and she stepped back to take him in. “You look so handsome, honey!”
Sam had done an amazing job trawling through his wardrobe and selecting the perfect outfit for the ceremony.
Not too formal, but a considerable departure from his utility pants and work boots.
He recalled the look on Sam’s face when he’d donned the suit, as though he himself had been surprised at the outcome.
Then Sam had proven just as fastidious at getting Connor out of it.
Connor tried not to linger over the memory of Sam kneeling before him.
Connor had slid his fingers through the man’s silky hair, and his toes had curled in pleasure at the little noises Sam made as he drew Connor in and out of his mouth.
After emerging from the blissful haze of his release, he’d practically fallen over himself in his rush to return the favor.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, stepping past her into the hall. “You guys almost ready?” Connor had offered to pick up his parents that evening so they could all head over to city hall together.
His mother frowned. “I am, but your father needs some convincing.” She strode down the hallway to the living room, where his father sat scowling in his easy chair. He wore slacks and a white button-down shirt, but his suit jacket and tie remained on the hanger hooked over the curtain rail.
“Need a hand with your jacket, Dad?” Connor thought he’d given himself plenty of time but hadn’t counted on his dad dragging his feet. He wondered if it was his father’s way of boycotting the whole thing.
“I’m not an invalid,” his dad retorted with a huff.
“Okay.” Connor removed the tie and jacket from the hanger and passed the tie to his father. “Then let’s get on with it. We need to be there by seven.”
His father grumbled, taking the tie from him and looping it around his neck.
Connor tried not to look away as the man clumsily tucked it under his collar, even though the sight of him struggling with such a simple task was painful to witness.
Once, he’d stood back in awe while his dad worked on a live circuit without so much as a tremor.
Now it took all of Connor’s self-control not to step in and tie the damn thing for him.
His mother possessed no such restraint. She clicked over in her heels, wrangled the tie from his dad’s uncertain grip, and made quick work of the knot. “There,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Connor will help you into your jacket, and we can get moving. I don’t want to be late for his big night.”
Connor draped the jacket over his arm, masking his discomfort. “It’s not my night, and chances are I won’t end up winning anything.”
“That’s what I was telling her,” his father said. “But she’s convinced you’re nominated for the goddamn Oscars.”
“There’s nothing wrong with celebrating our son’s success,” his mom said curtly. “Now, up you get.”
His dad gave a grunt then reached for his walker and pulled himself to his feet.
“The chair’s still in the trunk. It’s probably easier if we take our car,” his mother said as she went to get her coat.
Connor held out the jacket for his father to slide one arm and then the other through the sleeves.
The balance and coordination required proved challenging, and he felt a twinge of concern.
When they first got the diagnosis, the doctor had reassured them that his dad was still a long way off from having to rely on a wheelchair.
But his father had defied expectations and proven the outlier to those odds.
“You don’t have to come,” Connor said quietly as he straightened the shoulders of the jacket. “I can tell Mom you’re not feeling up to it.” His motives were self-serving. He figured it would give his dad a way out while also keeping him from ruining the event for everyone else.
But his father lurched away from him, the legs of his walker tapping defiantly against the floor. “Nonsense. I’m fine.”
Connor stood and watched as his father made his way down the hall, the man’s body stiff with denial.