Chapter Thirty
“You being here has significantly upped the nutritional quota of these meals,” Brian said as he stirred a pan of vegetable soup on the stove in his kitchen. “My repertoire consists almost entirely of chicken nuggets and sloppy joes.”
Sam arranged the potatoes he’d just finished chopping onto an oven tray and covered them with a sprinkle of salt. “Glad to be of service.”
Ellie was in the nursery, napping, while Matty watched cartoons in the living room.
Sam and Brian had spent the afternoon prepping a week’s worth of hot meals and frozen dishes for Connor and his mom, who’d practically been living at the hospital for the past three days.
With Brian’s help, Sam had spearheaded a meal train with their group of friends, and together, they’d devised a schedule so that for the next month at least, the Finnegan family wouldn’t have to worry about cooking.
Sam was glad to have something practical to do.
Sitting around in that waiting room, not knowing what to expect or how to help, had been hard.
He’d brought a pack of cards one day and Scrabble the next, but Connor had been too distracted to play.
Instead, he seemed to enjoy listening to Sam talk.
He wanted to know about everything—what Sam had been like as a kid, whether he got on with his sister, his experience attending UNL.
“I feel like I’ve just been going on and on about myself,” Sam protested at one point, to which Connor had given an adamant shake of his head.
“I could listen to you talk about yourself all day.”
The previous day, Sam’s mom had joined them at the hospital with blankets and brownies, and her shrewdly funny observations about people in town added some much-needed levity to their vigil.
“You know not everyone would be this cool, right?” Brian asked, pausing his stirring to turn to Sam. “Stepping in to help even after you guys called things off.”
Sam tried to hide his embarrassment. “He told you?”
“Not willingly. I had to force it out of him. With wheedling and wine.”
Sam surveyed the array of ingredients splayed out across the counter so he didn’t have to look at Brian’s face. “Yeah, well, he would do the same in a heartbeat.”
“Hundred percent. That’s our boy.”
“And it was me who called things off.”
“I gathered as much.”
The good news was that Ian’s condition was finally improving, and if he continued to make progress, the doctors were considering bringing him out of the coma in the next few days.
Whether he would make a full recovery was still unclear, and then there was the issue of how to prevent this from happening again.
MS would continue to weaken Ian’s muscles and affect his ability to carry out regular functions like chewing and feeding himself.
His hospitalization had led to a larger discussion about how to best take care of him as his disability became more pronounced.
Sam saw how heavily that weighed on Connor.
While Ian had made it through the worst of the infection, it was a reminder to Sam of just how serious his disease was and how much of a toll it took on Connor and his family.
Because Ian would never get better. He could only manage his ever-changing symptoms.
Sam had come away with a new understanding of what Connor had been up against all these years. While he still felt strongly about not living a lie, he couldn’t help but regret pitting himself against Connor’s dad.
“What are you mulling over?” Brian asked, pulling Sam from his thoughts.
Sam realized he was standing at the counter with a wooden spoon in his hand, staring into space.
“Nothing,” he replied instinctively then backtracked, opting for honesty instead.
He was trying to get better at sharing his feelings and not keeping them bottled up inside.
But to do that, he had to practice. “Just about how hard this is for Connor. He’s always so pragmatic, but how can any of this be easy?
He has dreams too—things he wants to do. ”
Brian gave a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, it’s tough to figure out what’s going on in that head of his. You did, though—you brought something out in him. It seemed like he was coming to terms with some of the stuff he’s been avoiding.”
Sam fought a tug of shame. “But I made him choose. I told him we couldn’t be together if he wasn’t out. That wasn’t fair.”
“I think it’s fair—to who you are and what you need.
And maybe what Connor needs as well. What if he needs a bit of a push to fully realize the stakes?
Maybe it’s time he chose between his cover and the person he’s completely nuts about—” Brian busied himself adjusting the settings on the stove.
“Whoops. Just ignore me over here, meddling away.”
Sam’s face had gone hot. “He said that?”
“Come on, Sam. It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain how much he likes you. How great you guys are for each other.”
Sam tried hard not to smile, knowing how hopelessly goofy he looked. He placed the wooden spoon on the cutting board and deftly changed the subject. “Hey, while I’m here, can I check out your graphic novel?”
“Why, Mr. Bryant, I thought you’d never ask!
” Brian said in a breathy Southern accent.
He turned the soup down to a simmer and peered over at Matty—engrossed in his TV show—then gestured for Sam to follow him.
“Let me show you to my lair.” They climbed the stairs, and Brian led him to a small study at the end of the hallway.
“Jules gifted me this space when we bought the house. She thought it was only fair I had an office, considering she gets to escape to hers every day.”
Brian flicked on the light, and they stepped inside.
An old wooden desk sat in the center of the room, and the walls were lined with shelves groaning under the weight of hundreds of books and figurines.
Brian opened a large black sheet protector on the desk, and Sam began to flip through.
Each sleeve contained a hand-colored series of panels with funky-shaped dialogue bubbles and sound effects punching through the borders.
It was fun and pulpy and crazy good. Sam had kind of been expecting rough sketches and napkin scribbles, but this was high-quality work.
“Brian, this is excellent!”
“I’ve got most of the first volume done and an outline for the second.
I wanted to have it all mapped out before approaching anyone with the concept.
I was actually hoping you’d take a look at the storyboard.
It would be nice to have another head to knock against, maybe tease out some ideas.
It seemed to work pretty well in the past.”
Sam looked up at him. “You’re serious?”
“As much as I love whittling away at my little project, I’ve always enjoyed the collaboration more. Where the story kind of morphs into something I couldn’t have come up with on my own.”
Sam grinned. “Of course I’d be honored, even just to see where you’re taking it next.”
“No pressure, man. I heard you were looking to leave town, so I don’t want to put any more on your plate.”
“Right,” Sam said, glancing down at the folder of illustrations. Not for the first time since abandoning his flight to Chicago, he felt a pull of resistance. Like Oakdale was tugging him back. And perhaps he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave after all.
Connor removed the photo from his wallet and stared at it.
He almost didn’t recognize himself—the giddy grin and how completely besotted he looked gazing at Sam beside him.
The photo had captured a version of himself—perhaps the most honest one—that had existed for only a second and then—poof!
—was gone. He missed that Connor. He missed how happy he’d been. He missed them.
His thoughts returned to the evening several days prior when he and Sam had held each other outside the hospital. His life felt like a bad dream, days and nights slipping and sliding together, but he remembered Sam’s words: “Right now, this is the only place I need to be.”
What exactly did he mean by that?
Sam reappeared at the doors to the waiting room and swung them open with his shoulder as he balanced two sandwiches, a selection of candy bars, and two coffees in his hands. Connor slipped the photo back and pocketed his wallet.
“Okay, hopefully there’s something in here that you like,” Sam said as he unloaded his haul onto the table in front of Connor.
“Just coffee’s fine.”
Connor barely had the energy to chew. At his mother’s insistence, he’d been going home to sleep but only managed a couple of hours before jolting awake in a panic, thinking he was still back in the waiting room.
He’d spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling until it was time to get dressed and pick up his mom so they could return to the hospital.
The first night after his dad was admitted, his mother had insisted on sleeping in one of the reclining chairs in the ICU.
Connor had swung by his parents’ place to grab some clothes and toiletries for her.
It was eerie to see the house just as they’d left it—coffee gone cold on the kitchen table, the remnants of breakfast still by the sink, his dad’s slippers by his chair.
Connor walked around, tidying things up so his mom wouldn’t be reminded of that terrifying morning when she returned.
At the time, a part of him had been convinced his father wasn’t ever going to come home.
Sam handed Connor one of the molten takeout cups and took a seat beside him, nursing his own. “Are you sure you don’t want to be in there?” he asked, tilting his chin toward the doors that led to the patient rooms.
Connor preferred to stay out in the bustling waiting area filled with bright lights and people talking. It was too hard to sit in the quiet little room and see his dad like that. “I’ll go back and check on my mom in a bit.”
Sam nodded. He picked up a candy bar and unwrapped one end then took a small bite.
Connor wasn’t sure why watching Sam eat was soothing, but it was.
Sam had been a lifeline over the past few days.
He’d brought Connor food and tried to distract him with games and stories.
Other times, they just sat together in silence, Sam holding Connor’s hand in his lap.
The previous morning, Connor and his mom had been driving to the hospital when his phone started buzzing in a series of short repetitive bursts, like he was receiving a tide of incoming alerts.
He pulled it out of his pocket at the next red light and saw that Sam had rescheduled all his jobs, clearing his schedule for the rest of the week.
In the wake of Sam’s sudden departure, Connor had forgotten to ask him to hand in his key to the office.
“Do I have chocolate on my face?” Sam asked, swiping at his mouth.
Connor jolted back to the present. He must have been staring.
He shook his head and averted his gaze. It was hard to imagine that a little over a week ago, he could have reached out and brushed Sam’s lips with his thumb.
He loved how soft and plump they were and how they reddened when Connor kissed them.
He looked down at his coffee instead. The mouthful he’d swallowed turned to acid in his throat.
Connor had spent so long playing it safe that he was on the verge of heading into his thirties with nothing to show for it.
He hadn’t traveled or lived with someone, hadn’t moved out of state or been in a long-term relationship.
At least he’d had his heart broken. He could cross that one off the list.
“A couple years ago, when my gran was in the hospital...” Sam picked at the chocolate bar as though he, too, had lost interest in eating.
“My family did this thing where we each shared something about her we were thankful for. At first, I sat there fuming. What did we have to be thankful for when she was lying there sick, maybe about to die? She didn’t, by the way,” he rushed to add, catching the terror that flashed across Connor’s face.
“But it actually kind of helped. Then when I started therapy, my therapist gave me this assignment to write down two things I was grateful for at the end of each day. I didn’t take it too seriously, just kind of typed out a few words in my Notes app.
And sometimes when I look back at them, it makes me feel better. ”
“Will you read me one? I’m not feeling super grateful right now,” Connor admitted.
“Uh, sure.” Sam dug into his pocket for his phone and pulled it out. He scrolled for a bit, his forehead crinkling. “Okay, this one’s legible: Tom Cruise circa Risky Business, extracrispy french fries.”
Connor couldn’t help himself. He let out a snort of laughter. “I’m sorry.”
Sam grinned. “Count yourself lucky I’m willing to humiliate myself for your amusement.”
“Another, please.”
“Let’s see... oh, this one has three. That was a good day. Hot showers, cookies right out of the oven, Mandy Moore’s first album.”
“Ugh, So Real was so good. You’re right, this does make me feel a bit better.”
Sam scrolled some more. “Stars on a clear night, holding Connor’s hand.” A blush spread across his cheeks. “A lot of the next ones are about you.”
“Right.” Connor felt it again, the painful twist in his stomach.
Sam kept his eyes fixed on the screen, scrolling down with his thumb. “Ah, nope, that’s X-rated...”
“Now I definitely want to hear it.” Connor’s phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up and saw a message from his mom in all caps. “They’re going to wake him. They’re going to wake up my dad.” He put down his coffee and leapt to his feet then stopped, turning to Sam.
“Go on,” Sam said with a hopeful smile. “Don’t worry about me—I’ll wait here.”
Connor sprinted down the corridor to his father’s room.
The door was open, and several nurses were going in and out.
He snaked between them and found his mom standing by his dad’s side, holding his hand, as his father blinked rapidly.
A doctor stood nearby, making notes on a chart.
Connor froze, overcome by a searing anger.
He wasn’t sure who he was angry at—his dad or himself.
Then his father turned his face toward him, and the noise in Connor’s head went silent.
Connor saw the gleam of tears in the man’s eyes, and the next thing he knew, he was kneeling beside the bed, a sob rising in his throat.
His dad was still muted by the tube in his mouth, but he reached for Connor’s shoulder and clasped it tight.