CHAPTER 2. Connor
The highway stretches ahead of us, gray and flat, cutting through the early spring green creeping back into the trees. Noah hasn’t said a word in twenty-seven minutes. I know because I checked the clock at the last exit sign and then again five miles later.
It’s strange. In the two years I’ve lived across the hall, I’ve never known Noah Caldwell to be quiet for longer than thirty seconds.
He’s the type who narrates his grocery unpacking loud enough that I catch every item through the thin walls.
Who swears at the coffee table when he walks into it.
Who once tried to negotiate with his smoke detector after burning toast at midnight.
His anxiety usually carries through the walls too—the pacing, the muttering, the way he fills every bit of silence like he can’t stand it.
Now he’s just staring out the passenger window, watching the city give way to open fields, his face set in a way I haven’t seen before. Whatever’s waiting at the end of this drive, he isn’t looking forward to it.
As we get farther from the city, traffic thins to a handful of cars and a truck hauling lumber. Noah shifts in his seat and lets out a quiet breath.
“You okay?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Hm? Yeah. Fine. Great. Totally fine,” he says, all in one breath.
Right. Very convincing.
I don’t push.
The indie rock station he put on hums in the background. My eyes drift to the cup holder, where a neatly folded sheet of paper sits awkwardly between us. Noah hasn’t mentioned it. I haven’t either. But we both know what it is.
The Instruction Sheet.
It appeared under my door last night around eleven.
I know because I’d just finished dinner—leftover curry that somehow was even better the second day—and was settling in for a few rounds of Dead by Daylight before bed, which is a multiplayer horror game I’m objectively bad at but continue to play anyway, even though it reliably ruins my mood.
As I turned on my computer, I heard the soft rustle of paper sliding across the threshold, followed by retreating footsteps that were trying very hard to be quiet but failing completely.
I’m sure Noah has many talents, but stealth isn’t one of them.
I picked up the paper. It was a meticulously formatted document that could have passed for corporate onboarding materials.
“THE INSTRUCTION SHEET,” it read at the top, in bold fourteen-point font.
Below that, organized into neat sections with headers and bullet points, was everything I apparently needed to know in order to convincingly date Noah Caldwell for seventy-two hours.
BASIC INFORMATION
Family / Work
Parents: Daniel and Caroline Caldwell
Father: runs Caldwell Holdings (real estate development)
Mother: former math teacher, now serves on several charity boards
Sister: Maya Caldwell (professional hockey player)
Me (Noah Caldwell): Fundraising Coordinator at Second Chance Animal Rescue
I huffed a quiet laugh when I saw that he’d specified his own name, because of course he did. Just in case. I’m not even sure he knows whether I know it, which for some reason makes it funnier. I actually caught myself smiling at the page.
Important Context
Rick Scott is my ex.
The Scotts (his family) and the Caldwells (my family) have been close friends for years.
My relationship with Rick was secret. Never mention this!
Rick’s family does not know he dated me.
My family knows I’m gay, but they do not know about Rick.
Rick is currently dating Cassidy Whitmore (daughter of his father’s longtime business partner).
Things I Like
Dogs and cats (no preference). Also piglets.
Oat milk.
Sushi.
Reading (thrillers and fantasy).
I paused there. I’m fairly certain I’ve seen him more than once carrying romance novels with those pastel, flowery covers. Not that I care. It’s just funny that he edits that part out.
The gym (purely for health reasons).
Brazilian phonk.
Things I Hate
Mushrooms (texture issue, not taste).
Being late.
Country music.
Golf.
The smell of artificial banana (still wrong after COVID).
Allergies
None life-threatening.
Mild lactose sensitivity.
Fears
Heights (strong).
Falling (strong).
Claustrophobia (moderate).
Agoraphobia (very mild).
Trypophobia (not technically a fear, just visually unpleasant).
I paused again, because of course he rated them. He absolutely looks like someone who would assign intensity levels to his own fears.
You and Me
We’ve been dating for a couple of months.
We met at a coffee shop.
We’re serious about each other. Also—in love.
You think I’m cool and funny.
Do Not Mention!
That I hired you.
That I used to date Rick.
That Rick is gay.
I read the whole thing twice, then let out a low laugh that echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t just the precision that got me. It was what sat underneath it. The need to control every variable. The quiet fear of being humiliated. Of being exposed.
I know something about that fear.
The sheet ended with a precise departure time (9:00 a.m.), a meeting spot (the hall outside our doors), and an estimated drive time (2 hours and 47 minutes, “without traffic or stops”).
Instead of texting him or sliding a note back under his door, I walked across the hall and knocked. Three short raps.
He opened it so fast I wondered if he’d been standing right behind it, waiting.
His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends like he’d just showered. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a faded blue T-shirt with a cartoon corgi on it that read Ask Me About My Rescue Dog, even though I’m fairly sure he doesn’t actually have one. He was barefoot.
“Oh,” he said, eyes widening. “Hi. Connor. You’re—here.”
I held up the sheet. “Got your briefing.”
“Right. Yes. That.” He swallowed. “Sorry if it’s…too much. I just thought you should have some background. So you’re not walking in completely blind.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I just wanted to confirm logistics. Your note says we’re leaving at nine.”
“Yes. Nine. Tomorrow. Is that okay? I can be flexible if you need—”
“Nine works,” I cut in before he could spiral any further. “Whose car are we taking?”
“Mine. Or yours. I don’t care.” He shifted back a step, making space for me in the doorway, even though I hadn’t moved. “I can drive. Or you can. Whatever you prefer. I’m good either way.”
“Let’s take my car. I’ll drive,” I said. Better than sitting in the passenger seat with nothing to do but talk.
“Great. Perfect. Thank you.” He nodded a few times too many.
“And I’ll pay for gas, obviously. And tolls.
And anything else. It’s the least I can do since you’re—” He gestured vaguely, color rising in his cheeks, like the words pretending to be my boyfriend to make my ex jealous because I’m still not over him were too embarrassing to say out loud.
“It’s fine,” I said again, because it was. “I’ll see you at nine.”
I turned to leave, but he stopped me.
“Connor?”
I looked back.
“Thank you,” he said, softer this time. “Really. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything yet,” I said, smiling.
His eyes met mine for a second, then slipped away. I’ve noticed he does that—breaks eye contact when he’s nervous. Looks at your chin. Your shoulder. The space just above your head. Anywhere but directly at you.
“Yes, I do.”
“No problem,” I said.
What I didn’t say—what I kept to myself as I walked back to my apartment—was that this version of Noah didn’t quite line up with the one I thought I knew.
The shyness. The over-preparing. The way he apologizes for things that don’t need apologizing. I’d suspected some of it from the glimpses I’d caught over the years. But I hadn’t seen the pain before. The quiet hurt in his eyes that he tries so hard to hide.
Seeing it caught me off guard. It made me want to understand it. To ease it, maybe. To see what he looks like when he isn’t wound so tight.
That’s not why I agreed to play his boyfriend, though.
The real reason has nothing to do with Noah. It has everything to do with Mr. James Harrington in Room 412 at St. Vincent Hospital.
Eighty-eight years old. Congestive heart failure complicated by COPD.
He’d been my patient for six months. I adjusted his medications weekly, monitored his labs, tweaked his oxygen settings when needed.
Managed what could be managed. It bought time and kept things stable for a while, but it was never going to reverse anything.
He didn’t have any family left. Just stories. Stories about his childhood, the war, his sister who died from leukemia, and a woman he almost married but didn’t. He called every nurse and doctor “sweetheart,” regardless of gender, and somehow made it sound affectionate instead of patronizing.
He died on Sunday night. It wasn’t unexpected. Just the quiet end of something that had been tapering off for a while.
Still, it hit me harder than I thought it would.
When I got home after that shift, I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling for hours. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even turn on my computer.
The next morning, Dr. Patel found me in the break room, staring at a patient chart long after I’d finished reading it.
She took one look at me and said, “When was the last time you took a day off, O’Reilly?”
I couldn’t remember.
“You’ve got vacation days piling up,” she continued, not waiting for my answer. “Take a week. Starting Thursday. That’s not a suggestion.”
I tried to argue. Pointed out we were already short-staffed. Said I was fine.
“Connor,” she said, using my first name, which she only does when she’s annoyed with me, “you need a break before you break. Go home. Rest. And stop pissing me off.”
So I found myself with seven unexpected days off and nowhere to go but my apartment.
Traveling wasn’t an option. When I’m sightseeing or wandering around somewhere new, there’s nothing to drown out my thoughts. At work, or with a game running, or a show playing in the background, they stay manageable. But walking through a city with nothing but time? That’s when they get loud.
And it’s an even worse idea to travel with them when I’ve just lost a patient.