DELANEY
Mrs. Crane has foolishly turned the reins over to me for one section of freshmen choir. Forty fourteen year olds just trying to check off their music credit needed to graduate, with a dumb, publicly scorned pop star in charge.
It should be a fucking nightmare. They're loud in a very unproductive way, most of them can’t carry a tune to save their lives, and, even though I’ve been at Ridgecrest for weeks now, they can’t seem to stop sneaking out their phones to take pictures of me.
It should be a nightmare, but I love it.
I’ve been practicing all their warmups on my keyboard at home and even taught them a new one.
Mrs. Crane let me pick out a few songs for them to work on, and all the students raved over my choices.
I can say with certainty that the rush I got from their approval is better than any high I’ve ever gotten from performing.
“Miss James, at first I thought it was gonna be weird having you here,” a bright eyed girl named Jessie gushes, “but it’s actually cool. You’re, like, a really good teacher.”
Her surrounding girl squad nods, and sure, maybe they’re feeding me a line so I’ll let them cut out of class a few minutes early, but damn it, my ego grows a few sizes under their praise.
“Y’all make it easy,” I drawl. “I like being here.”
The words tumble out before I can decide if they’re honest or not. As the bell rings and I join the horde of students hustling down the hallway, I decide it is true.
I like the nostalgia seeped into the bones of the building. I like the easy camaraderie between the teachers, always ready to roll their eyes at Rutledge. And I like the students. They’ve weaseled their way through the cracks in my walls, and I’ve found myself looking forward to working with them.
Teenagers get a bad rep. Yeah, they can be a little mouthy, a little sneaky, and awfully stubborn. But more than anything, they’re all just a little misunderstood. And I sure as hell know what that feels like.
I hustle out with the students toward the faculty lounge. After weeks of crappy coffee, I caved and ordered a fancy espresso machine for the lounge, and it’s been a hit.
“Fucking hell,” a disgruntled voice says as I enter the room. Wells smashes the buttons on the coffee maker aggressively.
With a laugh, I rush in to help him. “Here, let me.” A few quick adjustments, and we’re met with the gentle hum of the espresso machine doing its job.
Wells blinks up at me. “Appreciate it.”
For a moment, I think he’s gonna take his coffee and run, but he lingers at the doorway while I reset the machine for my cup.
“You’ve been real good for Ridgecrest.” Wells nods, almost like he’s talking to himself.
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna get all sappy on me big guy. It’s just an upgraded coffee maker.”
His pointed look makes me squirm a little, and I try to shrug off the feeling that he can see deep into my soul.
“But it’s not just a fancy coffee machine, is it?
That new bus, the electric Blue Bird? I know we didn’t land a sustainability grant or whatever bullshit Rutledge told us.
” Wells gestures to his phone, continuing, “And I got an email this morning letting me know that Speedo is sending gear for my whole swim team. I know you’re the one behind that.
And hell, I know it’s shitty that your team had to pay for you to be here and all, but have you seen the upgrades they have planned?
Construction is starting over Christmas break. That’s all because of you”
I turn my attention to my drink, suddenly fascinated by latte art. “It’s no big deal,” I mumble into the golden foam. “I like being able to help out.”
Wells grunts from the doorway. “Like I said Delaney, you’re good for Ridgecrest.”
He turns on his heel and I’m left with a warm spot in my chest, an ache so tender it’s nearly painful.
I’ve been a lot of things over the years: opinionated, dynamic, selfish, reckless, a hot commodity, a hot mess.
But good?
I’ve never just been good before.
And I’m not sure how long I can keep this up.
“And then Remi put me on blast in front of the entire room and said I’m not doing my job well enough!”
Matty whines through the phone, but I can hardly focus on his words.
My eyes are glued just past the tree line separating my property from Connor’s.
He’s been swamped with work, both at the school and at the orchard.
And I’ve done all I can to keep myself busy too, to ignore all the feelings our trip out to Crescent Lake stirred up.
But an unfamiliar longing has set in, and after close inspection, I realize I’m desperate to see him.
He’s addicting.
And easy.
And yet, so damn hard.
I’m simultaneously drowning in him and anchored by him. Either way, my head’s underwater, and I’m not sure how I’ll survive this.
I pace by my window, locked on the horizon line as the sun sets. I keep expecting to see Connor’s bedroom light switch on, as if the surety of his presence will somehow dull the ache in my chest.
“Delaney? Are you even listening to me?” Matty squawks, bringing me back to the task at hand, talking him off the wall.
“Yeah, sorry. I know, Remi is a bitch. I’m sorry.” Another day, another cat fight between him and my manager. “I think you’re doing your job just fine, and I’m the one who signs your paychecks, so don’t worry about her.”
Matty huffs. “Thanks D. When are you coming home anyway?”
Home.
What a loaded question. My penthouse in L.A.
never felt like home. It’s more like a crash pad where I get my mail.
At this point, it’s a glorified storage container.
But this big, empty house in Ridgecrest isn’t much better.
This place feels like a museum with a thousand breakable things, myself included.
Before I can get too existential over Matty’s question, a warm glow finally catches my eye through the trees.
A glow that feels a lot like home.
“Delaney!” Matty screeches again through the phone. “L.A.? Soon? Please?”
“Sorry, Matty. I’m exhausted and scatterbrained. I’ll talk to Remi and get her off your ass. Not sure when I’ll be back out.” Before he can protest further, I add, “Love ya. Gotta go!”
I quickly hang up the call. He’s a piece of work. But so was I when I met him. Maybe I still am.
I’ll have to check with my therapist on that.
A loud knock from downstairs startles me and pulls my focus from the light outside my window.
I yank on a sweatshirt over my pajamas and run down the stairs, another knock bouncing off the empty walls.
The familiar scene of Connor standing at the back sliding door takes my breath away.
The porch light casts a warm glow around him, shadows dancing across his lazy smile.
He’s dressed down, a simple tee shirt and sweatpants, and my stomach flips at the memory of what’s underneath.
Crescent Lake was reckless, but the thought of letting Connor in my house right now… that feels dangerous.
“I thought you could use some supper,” He says, slipping past me with grocery bags in hand, completely unaware of the spell he has me under.
I will my racing heart to slow, will my jumble of thoughts to fall back into order.
But that feels nearly impossible when his arm brushes mine, turning my whole body electric.
Before I can protest, beg him to leave me and my wild thoughts alone, my stomach growls and Connor nods, clearly pleased with himself.
“That’s what I thought.”
He unpacks the bags, laying out a box of pasta, veggies, and frozen meatballs. “Nothing fancy tonight because I’m tired.”
“Contrary to what you think, Mr. Majors,” I say, heaving myself onto the counter beside him, desperate to be close despite my better judgement, “I don’t need fancy. We can just have cereal if you want.”
He cocks his head my way, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Now, Miss James, that is a tempting offer. But you know I only like Lucky Charms, and seeing as how you loathe them, I doubt you’ve got those on hand.”
Wordlessly, I hop down off the counter and cross the kitchen to open a cabinet. He tracks me as I walk back to him and place the box of his favorite cereal in front of him.
“I always have them,” I say simply. “It’s on my rider, too.”
Connor pops his mouth open, and I see him working my words over in his head. “What… what do you mean you always have them?”
“Lucky Charms. At every show. I always have a box in my dressing room. Keep them in my apartment, too. Just in case.”
“Delaney.” His voice is raw, knuckles turning white as he grips the counter behind him.
“I know, it’s so silly,” I stammer out. Connor’s eyes go wide, and I scramble to explain it away. “But I don’t know…” I shrug, “I just thought you’d probably want some if you ever came to see me.”
His eyes burn into mine, the moonlight bringing out the deep gold in them. “Every show?”
I can’t look away. “Every show,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
In an instant, his thick arms wrap around me, hauling me into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Connor mumbles into my hair, “I’m just so sorry for all the years of silence. Things here got so… hard after you left, and then it felt like it’d been too long, and I was finally okay again and…” His words fall out quickly. “God, I just… I can’t believe you did that for me.”
I wiggle out of his grasp enough to look up at him.
He meets my gaze with so much emotion it makes my knees weak.
I’ve seen Connor cry only once. We were seven and both got Razor scooters for Christmas.
We were doing tricks in my driveway, and he took a bad hit—scooter-to-ankle situation.
He broke down crying, then I started wailing too because he looked so sad.
The threat of tears now has my fear of intimacy flaring.
“Connor Majors, are you crying over Lucky Charms?” I tease, needing to lighten the mood.
He gives my arms a gentle squeeze. “No, Lanie, no. I’m crying because you didn’t give up on me when you really should have.”
Connor runs his fingers up and down my arms and leans in again. “Thank you.” His voice is thick with emotion, throat bobbing like there’s a cascade of words he still needs to say but can’t quite bring himself to get out.
I understand the feeling well.
“You’re welcome,” I manage to squeak out.
I’m acutely aware of how close we are to each other, and that sensation of danger surfaces again. Warning bells in my head go off, but my heart silences them. Connor drags his teeth over his lip, all while his hands wander their way up gently cup my face, and I nearly combust on the spot.
“We should… we need to…” I start, searching for what it is we ought to do.
Connor doesn’t break his gaze. He just stands there, hands pushing back to tangle in my hair, and waits for me to close the space between us. On a shaky exhale, I do.
I crash into his lips with a hunger that makes my movements clumsy and awkward, but he meets me with gentleness.
His kiss is honest, touching me in a way I’ve never known before.
There’s nothing performative about the way his thumb strokes my jaw, or in the greedy way his tongue pushed my lips apart, or in the moan that escapes us both when my hands find his hips and our bodies press closer.
This is the most honest we’ve ever been with each other.
“We should probably talk,” I breathe against his lips. “About… this.” I gesture at the nonexistent space between us, my chest rising and falling in time with my racing heart.
Connor surprises me by nipping at my bottom lip and tugging my hair to angle my face towards his. “I like you, you like me,” he says, dropping kisses down the side of my neck. “The whole world already thinks we’re dating. It’s time for us to start thinking it, too.”
“You make it sound so simple,” I murmur, my hands finding the back of his neck as he continues his path of kisses across my collarbone. I’m dizzy under his touch, and my brain can’t sort out why I thought things between us were complicated in the first place.
“It is simple.” Connor stops and stands to his full height again. “It can be simple, if we decide to keep it that way.”
Earnest brown eyes look down at me, so sure, so hopeful.
And fuck, the feel of his hands playing with the hem of my shirt combined with that look in his eyes… I’m a few seconds away from creating a whole future for us in my head.
But my phone on the counter interrupts my imagination. Connor tosses it to me, all the hope draining from his face.
“Looks like it's your dad.”
My hope disappears with his, sucked right out of the room by the crash of reality ringing in my hand.
“I better take it.” I swipe reluctantly to answer the call.
“Need you in L.A. tomorrow,” my dad says, bypassing a greeting. “You need to meet with Molly Jo.”
“Okay…” I start slowly, still trying to get my bearings, “I have to be at the school tomorrow until three, but I’ll fly out after.”
I can practically hear his eyes rolling.
“You have to be wherever I tell you to be. Flight’s already been booked, Delaney. This is nonnegotiable. Check your email for the details.”
The line goes dead.
Connor’s back is to me, refocused on finding bowls for the abandoned cereal.
“I have to fly out to L.A. tomorrow morning.”
Connor nods slowly, and I don’t miss the sag in his shoulders.
I close the space between us and wrap my arms around his waist. “Just for a few days. And then I’ll be back and we’ll try this simple thing again.”
I nearly choke on the lie, because nothing about this fragile connection between us will ever be simple, no matter how much we wish it could be.