Chapter 6
Chapter Six
IT FEELS LIKE THEN AGAIN
Gretchen
Confession: I went into today expecting a few awkward interactions with Connor, but mostly I’d planned to avoid him. Then, I swung open Drew’s door and he smiled at me.
In an instant, I relived every FaceTime call. Every late night conversation where we talked about everything and nothing. All the times he made me laugh so hard I cried.
That flicker of then had me smiling back, the now forgotten.
Being seated next to Reagan was the distance I needed to regain a level head. I did not need to be in proximity to Connor with all his chivalry and backwards ball cap.
I knew the drunk guy followed me up the stairs.
My fist was primed for a punch to his face when I felt a strange hand in mine.
But it was Connor. He was there, our fingers intertwined, and a rush of emotions careened through me.
A million feelings at once: I was annoyed, shocked, confused, angry, disappointed… safe.
By the time I exit the bathroom, something new clamps around my chest, its claws digging in: guilt. Regardless of all that’s unresolved between us, I overreacted to what was simply a sincere attempt to protect me.
Drew has taken my seat next to Reagan, arm thrown around her shoulders, which leaves me next to Connor. He doesn’t look up as I settle down into the seat beside him. The empty chairs next to Drew are a sure indicator that the drunk guys must have left.
We watch in silence as a few pitches are thrown and a batter strikes out, sending the game into the fourth inning.
Hands between my knees, I playfully lean into Connor’s shoulder, bouncing myself off him. He turns and a reluctant, regret-laced smile unfolds across his face before he nudges me back. I angle myself away from Drew and Reagan, pressing close so only Connor can hear me when I say, “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. You were right,” he whispers.
“No…I mean, yes. I was right.” I give him a sly smile. “But you were only trying to help and I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” I pause for a beat, throat tight. “I guess I’m confused?—”
Connor lurches to an upright position, eyes swinging to the row in front of us—to Drew. It’s not the time or place for this conversation.
The moment sobers and I shake the cobweb of thoughts away. “Whatever, just…I’m sorry,” I sputter out before I turn away and pretend to care about a baseball game.
During the seventh inning stretch, Connor announces he’s headed to the concession stand. After collecting Drew and Reagan’s orders, he turns to me.
“You?” he asks.
“No thanks, I’m good.”
He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”
I narrow my eyes right back. “I’m sure.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He returns ten minutes later with a lap box full of snacks.
“Hungry?” I tease .
He holds out a fresh Diet Coke, seemingly unaware of the still half-full soda resting in the cup holder between us. “You stopped drinking it in the fourth inning because the ice melted.”
Warmth flitters inside my chest. I place the watered-down cup on the ground behind my feet and take the fresh drink from him. “Thank you,” I say through a grin, my teeth clenched around the straw.
He bites back a smile, swigging his beer as he passes a bag of popcorn over Reagan’s shoulder.
A few minutes of comfortable silence pass as batter after batter step up to the plate.
I absently sip my soda every few seconds and Connor tips back his beer in tandem.
Without a word or even a look, he reaches into his pocket, whips out a bag of peanut butter M&Ms, and sets it on my knee, proud smirk in place.
Looking down at my favorite candy, I can’t help but smile at the gesture.
I waste no time before I rip into the bag. “This may say ‘share size’ but don’t get any ideas.”
Connor guffaws. “Please! Nobody wants to share that trash.”
“He’s not wrong,” Drew pipes in without so much as a backwards glance.
I clutch the candy to my chest. “Blasphemers!”
Connor chuckles as I pop a handful of the candies into my mouth.
I answer his throaty laugh with a pestering look as he pulls another swig from his beer.
I track the swallow that moves down his throat.
Our eyes catch. Heat and memories creep in before his gaze drops to my mouth.
The visible pulse point on his neck matches the rhythm of my own heart pounding wildly behind my sternum.
I clear my throat and avert my eyes, cutting the tension, as I reach for more candy.
Connor shifts in his seat until all points of bodily contact between us are lost. The change in his mood is palpable.
Jaw clenched, he removes his hat and pushes a hand through his hair before he takes another drink, his other hand flexing a few times on his knee.
I’m halfway through my M&Ms when Drew turns around to face us. “Let’s all go out after this,” he says .
“I can’t,” I answer. “I need to get back home to check on Mom’s cat.”
“I still can’t believe she got a cat. Dad hates cats.”
“Yeah, but he loves Mom, so…” I shrug.
“Your dad is such a lovesick little puppy. It’s adorable,” Reagan interjects.
“If you say so,” Drew and I say in unison, like the annoying siblings we are, and it makes the lot of us laugh.
My brother turns to Connor. “Vining? You wanna come to IHOP with us? Breakfast for dinner sounds hella good.”
“Nah, I’m gonna head home. Not really up for being a third wheel tonight.”
“You know, that wouldn’t be the case if you’d get your head out of your ass and work things out with Lauren,” Drew says, tone clipped.
Connor stares sharply at his best friend, unflinching. Drew ignores the warning with a shrug. “Well?”
Nobody is more curious than I am to know what happened between Connor and his long-term girlfriend, but he’s made it clear the subject is not up for discussion right now.
Reagan diverts the conversation, digging her forefinger and thumb into Drew’s bicep. “Drew! Leave him alone!”
“Ahhh! Shit, babe! Your nails penetrated my skin,” Drew cries as he grasps his injured arm.
I take a sip of soda to stifle my laugh.
“Yeah, not a good enough reason to use the word penetrate, man,” Connor offers, tone dry, posture stoic.
The snort shoots up my throat before I can contain it and I inhale soda into my nose.
My laughter breaks loose at the same time I gasp for air.
Choking, howling, who knows what’s happening, as I alternate between coughing up a lung and cackling like a hyena.
Reagan’s shoulders bounce and I turn to Connor whose expression is nothing short of proud amusement.
He knew exactly what that would do to me.
I clutch a hand to my chest, head thrown back in hysterical laughter.
Drew is far less amused. “Ok, I get the joke, Gretch. I didn’t realize it was that funny.” He looks to Connor for an explanation whose only response is two hands raised in surrender as if to say “don’t look at me.”
I press the heels of my hands over my eyes as laughing tears stream down my face. After a few seconds, I rally. Kind of. “I’m sorry. It’s not—” Another burst of laughter escapes. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
At that, Drew turns and sits back down.
I spin back to Connor who meets me with the goofiest grin—smug and silly. He and I both got his Pitch Perfect reference that was absolutely…pitch perfect. Within moments, my laughter’s back and, this time, Connor’s laughing, too.
And just like it did when I opened Drew’s door, it feels like then again.
When I make it back to Bloomington, it’s after dark.
Franny is fine. I’m pretty sure she could survive the apocalypse without me if her feline eyerolls are any indication. Her lack of interest in my company is astounding.
While I dish up the cat’s food, my mind wanders back to the events of the day.
Despite our interactions toggling between awkward and easy, being around Connor was…
nice. I still don’t know how to feel about everything and it’s obvious there’s still a physical attraction there, but maybe that’s all it is.
Maybe that’s all it ever was.
I don’t have the mental capacity to fall down the Connor rabbit hole right now, so I focus my thoughts on the trip.
I had an opportunity after the game to come clean to Drew.
The Uber dropped us all back at his building and Connor was gone a minute later, headed for his place a few blocks away.
Reagan bid me a quick goodbye before she went inside, leaving Drew and me on the sidewalk. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
Guilt coursed through me but was replaced by love just as quickly when he pulled me in for my all-time favorite brother hug— my arms around his waist, cheek resting against his chest and his chin on top of my head.
Even if I can’t get the words out until the last possible second, I know he’ll be there for me.
After I change into my pajamas and wash my face, I swap my contacts for glasses and return to the kitchen for some of Mom’s tuna casserole. Standing over the sink, I’ve eaten my way through a third of the baking dish when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Connor
I had fun today.
I set the dish aside and hover my fingers above the keyboard. Another message comes through before I can reply.
Connor
Do you think we could meet for coffee or something soon? To talk?
Now he wants to talk?
I felt something today. Something warm and familiar and secure. But it was a farce, because whatever his reasons are for dropping me three years ago, I can’t forget the heartbreak. The devastation.
He walked away. I cried.
He never called. I cried.
He moved on with someone else while I was still crying.
He’s had three years to talk . Yet, he hasn’t.
Just like that, I’m right back where I started the night he left me alone on that balcony: devastated and confused.
If I don’t keep my hands busy, I’ll send a panicked reply that I know I’ll regret.
I bypass the dishwasher, flip the faucet to fill the sink with water, and squeeze in some dish soap.
When the suds have risen above the layer of dishes, I sink my hands into the warm water—plunge, scrub, rinse, repeat.
My hands move mindlessly, but as my thoughts spiral, frustration turns to indignation and my blood begins to boil.
He wants to do this now ?
Before I realize it, my efforts turn aggressive and sloppy. A puddle of water has formed at my feet and soapy water coats the countertop. Suds drip in rivulets down the face of the cabinet doors below.
Moving to clean up my mess, I pull the drain and wipe down the counter, cabinets and floor.
By the time I finish, I’m crying. I don’t know how or when it started but the tears escalate into choking sobs as I lower myself to the kitchen floor.
Knees tucked to my chest, I bury my head between them and wait for this wave of emotion to pass.
Even as the tears subside and my breaths find their steady rhythm again, I still can’t move.
My resolve is shaky, because my heart wants to run toward him—every part of me wants to run toward him. But it doesn’t matter because now’s not the time.
I can’t go into these next few weeks—this trip, meeting the woman who gave birth to me, telling my family—with Connor consuming my every thought. It’s not that I’ll never have this conversation with him, I just can’t have it on my plate right now.
I get to my feet and grab my phone. The screen comes to life, my text thread with Connor still open in front of me. I release a blast of air from my lungs as I reply.
Me
I’m not ready to talk.
Before he can respond, I block his number.