Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
DON’T BE WEIRD
Gretchen
I didn’t stick to the plan.
How was I supposed to avoid the conversation when he shows up in black joggers, a faded University of Michigan t-shirt and a backwards ball cap? The attack felt personal, if I’m being honest. Thanks, universe.
Before he landed, I told myself not to bring it up yet.
That it was best to wait until things between us felt more comfortable.
A fresh start, of sorts. We could take a day—or five—and find that natural rhythm that we always seem to find and then …
then we could talk about what the hell happened three years ago.
But he stepped off that jet bridge looking all him and that damn tug was there again. Like your favorite throw blanket or that one coffee mug you reach for every morning even though you have three dozen others on the shelf.
Or your favorite nickname spoken by your favorite person. For all the familiar feelings of comfort and safety it brings, it also blurs the edges of your well-advised boundaries .
Fish . That’s all it took.
I managed to deflect the conversation to later, but not before I’d already said too much. Not before I’d confessed to blocking his number. Not before implying he should give Lauren the closure he never gave me.
Heart on sleeve plus hot guy in joggers divided by Fish equals Gretchen spiral.
As we approach the door to our suite, I construct a mental checklist of all the things I need to do going forward.
1. Stop being weird.
That’s it. That’s the list.
Being aloof and all woman-scorned will get me nowhere. Tonight, I have to tell him why I’m really here. Connor, I remind myself, dropped everything to be here and that has to count for something. Friendship, at least. Right now I could use a friend.
Connor swipes the key card and shoves the door open, holding it in place for me to squeeze past him.
I quickly take stock of the complete space I’ve become all too familiar with by viewing the resort’s accommodations pictures online.
A modest kitchenette is tucked in the back left corner, a small dining table surrounded by four chairs setting on the far wall on the same side.
The wall straight ahead, beyond the living area, isn’t a wall at all.
It’s one enormous sliding glass door with unobstructed views of the desert landscape in the distance.
To my right is a set of double doors, propped open to reveal the bedroom complete with its own patio access door, a king-sized bed and an ensuite bathroom—the only bathroom.
Connor empties his pockets on the entry table and I turn to face him. “The sofa has a pull-out bed. I’ll sleep there and you can have the bedroom.”
Connor chuckles and the knots in my chest instantly unravel at the sound. Dropping the car keys to the table, he doesn’t even look up when he says, “No.”
“No?”
“That’s not happening, Gretch. I’ll take the sofa bed, you take the bedroom. ”
“Are you sure? I mean, we could alternate nights.”
He halts what he’s doing, his gaze a question as creases form between his brows. Slowly, a self-assured grin ticks up the corner of his mouth.
“Seriously, Connor. You’re like…tall. There’s no way that sofa bed is big enough for you.”
“Was Drew gonna get the ‘you’re like, tall’ speech when he insisted you take the bedroom?” A playful twinkle flickers in his eyes.
Without missing a beat, I quip back, “Of course not. He still owes me for all those times I ‘didn’t notice’ he was sneaking out after curfew.” The air quotes emphasizing didn’t notice really drive the point home.
The room warms with Connor’s deep, boisterous laugh and my face splits into a smile. “Is that right?”
“Damn straight. He’s indebted to me for at least another ten years.”
He closes the distance between us. “Well, that may be so, but”—he stops in front of me—“I’m still taking the sofa.” He bops his index finger on the tip of my nose and says, “Bedroom’s yours,” before sweeping past me to prop his bag against the wall.
Resigned, I head into the bedroom and toss my suitcase on the bed. When I open the closet door, I’m pleasantly surprised at the space available. “The closet’s huge,” I holler toward the living room. “You can at least unpack your stuff in here.”
This olive branch, thankfully, he accepts without protest. Twenty minutes later we’ve split the bedroom dresser drawers between us and the closet is full of our hanging items.
I offer Connor the bathroom and bedroom first to get ready for dinner. Settling in at the dining table, I wait for my laptop to boot up as I send off a text to my brother.
Me
Made it to Sedona. I hope you and Reagan are doing okay. Please update me when you can.
Love you .
When the three dots don’t immediately appear, I set the phone aside and open my email on my computer.
As promised, Monica sent me the job description for the Executive Assistant position. She included the details of my first-round interview in a couple weeks. After I add the interview to my calendar and input the appropriate reminders, I send her a quick reply with my resume attached.
I spend a few minutes reviewing the job description. It’s nearly the exact job I was doing in my internship, just in a different department. With Monica’s referral and my experience with the company, I really am perfect for this position.
My former boss and I email back and forth for the next fifteen minutes. By the end, we’ve scheduled a video chat for next week where she’s offered to prep me for my interview as well as penciled in tentative plans to grab dinner together while I’m in town.
I close my laptop as the bedroom doors swing open and Connor steps out.
His attention is on buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, and I unashamedly drink him in.
Gray dress pants over his long, thick legs.
Solid black dress shirt that’s fitted perfectly so across his chest. The top two buttons he’s left undone seems like another personal attack from the universe, but… whatever.
Don’t. Be. Weird.
“Your turn,” he says absently, finishing up with his right cuff. Before he can catch me gawking, I jump from my seat and duck past him into the bedroom.
The weight of Connor’s stare as I dash back and forth across the room disorients me.
I pretend not to notice as I collect my blush pink pencil dress from the closet and drape it across the bed.
After laying out my makeup palettes on the vanity and plugging in my curling iron, I turn toward him, praying my face doesn’t betray me.
There he is: one shoulder leaned against the doorframe, right ankle crossed over the left, hands tucked in his pockets, all easy and unbothered.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s just dinner, Gretch.”
Except, it’s not—it’s a confessional. Can it ever be just dinner between Connor and me? I’m not convinced it can. I’m suddenly at a loss for why I ever decided to make this dinner reveal such a big deal.
A rush of air escapes my lips as I stumble over a reply, “Of course. I know that.”
“Okay,” he says, unconvinced, as he pushes off the wall. “You just kind of seem like a hamster spinning in a wheel right now.” In other words, you’re being weird and of course he sees right through me.
I can’t bring myself to admit he’s right. “I’m fine.” I’m not fine.
I swipe my toiletry bag from the vanity table and head to the bathroom, but Connor’s voice stops me. “Hey, I saw a pharmacy up the road. I need to grab a few things I forgot. You need anything?”
“I’m good. What’d you forget?”
“Toothpaste.”
“You can borrow mine if you?—”
“And a toothbrush.”
I grimace. “Okay, gross. I can’t help you with that. Sorry, not sorry.”
He grins. “I’ll be back in twenty. Text me if you think of anything.”
I wave him off and close myself in the bathroom. I don’t need to shower. All of my makeup and hair products are in the bedroom. I have no reason to be in here other than the six-foot-two man hoarding all of the oxygen on the other side of the door.
The sound of the front door closing vibrates the wall at my back and I let out a long breath.
Connor’s cool, calm, collected nature has always been contrary to my perpetual state of a little worried and a lot trying-to-act-like-I’m-not.
Has he forgotten the events of the past several weeks?
To start off, we see each other for the first time in three years, then he dumps his girlfriend and then he drops everything to jump on a plane to be here with me and, despite the lack of closure, he still manages to look and feel completely effortless even though us being here together is totally bizarre… and weird .
This whole situation is freaking weird and I hate how it doesn’t seem to faze him.
I’m probably overthinking everything, so I throw my hair in a messy bun and decide to hop in the shower after all, to clear my head. To regroup.
I came here to meet the woman who gave birth to me. Everything—every one —else is secondary.
Wrapped in one of the plush resort robes, I emerge from the steamy bathroom half an hour later.
It’s not the muffled sounds of the television coming from the living room or the fact that the bedroom doors that were open before are now closed that gives his presence away.
It’s the tension in my shoulders easing, the warm smile that spreads across my face at the sight of the fountain Diet Coke and bag of peanut butter M&Ms on the vanity that tells me he’s here.
And my hamster wheel slows to a crawl.