Chapter 23 Hannah
Hannah
The apartment was quiet, golden with early winter light.
I woke up on the couch where I’d fallen asleep during last night’s movie, stiff-necked and covered with a blanket Connor must have draped over me before going to bed.
He’d left me there instead of waking me up to tell me I’d be more comfortable in the bedroom.
Small mercies.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing one of his sweaters—stolen last week and never returned. The coffee pot was full and warm. He’d programmed it last night, a ritual I’d always told myself would be smart yet never adopted.
I was hunting for a clean mug when my eye caught something on the table: Connor’s notebook, topped with today’s date in his careful handwriting.
I didn’t mean to snoop, but it was right there, open to today’s page, and something about the tidy block letters called to me. I hesitated, then looked
? Follow up w/ Alex re: Q1 planning
? Groceries — Hannah’s milk running low
? Check thermostat (H said she was cold last night)
? Email Teresa re: utilities
? Drop off dry cleaning
? Prep Grace’s Santa breakfast binder
? Order more packing tape
? Upgrade blackout curtains in bedroom so H can sleep better
? Sort Mom’s photo albums (box 3 of 7)
? Hannah’s shift ends at 4 — text to check if she needs pickup
? Clear inbox before 5
My chest went tight.
I was on there three times, four if you counted the milk.
He was tracking my groceries, monitoring the thermostat for me, planning to text me after my shift like I might not be able to get home on my own.
I flipped back a page. Yesterday’s list had similar entries: Hannah working late—leave dinner in fridge. The day before: H looked tired—pick up chamomile tea?
He was managing me like I was a item on his endless list of responsibilities.
I flipped forward and found a second list paper-clipped to the back of the notebook:
PACKING TIMELINE — Deadline: Dec 30
? Books & media (est. 4 boxes) — complete by Dec 18
? Kitchen items (est. 3 boxes) — complete by Dec 20
? Mom’s belongings (7 boxes total)
? Photo albums (box 3/7 in progress)
? Medical records (decide: keep/scan/discard?)
? Clothing (donate vs. keep — contingency: storage unit if can’t decide)
? Clothes & personal items — complete by Dec 28
? Confirm moving truck reservation (backup: U-Haul if primary cancels)
Even his late mother was a project with deadlines and contingencies. Even his grief had checkboxes.
The bedroom door opened and Connor padded in, stopping when he saw me holding his notebook.
“Morning,” he said carefully.
“You’re tracking my milk consumption.” I held up the notebook. “The thermostat, the curtains.”
“I—” He set his mug down. “I was just trying to help.”
“Connor, there’s nothing on here for you. No breakfast. No rest. No ‘take five minutes to breathe.’ Just everyone else’s needs. Victoria’s calendar. Grace’s Santa thing. My milk. Your mom’s photo albums.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not—”
“And I’m on here like I’m another thing you need to manage. Track her symptoms. Monitor her needs. Make sure she’s taken care of.”
“You’re cold at night,” he said, voice tight.
“So I grab a sweater. That’s normal, Connor. You don’t need to add it to your list.” I set the notebook down. “I’m not one of your projects.”
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the sound of the heat kicking on. Had he turned up the thermostat?
Connor stared at the notebook like it had betrayed him. “I don’t know how else to do this.”
“Do what?”
He picked up the notebook, looked at his own handwriting like he was seeing it for the first time. “This is what I do. I anticipate needs. I make sure everything runs smoothly so that—” He stopped, jaw tight.
“So that what?”
He let out a long breath, like it pained him. “If I caught my mom’s symptoms early—the tremors, the fatigue, the blurred vision—the neurologist could adjust her meds. Sometimes catching it a day earlier meant she’d have a good week instead of a bad one.”
Oh. Oh shit.
“And I wore another sweater, even in the summer,” he continued, staring at the notebook. “If keeping the AC at 68 meant she wouldn’t overheat and trigger a relapse. It was just… what I did. What I had to do.”
I moved closer, drawn by the rawness in his voice.
“Victoria needs the same thing. Someone to anticipate the problems before they spiral, to make sure she eats lunch and doesn’t triple book herself and picks up her dry cleaning.
” He finally looked at me. “And I’m good at it.
Really good. It feels like… like I could still help someone, even if it wasn't enough for my mom.”
My throat went tight.
“Connor,” I said softly. “Your mom was sick. Victoria pays you to do it—it’s literally your job. But I’m not sick, and I’m not your boss. And sometimes I’m cold, or I run out of milk, and that’s okay.”
“But I see that you need—” He gestured helplessly. “I can’t turn it off.”
“I’m not asking you to turn it off. I’m asking you to include yourself.” I took the notebook from his hands, holding up the packing timeline. “Even your grief has deadlines.”
His face crumpled for just a second before he smoothed it back into control.
“If I make a plan, if I create a system, then I can get through it. Otherwise I just—” His head dropped to look down at his toes.
“Otherwise you feel it.”
When he nodded, I set the notebook down and took his hand. “You’re allowed to feel it, Connor. You’re allowed to be sad and tired and overwhelmed. You’re allowed to not have a plan for everything.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Then let’s start small.” I picked up his pen and held it out. “Add one thing to your list, just for you.”
He took the pen like it might burn him, staring at the page for a long moment.
Then, in the smallest handwriting, he wrote:
? Watch a movie with Hannah
My eyes burned. “See? You belong on your list too.”
He set the pen down, and I pulled him into a hug. He buried his face in my shoulder, and I felt him take one shaky breath, then another.
“I’m sorry,” he said into my hair. “For tracking your milk. For hovering.”
“I know. And I’m sorry for not thinking about your mom. That wasn’t fair.”
“It was a little fair.” He pulled back, gave me a watery smile. “So. Movie on the couch?”
I glanced at the clock. “But I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
He shifted towards the coffee pot before I stopped him mid-step. “Connor McNamara, I can pour my own coffee.”
He laughed and pulled me closer, kissing my forehead. “Pour some for both of us.”