Chapter 27
Connor
Packing was the bane of my existence.
When I moved from San Francisco, Blackstone & Clarke paid for packing services as part of my relocation package.
I didn’t go through these boxes of Mom’s stuff then, just shoved them in the closet—out of sight, out of mind.
But as Hannah reminded me daily as I re-packed: square footage is a luxury in New York, and there was no reason to pay for a storage unit for boxes I wouldn’t open.
So now, with the luxury of time, I spent just as much time unpacking as I did packing, going through Mom’s books and journals, organizing her old clothes so Grace could bring them to the domestic violence shelter where she volunteered.
Most of the boxes were easy, trinkets I’d held onto for no good reason. But there was one box I’d been avoiding. I’d taped it shut three years ago and hadn’t opened it since. It sat in the corner of my bedroom now, my handwriting accusatory: Mom’s kitchen supplies.
Hannah was at work, so I had the apartment to myself. No reason not to open it. I used the box cutter to slice through the yellowing tape.
The smell hit me first. The vanilla and cinnamon scent that meant Mom. Not perfume—she never wore perfume after the MS made her skin too sensitive. This was how she smelled when she’d pull me into a hug, flour on her hands, telling me to stop worrying about the recipe and just feel the dough.
I pulled out the first item: a dish towel embroidered with a dancing taco, faded and soft from years of use. Underneath: her apron. Navy blue, the ties frayed from being knotted and unknotted thousands of times.
And then, at the bottom: a forest green binder. Worn at the edges, the plastic cover cracked in places.
I lifted it out carefully, like it might disintegrate in my hands.
Inside were recipe cards. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, protected in plastic sleeves.
Mom’s handwriting filled most of them—looping and elegant at the beginning, growing shakier as the pages went on. I could track the progression of her MS in the wobble of her pen, the way her letters got larger and less controlled, the recipes shifting from full paragraphs to scattered notes.
Prime Rib - Christmas Dinner. Her handwriting, still mostly steady.
Duchess Potatoes. A little shakier.
Green Bean Casserole. The letters slanting, fighting against her failing fine motor control.
And then, about two-thirds through, I took over, dictating her verbal instructions into my precise script.
I traced the edge of one card. Cranberry-Brie Phyllo Cups. Her voice in my head: The key is not to overfill them, Connor. Less is more. Trust the flavors to do the work.
And underneath, in my writing: Mom says patience is everything. Low and slow. Don’t rush perfection.
I flipped through more pages. Her voice, my hand. A collaboration born out of necessity.
Temperature for the jus, I’d written in the margin of the prime rib card, then her dictation:
Low simmer, you’ll feel it more than see it. The surface should barely move, like breathing.
The last recipe was apple pie. The lattice had been her signature—intricate, beautiful, the kind of thing that took patience and steady hands.
People eat with their eyes first, she’d written in her shaky script. And below it, in my handwriting: Feel the dough, don’t just follow the recipe. Trust yourself.
I sat there on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by boxes and half-folded clothes, holding my mother’s recipes and trying not to fall apart.
She’d been preparing me—not just how to cook, but how to care for something fragile. How to pay attention. How to be present in the moment instead of three steps ahead, planning for disaster.
I’d thought I was helping her by writing down her recipes as her hands failed. But she’d been giving me something to hold onto, something that would outlast her.
“Connor?” Hannah stood in the doorway, still in her work clothes, her coat halfway off.
“Hey.” My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
She didn’t ask if I was okay, just dropped her coat on a chair and sat down on the floor next to me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
“Is that hers?” she asked quietly, nodding at the binder.
“Yeah.” I turned it so she could see. “Her recipes. We… I wrote them down for her. When she couldn’t anymore.”
Hannah leaned in to look, her hair brushing my shoulder. She read in silence for a moment, then reached out to touch the edge of the apple pie card.
“‘Don’t rush the process,’” she read aloud. “That’s good advice.”
“She always said I relied too much on measurements. That cooking was as much about intuition as precision.” I huffed a laugh. “Which drove me crazy. How can you replicate something if you can’t quantify it?”
“And? Did you figure it out?”
“Eventually.” I ran my thumb over her handwriting. “She was right. There’s a feel to it. When the dough is ready, when the filling is the right consistency. You can’t write that down. You just… know.”
Hannah was quiet for a moment. Then: “What was she like?”
I’d had people ask me that before. Usually I gave them the easy answer: She was great. Really kind. An amazing cook.
But with Hannah, her shoulder warm against mine, I found myself actually answering.
“She was stubborn. Refused to let the MS define her, even when it got bad. She’d be in the kitchen leaning on the counter because standing was exhausting, dictating recipes like she was running a cooking show.
” I smiled despite the ache in my chest. “And she was funny. Dark humor. When she lost the ability to walk, she made me put a horn on her wheelchair so she could beep at people in grocery stores.”
Hannah laughed, and the sound loosened something in my chest.
“She would have liked you,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She always said I needed someone who’d call me on my bullshit. Who wouldn’t let me manage everything into oblivion.” I looked at Hannah. “You do that.”
“Call you on your bullshit?”
“Make me slow down.” I gestured at the binder. “I’ve been avoiding this box for three years. You’ve been here a month and suddenly I’m ready to open it.”
Hannah’s hand found mine, lacing our fingers together. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did.” I squeezed her hand. “You just… you’re here.”
She leaned her head against my shoulder. We sat there for a long moment, the recipe binder open between us, Mom’s handwriting fading into mine.
“I think I want to cook Christmas dinner,” I said. “From her recipes. For us. For your family. Anyone who you want to invite.” I closed the binder carefully. “I haven’t cooked from these since she died. I think… I think it’s time.”
“Okay.” Hannah lifted her head. “Do you want help?”
“Yeah. I do.”
She smiled, soft and genuine, and something shifted in my chest.
But it wasn’t the grief weighing me down, or the tight fear or something going wrong. It felt like a door I’d been holding shut for three years finally swung open.
And when I saw the crinkle next to her eyes, the words tumbled out of my mouth: “I love you.”
They'd emerged before I’d fully formed the thought. Impulsive. Unplanned. Completely unlike me.
Hannah’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I love you.” I said it again, more certain this time. “I’m in love with you.”
She stared at me, her hand still in mine, her mouth slightly open like she couldn’t quite process my words.
“You don’t have to say it back,” I added quickly. “I just—I needed you to know. You’re sitting here with me and my mom’s recipes and … and I love you for that. I love you.”
“Connor.” Her voice broke on my name.
“I know this is fast. I know we said this was temporary—”
“It stopped being temporary weeks ago,” she interrupted. “Maybe from the beginning.”
My heart stuttered.
“I love you too.” She was crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks even as she smiled. “I love you. God, I love you so much and it terrifies me.”
I cupped her face, wiping away tears with my thumbs. “Why does it terrify you?”
“Because what if I screw it up? What if I’m not—”
I kissed her. Cut off whatever negative thing she was about to say with my mouth on hers, gentle and certain. She made a small sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then she was kissing me back, her hands coming up to grip my shirt.
When I pulled back, I kept my forehead pressed to hers. “Come to New York with me.” The words came out in a rush, like if I didn’t say them now I’d lose my nerve. “When I move back. Come with me.”
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes searching my face. “Connor, I don’t even know if I’ll get this job—”
“I don’t care.” I took her hands in mine. “Job or no job. CFO or bartender or whatever you want to do. I just want you there. I want us.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Is it?” I kissed her knuckles. “We’ve been living together for a month. It’s been the best month of my life. Why not keep going?”
“Because it’s fast and impulsive and we barely know each other—”
“I know you.” I said it firmly. “I know you stress-clean when you’re anxious.
I know you can’t function before coffee.
I know you bite your thumbnail when you’re thinking.
I know you’re brilliant and kind and you stand up for what’s right even when it costs you everything.
” I met her eyes. “I know I love you. The rest is just details.”
Hannah was crying again, but she was laughing too. “You’re insane.”
“I’m in love.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Probably.” I wiped away more tears. “You don’t have to decide now. But I had to offer.”
“I think—” She took a shaky breath. “I think I want to try. I’m terrified, but I want to try.”
The relief that flooded through me was almost overwhelming. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s try.” She kissed me, quick and certain. “Let’s be insane together.”
I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face in her hair. She smelled like bar smoke and vanilla lip gloss.
I kissed her again, slower this time. Savoring it. Her hands slid up to frame my face, and when she deepened the kiss I felt it in my chest—not just desire, but something bigger. Recognition. Rightness. Home.
Hannah tugged on my shirt, pulling me closer, and I helped her shift to straddle my lap. The recipe binder slid to the side and she carefully moved it out of the way, and then her mouth was on mine again and I forgot about packing, about boxes, about everything except her body against mine.
I stood, pulling her up with me, her legs wrapping around my waist. She laughed—surprised and delighted—and I carried her the three steps to the bed, laying her down gently on top of the folded clothes I’d been meaning to pack.
“These are in the way,” she said, pushing a sweater aside.
“I don’t care.” I leaned over her, caging her in with my arms. “I’ll pack later.”
“Very un-Connor of you.”
“You make me un-Connor.” I kissed her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat. “You make me better.”
Her hands slid under my shirt, warm against my skin. “You make me brave.”
I pulled back to look at her. “You were already brave.”
“Maybe. But you make me want to try being brave again.” She tugged at my shirt. “Now shut up and kiss me.”
I obeyed.
This time was different. Not rushed or frantic like so many of our previous encounters. This was deliberate. Intentional.
Loving.
I took my time undressing her, kissing each new piece of exposed skin. Her collarbone. The curve of her ribs. The soft skin of her inner wrist. She watched me with dark eyes, her breath catching when I lingered somewhere that made her shiver.
“Connor,” she whispered. “I need—”
“I know.” I kissed her stomach, right above the waistband of her jeans. “I’ve got you.”
I unbuttoned her jeans slowly, sliding them down her legs along with her panties. She was already breathing hard, her hands fisting in the blankets.
When I pressed my mouth to her, she arched off the bed with a gasp. I took my time there too, feeling what made her moan, what made her grip my hair, what made her whisper my name like a prayer.
She came apart under my hands and mouth, saying my name with something close to reverence. When she came back to herself, she pulled me up to kiss her.
“Your turn,” she said against my mouth. She pushed at my shoulders until I rolled onto my back. “Let me.”
She undressed me with the same deliberate care, her hands sliding over my skin like she was memorizing me. When she took me in her hand, I had to close my eyes against the intensity of it—not just the physical sensation, but the emotional weight. The trust. The intimacy.
“Look at me,” she said softly.
I opened my eyes to find a tenderness in her eyes I’d never seen before. She kissed me, slow and deep, and I felt it everywhere. In my chest. In my throat. In the places I’d kept carefully locked away for three years.
When she straddled me, sinking down slowly, I gripped her hips and tried to remember how to breathe. She set a pace that was achingly slow, holding my gaze the entire time. Every movement deliberate. Every touch a promise.
“Connor,” she breathed. “I’m close.”
“Me too.” I pulled her down to kiss her, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. “I love you.”
“I love you.” She moved faster, chasing her release, and I followed her over the edge, holding her against me like I could keep this moment from ever ending.
After, we lay tangled together in the mess of boxes and half-packed clothes, her head on my chest, my hand stroking her hair.
“We should probably finish packing,” she said eventually.
“Later.” I kissed the top of her head. “Right now I just want this.”
She tilted her head. “You? Not wanting to finish the checklist? Who are you and what have you done with Connor McNamara?”
“You’ve corrupted me.”
“Good.” She settled back against my chest. “You needed corrupting.”
Hannah’s breathing evened out against my chest, and I let myself drift too, surrounded by the remnants of my past and the promise of my future. The recipe binder sat on the floor where we’d left it, Mom’s handwriting visible through the plastic sleeve.
Trust yourself, she’d written.
I'm trying, Mom, I thought. I'm trying.