Chapter 9 Connor
Connor
Three nonconsecutive hours of sleep is all I manage the night of the party.
I tell Thalia I have a hangover to explain why I can’t go to brunch with her and why I stay in bed until noon.
Sick of me, Thalia makes plans with some of her new friends.
After she’s gone is when I get out my laptop and message Dad about my phone.
He says he’ll send me the funds for a new one, and I accept, because I’m pathetic.
He asks who I went to the party with, and I lie and say no one. He tells me it’s not safe going to parties solo—that I need someone looking out for me.
I avoid the bathroom as long as my bladder can stand it, but when the situation becomes dire, I take the plunge and hope Dane isn’t in there.
As soon as I make certain it’s empty, I lock each door, then take care of business.
It isn’t until I step up to the sink to wash my hands that I notice my clothes from last night sitting on my side of the counter, dry, folded, and smelling of the fragrance pebbles Joselyn keeps the laundry room stocked with.
Laundry room. There’s a term that’s always going to have a certain connotation to it now. How am I going to wash my clothes without thinking of the washer Dane leaned on while that guy did what he did?
My reflection in the mirror is haunting.
Warped and haggard. I’m still wearing Dane’s muscle tee and his cotton joggers.
It’s all a little too long, and I hate how comfortable that feels.
I hate that they weren’t clean when I put them on, and that they smell like pure Dane.
I hate that I hadn’t thought to take them off until now.
Back in my room, I stuff last night’s outfit in the bottom drawer of the dresser Thalia and I share, and I peel out of these Dane-scented things in favor of my lounge clothes.
Dane won’t give a shit if I fold his clothes—they’re always wrinkled anyway—so I take them back into the bathroom and leave them in a clump on Dane’s side of the counter.
Before I make it back to my room, the handle on Dane’s door rattles, and my stomach lurches.
I’d hoped he wasn’t home, but maybe he’s as emotionally hungover as I am.
Like a coward, I wait until knuckles tap timidly on the door panel before I cross the tiles and turn the lock. I switch around and break for my room, but Dane is quicker to creak open his door.
“Connor.”
Why does my name in his deep timbre stop me cold? Why don’t I ignore it and shut my door between us, when it would be so easy?
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and turn around, but I keep my eyes on the floor.
“Did you see I washed your clothes?” he asks.
“I saw. Surprised you know how to use the machine.”
The silence between us lingers long enough for me to feel like an ass, but I’m still too screwed up in the head to apologize.
“Do you, uh, wanna work out later? Go for a run?” he asks.
“No.”
“I can Venmo you for your phone.”
“My dad offered to pay for it.”
“Are, uh…are you gonna tell Thalia what happened last night?”
“I dunno.”
“Connor—” He walks forward, and I flinch backward, my back hitting the wall. “Are you scared of me now?”
“No,” I croak, but I have to avert my eyes again to keep from seeing the emotion in Dane’s. Hearing it in his voice is hard enough.
“Why don’t you just fucking say it already?”
“Say what?”
“Call me a faggot.”
“No.” I jump my gaze to Dane’s, his hardened expression unable to mask the softness in his mahogany eyes.
“Do it. Call me a faggot, and then we can move on.”
“I’m not calling you that.”
“Why not? You’ll probably feel better. Get it off your chest.”
“I’m not a homophobe.”
“I know.” He steps close enough to flood my senses with the same strangely soothing scent that gave me a semblance of comfort throughout the night. “But you wanna hurt me, so hurt me. Call me a faggot.”
My head shakes, and I look down—drained and defeated. “I’m not gay.”
“I know. It happens. We just got too caught up. No one will ever know, and we never have to talk about it again if you don’t want.”
As relieving as all that should be, it doesn’t settle my stress-sick stomach. “I dunno.”
“Connor.” He says my name again, rich and smooth like melty chocolate. And he’s closer to me now. Almost as close as he was last night. His palms stick to the wall on either side of my head, like he needs to hold himself back from eliminating the minuscule space between us.
Tipping his head to the side of mine, he says, “You’re the only person in this house that I care about.
Even more than I care about myself, I care about you.
Whatever you want from me, you can have it.
If you wanna pretend it never happened, I’ll pretend it never happened.
If you wanna tell Thalia, tell her. I’ll pack my shit, and you’ll never see me again. ”
His declaration makes me woozy. A promise with the sting of a threat. If not for the wall behind me, I’d probably faint.
But am I strong enough to survive San Diego without him?
Eventually, my heavy breaths make way for actual sounds. “I dunno. I, um… I’m really confused right now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, like it’s his fault. Maybe it is, but it’s my fault too.
“I’m just so fucking embarrassed.”
“Hey.” One hand leaves the wall to warm my jaw. A large thumb brushing my cheek. “It’ll stay between us, okay?”
“Okay.”
He puts his lips to mine, and I’m too dazed not to respond. It’s the sticky sound when we separate that reminds me I can’t be doing this. For about a million reasons, I cannot be doing this.
I turn my head away. “This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. You have to stop. I can’t think straight when you’re this close to me.”
After a beat, Dane’s hand leaves me, and he backs up to the counter. Hands braced on the edge of the marble, he stares at me with the intensity of a man fighting against his instincts.
I stare back. “Promise me you’ll quit flirting with me.”
“I promise. Cross my heart. Scout’s honor.”
I surprise myself by cracking a small smile. “You were never a Scout.”
“Did Cub Scouts for a year ‘til I got kicked out.”
“How the hell do you get kicked out of Cub Scouts?”
“That’s a story I only tell friends.”
My shoulders droop, all my anxiety turning to sadness. “I still wanna be friends. I just…need time. To get my head right.”
He looks away, lips folded in a tight frown and throat contracting with a hard swallow. When he looks back, he asks, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich.”
“Really?” I ask desperately, because I’m starving and it’s a thoughtful offer, but then I remember how he sucked on my tongue, and I change course. “No, that’s cool. I can do it. I just need to be alone today, I think.”
Head slowly bobbing, Dane glances toward the shower stall. “I was sorta gonna take a shower.”
“Oh, shit, sure.” I push off the wall and dip into my room, where the air is so much easier on my lungs.
Dane watches me as I shut the door between us, a much needed barrier.
As starved as I am, I don’t think I have the energy to make it to the kitchen, so I burrow back into bed instead and drift to sleep listening to falling water through the shared wall.
I’m out for a couple of blissful hours, and I wake up with a grumbling stomach.
Trudging through the house in favor of the kitchen, I try not to even glance at Joselyn while she does her virtual yoga session in front of the TV.
I might never look at anyone again. Looking at people has gotten me into enough trouble already.
“Connor!” Joselyn calls out, forcing me to glance. Her small, toned body bounces out of her crow pose. “Dane wanted me to tell you he left something for you in the fridge.”
Confused and hungry, I zip to the fridge on bare feet and find, on the second shelf, a capped tumbler of a familiar green protein shake, a plate topped with a jam-packed sammy, and a Little Debbie in the wrapper tucked up against an extra pickle.
My empty belly rejoices, and I take everything to the island, digging in standing up. My body buzzes with gratitude, silently thanking Dane for being a real one.
A real what, though?
A real headache.
A real mess.
A real bad influence.
A real good kisser.
A real friend, too, maybe, if I can forget about all the reasons I ought to stay away from him.
I can’t stop thinking about the party. All week, I’m spacing out in my classes, losing track of time, and missing my turns on the highway. The memories live in my mind like photo negatives.
To make matters worse, I’m put on the spot during a critique workshop by Professor Contreras. She calls me to the podium at the head of the class and asks me to present photos for critique. And, of course, everything on my keychain thumb drive is of Dane.
I’m thick-skinned to constructive criticism, but I’m a total wreck as my classmates discuss how evocative my muse is.
“He’s not my muse,” I interject, chuckling through my nerves. “We’re just friends. He’s my girlfriend’s brother. Not my muse.”
An awkward tension sweeps the room until Contreras leans toward me and says, “By muse, I think they mean that something about this young man is inspiring to you creatively. Are you considering sports photography as your career aspiration? As much as I preach art over commerce, I have colleagues who make a decent living in the sports photography niche.”
Thankful for the segue, I nod quickly. “Yeah, totally. It’s something I’ve looked into.”
“Just don’t lose sight of your art. Everyone in this room has a unique perspective. I think you’re well on your way to discovering yours.”
I’m grateful when Contreras lets me take my thumb drive back to my seat. I sit low, already working on scrubbing the memory of that presentation out of my brain when Margot flicks my arm and whispers, “Good job.”
I force a smile and mouth a thank you. When we grab lunch together at the Student Union, I force myself not to mention Dane at all.