Chapter 24 Dane
Dane
Aside from watching Connor almost die, nothing terrifies me more than going to Sacramento, the one place I swore I’d never go.
But at this point, I don’t really have a choice.
Connor can’t drive himself there in his state, and either way, I made a commitment to him when I ran back to the hospital—to do better, and to never leave him behind again.
So here I am, driving Connor’s Jeep into the sunset with him drifting in and out of sleep against the passenger door. The Bluetooth plays my driving playlist on low, and the GPS shows a midnight arrival time to Sacramento.
Six hours—not counting the pit-stop in Ventura for bathroom breaks and grub, but we get our food to-go and eat it on the way. Connor hardly eats—too woozy from the meds—but he stays awake to feed me McNuggets and Dr. Pepper while my focus is on the two white lines guiding me north.
We talk about anything and everything until drowsiness claims Connor for an hour or so, then he’s back to entertaining me with a lengthy list of all his favorite things about the city he grew up in.
As interested as I am to hear what makes Connor feel at home some place, I can’t shake my dread.
Every mile we gain on Sacramento is another mile closer to the mother I grieve and the life she ditched me for.
It’s Connor’s home, but it’s also the home I was denied.
Even worse than being kicked out is never having been invited at all.
Whether Connor senses my nerves or it’s good old-fashioned neediness, I cherish his hand holding mine for most of the drive.
It isn’t until I’m rolling down a dark street in an unfamiliar neighborhood that my nerves center on Connor’s family rather than my own.
Selfishness overwhelms me like a compulsion, and I beg Connor to lie for me again. “Don’t tell your parents about us.”
“Dane—”
“Trust me.” I squeeze his hand, dreading letting it go. “If they know everything, they won’t like me. They won’t want us to be together.”
“Trust me,” he says. “They’ll love you because I love you.”
I gulp, realizing that while I do trust Connor, it only goes so far.
I trust him with my body and my heart, but I don’t trust that he always knows what’s best or that his own compulsions won’t get in the way of his safety—of my safety.
There are bruises on my neck the size of Artie’s fingerprints because of Connor’s compulsion to be honest. While I don’t blame him for that, it doesn’t change what happened.
Besides, if I were Connor’s dad, I’d tell him to stay away from the likes of me.
For as long as we’re in town, convincing Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock I’m not bad news will be my burden to bear.
Some of that burden is well-earned, and some is just the nature of being gay.
Even if I were as good a boy as Connor, I can’t imagine any parent jumping for joy that their son is bringing me home.
Instead of saying all that to my optimistic lover, I nod and keep quiet. Deep down, Connor must know where I’m coming from, because he doesn’t hold my hand on our way to the front door the way he’s held onto it for half the drive up.
Connor had called ahead not long after we hit the road, so there are still lights on in the two-story Craftsman.
There’s a sign pinned to the picket fence reading Whitlock Realty with a posed portrait of two grinning faces—a man and woman who look enough like Connor that they must be his parents.
The front door opens as soon as I unlatch the front yard gate.
A robust man fills the doorframe, bald-headed with a thick mustache. He hops down the porch steps in sweats and house shoes, steam pluming from his mouth as he asks, “Who goes there?” in a cartoonishly low voice. “State your business!”
Connor chuckles awkwardly, passing me through the gate. “Just two wary travelers looking for a place to stay.”
“Wary? What’s there to be wary of? You must mean weary.” Mr. Whitlock meets Connor halfway down the front path and takes him by the shoulders. Losing his prospector voice, the big guy tugs Connor into a tight hug and says, “Ah, kiddo, you look exhausted.”
Equal parts tender and aggressive, Mr. Whitlock keeps Connor in a bear hug, swaying him left and right while thumping his balled-up fist between Connor’s shoulder blades.
A dull beating becomes a hard massage when Mr. Whitlock grabs the tops of Connor’s shoulders and kneads them like he’s trying to dig out the muscle knots.
Connor groans, chuckling some more before telling his dad, “I missed you.”
Pulling his son into another embrace, Mr. Whitlock sighs, “I missed you more.”
The father-son moment ends when Mr. Whitlock spots me from under his thick brows and says, “And you brought a friend.”
“This is Dane.” Connor pulls away from his dad to join my side. A soft touch on my back is enough to propel me forward.
“Nice to meet you, sir.” I extend my hand and let Mr. Whitlock give it a firm shake that pops at least two of my knuckles. “Connor always talks about what great parents he has.”
“He better!” Mr. Whitlock bellows out a laugh.
A feminine figure in the doorway pulls our attention with a pointed command. “Will you boys get inside before you wake the whole neighborhood?” Mrs. Whitlock, huddled in a thick robe and slippers, waves us forward.
Connor says he has bags in the trunk that should come in, and I offer to grab them for him.
“I’ll help you.” He starts toward the curb, but I take his arm before he passes.
“No, go inside and get warm. I’ll be right there.”
He relents, but tells me only his black duffel bag and camera case need to come in tonight. Everything else can wait until morning.
When I get in the door, I have just enough time to set Connor’s things on the rug before Mrs. Whitlock calls for me from the kitchen. She and Connor sit around a wooden kitchen table with frilly placemats and a bowl of painted pinecones as a centerpiece.
Mr. Whitlock stands at the stove, setting a kettle on the front burner and asking me if I want hot chocolate. It’s colder up north than what I’m used to, and I’m still dressed for beach weather, so I say yes please and slip into the chair beside Connor.
Across from us, Mrs. Whitlock sends a sweet smile my way. That she has Connor’s eyes and his same frosty-blonde hair eases my nerves some.
“It was nice of you to drive Connor all the way up here,” she says.
“Yeah, well, he was a little loopy from all the meds, and his car is super easy to drive. I could fall asleep driving his car.”
“I’m very glad you didn’t.”
Shit, why did I say that?
“No, no. I would never. I was joking, I guess. I’m sorry.”
Behind her, Mr. Whitlock calls out, “Laugh at the boy’s jokes, honey. He’s nervous.”
I direct my red face toward my lap and catch Connor’s hand slipping around my thigh.
“Dane saved my life today,” he tells his mom. “He’s basically been my guardian angel since I moved to San Diego. He’s a great person, and I’m really lucky we get to be friends.”
Friends. The term makes me smile now. Sometimes the truth has to take a backseat to safety.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I get kicked to the curb at one in the morning without a car or coat, and in a city I’ve never been in before.
And I don’t want Connor’s relationship with his family shattered because of me either.
I want Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock to keep thinking of Connor as the light of their lives, and I don’t have enough faith in parents to assume that’ll be the case once they find out Connor is queer.
I lay my hand on top of Connor’s and squeeze it so he knows I’m totally cool with being his “friend” in front of his parents.
What turns my smile into a frown is when Mrs. Whitlock says, “It’s great you’re able to be such close friends with Thalia’s brother. Family is so important. You two could be brothers-in-law one day, and then you’ll be really glad for this friendship.”
“Um…” Connor starts, glancing my way before sending his mom an uncomfortable grimace. “Thalia and I broke up.”
“What?” Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock say in unison. The former comes around to the table to stand beside Mrs. Whitlock’s chair, a big palm on her shoulder.
“Yeah, that’s actually one of the reasons I’m here,” Connor admits. “I don’t really have anywhere to go in San Diego right now.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Whitlock says. “You broke up and that means you’re out on your ass? Did you and Thalia try to work something out where you could stay living with her, at least until the end of the quarter?”
“No, that wouldn’t—”
“I’ll call her tomorrow and sort it out.”
“No, Mom,” Connor groans. “It wasn’t—we didn’t end well. I can’t stay there. I screwed it all up.”
“Alright, you can call her tomorrow yourself then and sort it out.”
The dejected slump of Connor’s body breaks my heart. I let go of his hand to wrap my arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” I tell him softly. “I’ll find us a place.”
“Did Thalia break up with you too?” Mrs. Whitlock asks me in that skeptical tone I’m used to from parents, like they can see through my overripe skin to all the rottenness inside.
In my discomfort, I joke, “Thalia broke up with me the day I was born.” But once I say it, I realize it’s not a joke at all. Maybe I was a nightmare kid, but even in diapers, I could tell Thalia didn’t want me around. It’s probably why she jumped at the opportunity to ditch me almost a decade ago.
“I cheated on her,” Connor states, the chronic truth-teller he is. I just hope he’s not planning on blurting out the rest of the truth.
A few moments of stunned silence cloak the table until Mr. Whitlock clears his throat and says, “Well, now, that’s troubling behavior, Connor.”
“I know.”
Mrs. Whitlock interjects. “We don’t have to talk about this tonight. All that matters is that you’re okay, you’re safe, you’re home now, and we’re very glad to see you.”