11. Connor
CONNOR
W hen I get off the ice, there are a ton of messages waiting for me on my phone.
A couple from my boss in Palo Alto, asking for an update and if I’ll be ready to come back to work by the date we discussed.
A message from Damien Rogers, asking if I’ve found an agent yet and if I’ll be able to give him an answer about the ECHL in two weeks’ time.
It’s all too much. I can’t decide my entire future right now.
I jump in my car and head home. I want to see Elliot so badly, it hurts. I know I can’t just walk in the door and kiss him, but for some reason, I just need to see him. Need to be around him.
My spirits lift a little when I spot Scout’s VW parked across the driveway. I rush up to the house with my gym bag over my shoulder and let myself in with shaking hands.
But when I call through the house for Mom and Dad, no one replies. It isn’t until I head into the kitchen that I see Scout by the pool. I scan the area for Elliot. Sure, it’ll be hard to see him without a shirt on and keep my eyes from popping out of my head, but I can do it if I have to.
I step out onto the patio for a better look. My heart sinks when I don’t spot him.
“Hey, where’s Eli?”
Scout sweeps her wet hair off her face. “He’s at his dad’s house.”
Fuck. Is he staying away because of me?
She frowns. “Why?”
“What?” My voice comes out a bit higher than I’d wanted.
“Why do you want to know where Eli is?”
Because I need to see him. Because I can’t stand the thought of pushing him out of his safe space.
I shake my head and shrug. “No reason.”
ELLIOT
After I throw out the expired food from the fridge and raid the cupboards, I’m left with a square of hard cheese, half a tub of margarine, a couple of cans of chicken soup, and some condensed milk.
I need to go to the store, but it’s too far to walk and carry all the stuff I need home.
I haven’t had a car since mine broke down last year, and I didn’t want to hassle my dad to get it fixed or ask for money for a new one.
I ended up scrapping it and spending the little money I got for it on books.
Having Scout drive me everywhere and living on campus so close to local amenities means I don’t usually need my own car. Now I really wish I’d put that money toward some new wheels.
I take my phone out to text Scout. If I ask, she’ll bring me groceries. She’ll want to come in, too, but maybe she’ll be able to coax my dad out of his study again to eat.
There’s a text waiting, but it isn’t from Scout. The second I see Connor’s name, my heart starts pounding in my ears.
Hey, you okay? Do you need anything?
It’s like he read my mind. I’m about to reply, Yes, please, but I hesitate. I should stay away from him. I could just text Scout and ask her to bring groceries.
He texts again.
I’m in the area, sure you don’t need anything? Want me to bring you some food?
I look around at the sparse kitchen. Scout would stomp in and make my dad eat, but that’s not really what I need right now—Scout reminding me that nothing I do makes any difference to my dad. I reply to Connor’s text before I can overthink it.
I’ll take a ride to the grocery store if that’s okay?
On my way
I slink back against the counter. Those three simple words remind me that Connor Ryan has my back. Calm washes over me while I wait for him to arrive.
There’s a text ten minutes later, saying:
Outside
I rush out of the house to meet him, before he can knock on the door, and find his shiny Volvo parked at the end of the driveway.
The smile he gives me is more uncertain than usual.
It makes my stomach flip. So does the backward baseball cap he’s wearing and the tufts of dark hair sticking out under it.
Scrap that— everything about him makes my stomach flip.
His bare forearms in a white t-shirt sporting the logo of Coach Garvin’s rink across the chest. His hands on the steering wheel and the sliver of bare thigh he’s showing in his shorts.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
I pray he won’t bring up last night or ask me how I am. I sink into the passenger seat with relief when he says, “So, groceries.”
The stereo is playing a local radio station.
Between talking about the weather and reporting traffic jams on the coastal road, they play oldies like The Beach Boys and The Mamas and The Papas.
I let the music relax me and hum along. Connor has cracked the window so a soft breeze can blow in, tickling the hairs on the back of my arm.
“Any preference for store? I could drive up to the big Walmart on Cherry.”
“No, it’s okay, local will do. I just need a few essentials. And Walmart will be crammed today.”
I try not to look at him. Force myself to hold my tongue when all I want to do is tell him how good he looks. I’ve held back all these years, but now that I know my attraction isn’t one-sided, it’s ten times harder.
I watch his lips as he wets them with his tongue. I don’t have to imagine what that mouth would feel like on me anymore.
The silence should be awkward, so why do I feel so much calmer since he texted me? Why do I feel so safe in this car with this man? His hands look so capable on the steering wheel. There’s something so … comfortingly familiar about him.
He pulls into a parking space outside the local grocery store. There aren’t many cars in the lot, thankfully, and the store is quiet when we get inside.
I take a basket and start filling it with bread and pasta and jars of pre-made sauce.
Connor takes the jar of pasta sauce out of the basket and puts it back.
“I’ll give you Dad’s sauce recipe,” he says. “It isn’t the culinary masterpiece he’d lead you to believe. It’s literally just canned tomatoes and some herbs.” He grins, flashing those fangs. “It’s more about how you cook it that makes it taste so good.”
I nod. “Okay, sure.”
“I can help, if you want. He taught me all his secrets.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck and I get flustered. “I … no, thanks, it’s okay.”
We’re quiet as we round the corner to the next aisle. I pick up a few packs of cookies and dump them in the basket.
“Hey, Eli …” Connor starts. He pauses and rubs the back of his neck. “You don’t have to be ashamed you know?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean … everything with your dad. It’s not your fault.”
I instantly bristle. Turning my back, I pretend to be studying the back of a cereal box.
“Elliot.” The hand on my shoulder softens my reserve enough for me to turn my head in his direction .
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says. “You don’t have to pretend it’s fine.”
How many times has Scout told me I don’t have to be embarrassed about what’s going on with my dad?
How many times has she told me I don’t have to pretend?
Scout never pretends. How can she understand what it’s like to feel the need to?
But Connor understands, doesn’t he? He knows exactly what it’s like to pretend everything is fine when it’s not.
“Okay.” I nod. “If you want to help that would be … good.”
His face softens as he drops his hand from my shoulder.
I don’t start to regret my decision until Connor is pulling up outside the house. The weeds and the dirty windows, so familiar to me that they’ve started to blend in, suddenly stand out. What is he thinking?
But Connor doesn’t give the mess a second glance as he gets out and starts unloading the bags from the trunk.
I let us in, relieved at least that I’ve tidied inside a little.
The house still has a musty smell you don’t notice until you’ve been out and come back again.
And there’s still this sad, unlived-in feel to all the rooms bereft of photographs or personal touches.
But at least there isn’t a layer of dust over everything anymore, or take-out menus piled up on the welcome mat.
Connor’s presence feels even bigger in this house. Not just because it’s smaller than most places I’ve been inside with him. It’s like he carries an antidote to the mustiness and sadness within the walls with his presence alone .
He deposits the bags on the kitchen table and looks at me. “Where’re your pots and pans?”
“Oh, um … top cupboard there.”
We work around each other. Once Connor’s found the pans, he gets everything set up for dinner while I put the other groceries away.
I keep expecting Dad to hear us talking and being louder than he’s used to it being in here and come out to see what all the noise is, but he doesn’t.
I’m grateful that Connor doesn’t mention my dad.
Doesn’t ask where he is or if he’s going to come out of his hideout.
He doesn’t look around at everything, wondering where all the family photos are, or why everything is so sparse.
He doesn’t ask me why there were no groceries in the house, and why I had to buy everything from bread and milk to herbs.
He just cooks, filling the kitchen with life.
My eyes stream when I slice the onions. I wipe the tears on the back of my sleeve. Connor swallows when he looks at me. He sees that I’ve caught him and forces a smile. “Don’t cry.” He laughs. “My cooking isn’t that bad.”
“Shut up, it’s the onions.”
“Sure.”
By the time the ground beef is in the pan with the vegetables, the kitchen smells like a home again.
I watch Connor work, proving myself a useless cook.
I couldn’t even chop onions without crying.
But he’s a work of art at the stove. Beads of sweat dapple his top lip and there’s a red mark on his forehead where he took his cap off.
“Okay, time to drain the spaghetti,” he says.
I take this as my cue and take the pan off the heat.
“Save a cup of water to thicken the sauce,” he adds before I can pour it all through the strainer.
“I’ll just go and let my dad know dinner’s ready. ”
Conner keeps his eyes on the pan and nods.
My good mood dips when I near my dad’s study. I ball my fist up and knock on the door, wait for a reply.