Chapter 49
forty-nine
. . .
WHITNEY
Being back in Coral Cove is weird in a way I should have anticipated and absolutely did not.
On tour, Connor was everywhere. Across the room. Next to me in bed. In my space, in my orbit, in my head. Back home, he’s somehow both closer and less reachable, which feels deeply unfair considering I technically have him now.
Or, according to him, he has me.
That thought alone is enough to make me blush into my protein shake like a teenager with a crush.
Fort Lauderdale is in three days, so everyone is in varying stages of stress, denial, and overhydration. And I’m currently sitting at Rory and Summer’s kitchen table while Rory goes back for a third helping of pasta and asks me to recap tour drama in chronological order.
“Chronological order?” I repeat. “What is this, a deposition?”
“Yes,” Rory says, sitting back down. “I need details.”
Summer slides me another piece of garlic bread. “Ignore him. Start with the funniest thing.”
So I do.
I tell them about Myrtle Beach, about a kid at clinic who informed Connor his freestyle looked “emotionally aggressive,” about Venita nearly losing her mind over sponsor chaos, about long days and early mornings and the weird blur it became by the end.
I don’t mention skinny dipping and towel stealing escapades.
Or Connor with his hands on me in a hotel shower, or the letters hidden in his tattoo, or the fact that I now know exactly how his mouth sounds against my skin when he’s trying not to lose it.
Definitely don’t mention a bulk box of condoms going to waste because it feels too damn good to go without one.
That’s information I will never share with my brother, even once Connor and I are out in the open.
Rory shakes his head when I finish one story about Connor talking trash to a teenager who then beat him in a drill.
“I swear, the guy is physically incapable of acting normal for more than ten minutes.”
The words land lightly. Casually.
Still, something in me tightens.
Summer gives him a look. “It feels like that’s exactly how you would have handled the situation.”
“Yeah, but I’m charming.”
I laugh because that is the correct response and because it buys me a second.
Rory twirls his fork. “I’ll give Connor this, though. He’s been better lately.”
I glance up.
Rory shrugs like the admission pains him. “At practice. He’s showing up. More focused. Less attitude.”
There’s something almost generous in it, then he ruins it.
“Still wouldn’t trust him farther than I can throw him.”
And there it is.
It’s not loud or dramatic, but it’s painfully Rory. He says the exact thing he has every reason to think, while I have to sit across from him feeling like my life is become one long exercise in keeping my face neutral.
I take a sip of water so I don’t have to respond. Because what am I supposed to say?
Explain that the version of Connor Rory still distrusts is not the one who tied my wrists with a controller cord and washed my hair after?
Mention the initials hidden in a tattoo he’s had for the better part of a year?
Admit I’m pretty sure I’m in trouble in a way that has nothing to do with Rory and everything to do with the fact that Connor looks at me like I’m something worth keeping?
Yeah. No.
The timing is all wrong. That’s what I tell myself.
Fort Lauderdale is too close. Tension is already high. Rory and Connor are only just functioning in the same orbit without open hostility half the time. Telling him now would be like throwing a lit match into a locker room and acting surprised when something catches on fire.
So I smile when appropriate. Finish my pasta. Let Summer change the subject.
But on the drive back to Winnie’s, the unease stays with me.
Because Connor doesn’t feel like a mistake, he’s real.
And keeping something this real tucked inside, hidden from one of the people who knows me best, is already starting to feel a lot less like privacy and a lot more like pressure.