Chapter Three
Sam sat in his mom’s car across the road from Finnegan’s Electrical.
The business was located in a small office building off Main Street, with a faded sign over the door and a utility van parked out front.
Unremarkable, a little run-down, just an average trade outfit indistinguishable from all the rest.
He glanced at the folded newspaper in his hand, where the listing had been circled with his father’s crossword pen.
Customer service experience ideal, data entry, light admin.
He would have laughed if it weren’t so soul crushing.
He’d graduated with honors, top of his class, and here he was, back at square one.
Yet as much as it pained him, his dad was right.
It would do him good to get out of the house.
If only as a distraction. He’d always enjoyed learning new things and was a sucker for proving himself.
Since constructing his first shoebox diorama in second grade, he’d been wired for external validation.
Sam got out of the car and checked his reflection in the driver’s window.
He looked ridiculous in his pointed-toe Oxfords and sea-blue suit, conspicuously overdressed in a town that considered sneakers a solid fashion choice.
He shrugged off the jacket and tossed it back into the car then undid the top button of his dress shirt so he wouldn’t come across as such a stiff.
The bell above the door tinkled when he stepped into the office.
The interior looked unchanged from what appeared to be its original seventies decor, all wood paneling and faded floral carpet.
Document boxes were stacked haphazardly along one wall, and a scuffed reception desk sat in the middle of the room.
Behind the desk, a curling poster depicted a dog with an empty food bowl in its jaws above the tagline Howl can I help?
The door to the back room opened, and a tall man in work pants and a faded black T-shirt strode in.
His dark hair was cropped neatly at the sides, and his eyes were a dusky blue.
He was at least half the age Sam had expected the owner of Finnegan’s Electrical to be and, instead of a protruding potbelly, sported the clean lines of well-defined biceps.
The man took in Sam standing by the desk. “Whatever it is, we’re not buying.”
Sam felt his cheeks warm. “Actually, I’m here about the job.”
“Oh.” The man’s forehead furrowed. “Hang on—for the front desk?”
Sam nodded, stepping over and holding out his résumé. The man took it wordlessly, and his eyes widened as he scanned the sheet of paper in his hand.
“Uh, it’s mostly answering the phone, invoicing, customer service. Sheryl, our longtime office manager, retired earlier this month.” The man glanced up from the résumé and gave him a quizzical look. “I think you might be a bit overqualified, Sammy.”
Sam blinked, and the heat spread from his cheeks down his neck. No one had called him that since high school. “It’s Sam,” he corrected sharply. He peered at the man. “Wait, do I know you?”
The man grinned, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Maybe not without the nose ring.”
“Oh shit!” Sam exclaimed. “Finnis?”
“It’s Connor, if we’re being adult about it.”
Sam laughed despite himself. Finnis was a notorious burnout who’d spent most of his time at school down the backfield with his grungy friends, passing around their beaten-up MP3 players and flicking cigarette butts at the jocks.
Sam had been in a few classes with the guy, but then he’d up and disappeared a year before graduation.
“Right, Connor Finnegan. Is this your dad’s business?”
“Technically, it’s mine now.” Connor cocked his head. “Why’d everyone call you Sammy?”
“It was either that or Samantha.” Sam ignored the prickle of shame the memory unearthed. “What I got for being the only queer at school.”
Connor held his gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable, before handing back the résumé. “To be honest, the job’s way below your pay grade.”
“I don’t mind,” Sam blurted. He’d never been rejected for being overqualified before. “I kind of need an excuse to get out of the house.”
Major red flag.
“Not that I’d half-ass it or anything,” he added quickly. “I could help implement some new strategies. Bring my marketing experience to the table.”
Connor looked hesitant. “It doesn’t pay much. I wouldn’t expect you to go above the regular duties.”
“Then I won’t. If it’s just admin, I can do admin.” Sam realized how desperate he sounded. “Anyway, just thought I’d throw my hat in the ring.”
Connor absently cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “People haven’t exactly been beating down the door. You’re the first person who’s come in, actually.”
Sam remembered the scornful exchange he’d had with his dad about the classifieds. “Have you considered advertising online? There’s a bunch of free job sites you could list it on.”
Connor frowned. “I’ve never had to hire anyone before. Sheryl’s been around since I was a kid. Figured the newspaper was the standard route.”
“Sure, twenty years ago.” Sam caught his snark a beat too late. What was standard repartee in his old world sometimes fell flat here, where locals were quick to offend.
But Connor shot him a wry smile. “What if we started you out on a trial? Then you can leave if it’s not a good fit. No hard feelings.”
Sam was surprised by a swell of relief. He hadn’t landed a job at a Fortune 500 company, but it was the first big win he’d had since coming home—not counting getting out of bed in the morning. “Deal.”
Connor stuck out his hand, and Sam took it. His palm was warm and rough with wear.
“I’ve been on the back foot since Sheryl left,” Connor admitted, gesturing at the chaotic mess of papers on the desk. “Any chance you could start tomorrow?”
Connor stared at the door for a long time after Sam left.
It was uncanny, like seeing someone return from the dead.
He hadn’t recognized him at first in the expensive-looking suit and the stylish haircut, his wheat-colored hair now a dark blond.
But once the penny dropped, the man was unmistakable.
Those warm brown eyes, that nervous smile.
Connor let out a slow breath and returned to the workshop behind the office.
He was supposed to be going through his gear for an air-conditioning installation that afternoon but found himself unable to concentrate.
He’d spent years in high school furtively watching Sam walk down the halls in vintage shirts and embroidered jeans.
Their paths hadn’t crossed much. Sam had hung out with a handful of drama kids, who mostly kept to themselves.
Sam had been half right earlier: He’d been the only openly queer kid at their school and seemed to carry that responsibility with a grim resignation, as though steeled for disaster.
Not unlike Connor, Sam had projected an air of indifference that was almost believable until the mask slipped to reveal snatches of startling vulnerability—a shyness, a sweetness that life seemed determined to snuff out.
Connor had been confused by many of the things he’d felt for Sam, least of all the urge to protect him.
He recalled one morning when he’d arrived late to school, a frequent occurrence in those days—the only thing getting him there was the threat of his father’s mounting punishments.
Precociously world-weary, he hadn’t been the easiest kid.
After checking himself in at the front desk, he’d walked down the corridor to find Sam sitting outside the nurse’s office, a bunch of bloody tissues held up to his nose.
Connor still remembered the flash of anger as various scenarios raced through his head.
All led to thoughts of retaliation. He came to a stop in front of Sam, who stared up at him timidly.
They inhabited different tiers within the school’s ecosystem and hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other.
“What happened?” Connor asked.
“It does this sometimes. Makes life interesting.” Sam moved the tissues away from his nose, and two beads of dark-red blood slid from his nostrils.
“You’re dripping.” Connor returned to the front desk and stole the box of tissues from the counter. He dropped it on Sam’s lap as he walked past then continued down the hall toward his first-period class.
“Thanks,” Sam called out to his back.
Then there was the incident senior year. The school play. Connor had left school by then, but he’d heard about it through a couple of friends who still attended. It was all the kids talked about right until graduation, after which Sam had promptly left town, and Connor hadn’t seen him since.
There was no denying the man’s résumé was impressive.
Until a month ago, he’d been an account manager for a brand-marketing agency based in Austin.
He’d completed a bachelor of commerce at UNL and spent several years working for a well-known start-up in New York.
Connor had always considered Sam one of the lucky ones. He’d gotten out.
So what was he doing back in Oakdale?