15. Delaney
DELANEY
The retirement home is way fancier than I imagined it would be.
I kinda pictured a glorified hospital with that sterile old-people smell, but Golden Oaks is pristine and homey.
The residents mill around the common area as we arrive and our students jump right in to socialize with them.
Just like at the elementary school, the students have really impressed me with their behavior.
A sense of pride tugs at my heart, although I can’t take credit for even an ounce of their gentle, kind spirits.
If anything, I serve as an anti-example, a cautionary tale. If you can’t keep your selfish, bad attitude in check, you’ll end up like this sad pop star fighting for her career. Pretty good scared-straight fodder.
Mrs. Crane gathers the students up as the residents meander into the expansive living room for their performance.
“I have a confession,” Connor whispers in my ear, wrapping an arm around my lower back and resting his hand on my hip.
He pulls me into him, and my pulse quickens as I tuck right into his side, like a puzzle piece that’s been lost under a rug for far too long.
My body reacts to his touch as if it’s been starved of affection, leaving me greedy and hungry for more.
In an attempt to satisfy that appetite, I lean into his side. “What’s the confession?”
“Retirement homes give me the creeps.” He feigns a shudder and I can’t help but laugh. “Something about them feels haunted.”
Our focus turns to the front of the room as the choir starts their performance. They sing a mix of oldies, classic choir pieces, and one original song, Mrs. Crane’s pride and joy, although she’d never admit to it.
I take a few video clips to share with parents and jot down some notes for Mrs. Crane so we can make adjustments for future performances.
They’ve improved so much in the short time that I’ve been at Ridgecrest. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve learned a lot from Mrs. Crane.
I studied a fair bit of music theory before I went out to L.A.
, but that lady is a treasure trove of knowledge, beyond theory and mechanics.
And she’s dang talented; if she can’t find an arrangement she likes, she writes all the parts herself.
Watching her work the last few weeks feels like a little peek into an alternate reality.
Maybe, if things had been different for me, if my parents hadn’t molded me into this over the top version of myself, this could have been my future.
Directing a choir in some small town, taking students out into the community, making someone’s day, making a difference in a small way.
I’d marry some hot local, like a firefighter or mechanic, or an English teacher, and settle down for a slow-paced life. It’s a pretty enticing fantasy.
We are served dinner after the performance alongside the residents, who are all adorable and not creepy in the slightest. Connor and I end up on opposite ends of the dining hall. I take a crew of girls to sit with the cutest group of old ladies while he helps gather up stragglers.
“Well, he’s quite the looker, isn’t he?” a lady with impeccable makeup and short white waves says, nodding towards Connor across the hall.
My choir girls giggle but don’t blow my cover.
With an eye roll, a woman in a bright blue sweater that matches her eyeshadow spits out, “Janice, he is literally fifty years younger than you.”
Perfect Makeup Janice just shrugs in response as a third lady adds, “Don’t be such a prude, Reyna. No harm in looking.”
All three residents track Connor like hungry lionesses as he walks confidently toward our table. He flashes our group his winning smile and the ladies audibly swoon.
“So, this is where all the pretty girls sit. Were you three models? Because you are stunning.” Connor winks at Janice as the other women join my choir girls in a fit of laughter.
I know he’d never admit to it, but Connor is a damn good flirt. Smooth, charming, and well, just plain hot. These poor old ladies don’t stand a chance.
Our ring leader, Janice pipes up, “Were? Baby, we still are models!” She waggles her brows at him, which sends the table into another round of giggles, and I don’t miss the subtle blush that creeps onto Connor’s face.
Janice is my new best friend.
Connor slides into the empty chair beside me and scoots closer, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Pardon me, of course you still are.” He throws another wink her way before turning his attention to me.
“You need anything, babe?” He says it so sincerely and naturally that I almost forget it isn’t real.
His bright eyes connect with mine and I let myself live in this false reality for just a second.
This cozy little pretend world where he holds me close and calls me babe and takes care of me without being on my payroll.
I like this world more than I should.
Reyna, our tablemate in blue, lets out a low whistle, breaking the moment. “Well shit, Janice, it looks like pretty boy here is spoken for.”
Connor beams back at her. “Since we were kids.”
He says it sure and heavy, throwing it out like an anchor instead of a flimsy lie.
He says it like it’s the truest thing in the world.
The old ladies flirt their way through the rest of dinner, unaffected by Connor’s very possessive arm that never leaves my shoulder. But me? I’m affected as hell.
Since we were kids.
My heart races, replaying his words the whole drive back to the lodge.
It can’t be true, for so many reasons. But I try the words on anyway, expecting the weight of a decade’s worth of love to feel too heavy, too oppressive.
Any moment now, my cute little fear of intimacy will kick in and I’ll be able to shake off Connor’s words as nothing more than a practiced lie, one that I’m literally paying him to say.
But that moment doesn’t come. Instead, a little glimmer of something that feels an awful lot like hope sparks inside of me.
And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
Past Delaney made some stupid mistakes. Showing up late to the Late Show, so late that the taping was over by the time I got there, forgetting to wear underwear on the red carpet, twice, and taking Matty’s dog Pookie out for a walk while I was crossfaded.
Turns out I was dragging a stuffed animal on a leash. Not my finest moment.
But this. This takes the cake.
Three hours ago, I called over to the main lodge to let them know we’d be fine staying in our current chalet. No need to switch to the original reservation since the students were all settled. And sharing a bed with Connor hadn’t been a big deal.
But Three Hours Ago Delaney didn’t know that Present Delaney would be borderline panicking over Connor’s fake, offhand comments. The thought of sharing that teeny tiny futon again with Connor is making me freak the fuck out.
“Yo, Mr. Majors!” Simon hollers as we all trudge off the bus. “Do we have stuff to roast marshmallows again this year?”
I follow his gaze, and sure enough, down a short sloping hill behind the chalet, there’s a fire glowing in a pit against the setting sun.
The early autumn chill is a welcome reprieve from the brutal Tennessee heat, and I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia, remembering nights much like this spent out in the back forty of the orchard with Connor and his family.
At the first sign of fall, Mr. Majors would bake a shit-ton of apple-based goodies from the early harvest and we’d roast hotdogs and make s’mores.
The memory is so idyllic it almost seems fake.
Connor nods towards Simon in affirmation, then turns to me.
“If only we had my dad’s apple turnovers.”
My jaw drops a little. I cannot deal with Connor reading my thoughts. Not when my mind is still racing.
I gotta get it together.
Forcing a smile, I nod slowly, as if I’m pulling the memory from the recesses of my mind instead of seeing it fresh.
“Will you go grab the marshmallows? I’m gonna head on down with the boys,” Connor gestures to the horde of students running headlong towards the fire pit, “and attempt to keep anyone from catching on fire this year.”
“This year?” I question.
“Just the sleeve of a sweatshirt, but I’d rather keep it from becoming a repeat event.” He chuckles, but picks up his pace. “Marshmallows are in the cabinet near the fridge!”
I need space. I need quiet. I need a drink.
What I don’t need is to spend the next hour bundled up next to Connor around a fire pit like we did when we were kids, nostalgia playing on loop. But like a moth to a literal flame, I’m plodding down the path, bag of marshmallows in hand, five minutes later.
The collective group lets out a hoot of excitement at my arrival and soon, the very serious task of roasting marshmallows to perfection is underway.
“Still like ‘em burnt to a crisp?” Connor settles next to me on one of the little log benches dotting the perimeter of the fire pit.
I straighten, searching for an inch of distance between us. His broad shoulders are quick to fill up the space I created.
“That’s the only acceptable way,” I quip, eyes locked on the flames, and scoot to the edge of our shared seat.
It’s the knowing that’s making me crazy.
I haven’t been around anyone who really knows me in so long.
Hell, I’ve hardly been around a version of myself that I know.
As much as I hate to admit it, Connor has stepped back into my life without so much as a stumble.
A seamless fit, just like when we were kids. Just like when we were fifteen.
He’s making quick work of breaking down my walls, and I just need a damn minute to build them back.
Connor chuckles to himself at my response and points one of the sticks Simon collected my way, marshmallow ready on the end. “Can’t imagine you’ve been roasting too many marshmallows out in L.A. Want me to do it for you?”
I nod, but he stays put.
Connor lets out a loud sigh.
“Lanie,” he says, voice heavy with annoyance.
“Connor.” I match his tone.
He elbows me in the side, the movement threatening to topple me off the log. But years of stage training kicks in and I activate my quads and glutes like my life depends on it. Or in this case, my dignity.
“You’re being petulant.”
“You’re throwing SAT words around as if you forgot that I fudged junior and senior year,” I hiss back under my breath. “I hardly know what that word means.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin, still one-cheeking it on this damn log.
Connor leans in, so close that I can feel his breath on my neck. “You might be a lot of things, Delaney James, but dumb isn’t one of them. Drop the act. And for the love of God, look me in the damn eye if you’re gonna lie to me.”
That does it.
I whip around, ready to defend my bitchy attitude to the death, when my superior squatting skills start to fail me. It’s either eat dirt or accept defeat by grabbing onto Connor. My pride is fine with the first choice, but he doesn’t give me the option.
Strong hands grip my arms and in one swift motion, he hauls me onto his lap.
“That’s better,” he grits out, shifting me a little to sit sideways across his legs. One hand digs into my hip, the other lands squarely on my thigh. With a squeeze to my leg, he says, “Now, are you ready to tell me what’s with the attitude?”
Pretty sure the right word is gobsmacked. I’m motherfucking gobsmacked.
Connor Majors, sweet, nerdy, book-loving Connor Majors, all but growled at me.
And those hands.
On my thigh.
This is exactly what I needed to avoid tonight.
“I’m… it’s… I…” I search for the words to explain any of the million thoughts in my head, but the prevailing ones are far too inappropriate to share out loud.
I squirm under his unrelenting grip. With a sigh, I give in.
“It’s a lot.” I gesture around the fire pit to the students, and to the very narrow space between us.
“I should be hitting the midpoint of my tour now, and I should be recording new stuff, and I should be working on brand deals. But I’m here, chaperoning a choir trip.
” And sitting in your damn lap. “The change of pace is giving me whiplash. Feeling overwhelmed, I guess.”
Connor relaxes his hands a little and takes some of my rigidity with it.
He nods slowly. “That’s fair. But maybe don’t worry so much about what you should be doing and just focus on what’s happening now.
This is where you are. Maybe just be here.
” He shrugs and switches his attention to two students using their roasting sticks at lightsabers, but makes no move to release his hold on me.
I follow his gaze. Here is pretty great. The sun has set, the air is cool, and the kids are having a blast. Sure, my situation is far from ideal, but it’s not horrible either. And all my jumbled-up feelings about Connor and his hands can probably be chalked up to exhaustion and ovulation.
For just a moment, it feels possible to set down my frustrations and fears about the future. For just a moment, I think I can be here.
“Hey, Miss James,” Abby shouts from across the fire, “know any good campfire songs?”
I let a big smile spread as I hop off Connor’s lap to lead our little group in some John Denver. Connor joins in on the chorus, loud and very off key.
Here is pretty great.