Chapter 10
Conor
I told myself months ago, back when this fixation on Jaxon first started, that I wasn’t going to make contact. I would keep my distance and leave it at watching because I knew exactly what would happen if I crossed that line. It would get worse. And I was right.
Since the fight, since sitting across from him in that dingy diner and hearing his voice directed at me for the first time, something shifted in a way I didn’t plan for and sure as hell didn’t want. Now all I want is contact. Something more than distance and silence.
So now here I am, sitting across from him again, and he hasn’t even acknowledged me, hasn’t so much as looked up, like I don’t exist, like I’m not sitting right in front of him after everything that happened.
Stubborn man. The thought hits immediately.
This man is just as stubborn as my brother Ronan.
I almost let out a sigh at that, but then I stop myself, because that’s not even fair.
Ronan is stubborn. But Jaxon? Jaxon is something else entirely.
Still, the comparison lingers for half a second before I shake it off.
Truth is, my entire family is a bunch of stubborn assholes.
Every single one of us. Except Mom. She’s the only exception to that rule.
That woman is the embodiment of patience and flexibility when it comes to us, somehow managing to handle seven grown men who should know better and choosing to love us anyway.
She accepts things that shouldn’t be possible to accept.
She understands us in ways no one else ever has or will.
And anyone who ever thinks it’s a good idea to hurt her or even speak badly about her will find out real quick what happens when you push the wrong people.
Because the seven of us might be a problem on our own, but when it comes to her, we are something else entirely.
I decide to speed up this non-conversation with the two words I know will get a reaction from him.
“Manny Deluga,” I say, then wait.
He drops the edges of his sandwich onto his tray, the crusts set aside with an absent kind of precision that tells me this isn’t a one-time thing or a passing preference, but something habitual, something ingrained enough that he doesn’t even think about it anymore.
And I notice. It’s such a small thing, insignificant on its own, but somehow it stands out more than it should, drawing my attention in a way that feels disproportionate to what it actually is.
He doesn’t like crust. The thought settles in immediately, quiet and automatic, and before I can stop it, I’ve already filed it away somewhere in the back of my mind.
I don’t know why. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. And yet, it feels like it does. For some reason, every small detail about him is something I need to hold onto, something I might need later, even if I don’t have a reason for it right now.
The realization hits a second later, sharper this time.
I want a list. A clear, structured record of things he likes, things he avoids, habits, preferences, patterns, anything that gives me more insight into who he is beyond what he chooses to show.
The way he eats. The way he carries himself.
The things he leaves unfinished. I make a mental note to start one.
“What is your deal, Conor?” His voice cuts through the space between us, sharper than anything he’s said before, carrying a frustration that’s been building long before I ever sat down across from him.
“Life too boring in your ivory tower that you feel the need to come play hero to the peasants?” he continues, his tone biting now, each word deliberate. “The country club doesn’t have enough drama for you, so you decided to slum it with the rest of us?”
I don’t interrupt him. I let him get it out.
“I told you to back off,” he adds, quieter but no less intense. “You’ve already caused enough trouble.”
He reaches for the cupcake then, peeling back the wrapper with a quick, practiced motion before taking a large bite, like he needs something to do with his hands, something to ground himself. But this time, his eyes stay locked on mine.
“I don’t belong to a country club,” I reply, my voice even despite the bite in his words, because if anyone else had spoken to me like that, this conversation would have ended very differently. But this isn’t anyone else. This is Jaxon.
The anger is there, sharp and immediate, but underneath it, there’s something else, something heavier that doesn’t match the way he’s trying to come at me. Hurt, maybe. He scoffs, shaking his head like I just proved his point.
“Well then, maybe you should join one and leave me alone. I’m not a project for your charity.”
My jaw tightens slightly at that, but I don’t rise to it.
“Why are you so angry?” I ask instead, keeping my tone controlled, steady. “I’m trying to help you.”
That’s the wrong thing to say. I know it the second it leaves my mouth.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every movement. “All I wanted was to sit here, enjoy my dinner, and eat my cupcake, but no, you’ve got to be all up in my business.”
His eyes snap back to mine, sharper now.
“I’m angry because you can’t seem to understand that you aren’t helping,” he says, each word deliberate, like he needs me to actually hear it this time. “Forget that you heard that name. Forget that you tried to help me.” There’s a pause. Then his voice goes quiet, “Please.”
That word shifts something. He runs both hands over his short hair again, tension pulling at his shoulders as he looks away for the first time in a while.
“I don’t need anything else on me right now,” he adds, his voice dropping, worn down in a way that hits harder than the anger did.
He stands, abrupt and final. He turns and walks out without a second glance, leaving me sitting there alone at the table with nothing but the space he just occupied and the tension he left behind. Just like that, he’s gone.
I don’t move right away, my eyes lingering on the empty chair across from me, on the half-eaten cupcake, on the small, insignificant details that somehow feel heavier now that he’s not here to fill the space.
I just sit here, letting it settle, letting the frustration and something else I don’t want to name twist together in my chest. This wasn’t supposed to go like this. None of this was.
I exhale slowly and drag a hand down my face, leaning back in my seat as I try to shake it off, to put distance between myself and whatever this is turning into before it gets any further out of my control. Because it already feels like too much, too involved, too personal.
I glance down at my watch, the movement automatic, something familiar to latch onto, and the numbers pull me out of my head just enough to refocus.
Less than forty minutes. Sunday dinner at my parents’ house.
A completely different kind of chaos is waiting for me, one I actually understand, one I know how to handle.
I push myself to my feet. I force my body to move even though my mind is still stuck back at the table, still replaying the conversation, still trying to figure out how the hell this turned into something I can’t seem to walk away from.