Chapter 7 Connor
CONNOR
There’s an expensive hush to the air. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the lake, and the mountains are barely visible in the moonlight.
Dinner dragged for hours until the bravest of them all finally called it and got up to go to bed.
The itinerary the next few days is insane—very much fitting Elle and Jack’s personalities.
Boat rides and hikes and day trips to waterfalls and ice caves and potentially a (mandatory?) whitewater rafting excursion… a little bit overwhelming, but I’m hoping it’ll help me escape, relax, forget about the dumpster fire that is my life back in New York.
The job that eats every waking hour and still feels hollow.
The apartment that’s too quiet without Athena but was suffocating me with her in it.
The inbox that refills the second I clear it, like scooping out water from a sinking boat.
The friends I barely see anymore because I keep canceling plans at the last second.
The recurring feeling of having a life I don’t want at all, but also not knowing what the fuck I want out of my life either.
I pad barefoot down the stairs and through the hall, the polished wood cool against my skin, aiming for the kitchen and hoping for any warm beverage that could help me sleep. Tea. Or water. Or something to settle the low buzz behind my eyes that has me seeing slightly double.
Everything’s been wiped down. Marble counters gleam, the citrusy-cleaner smell still faint in the air. The built-in fridge—somewhere on the far wall of the kitchen—hums softly. For a house this big, this scene feels surprisingly still.
I reach for the cabinet and nearly jump when I see her.
“Sorry,” I mutter because I really should have seen her.
But she’s curled on a stool by the island, half-hidden in shadow, barefoot and wearing a pair of soft pajama pants and a T-shirt that keeps sliding down her shoulder.
Manuela’s blonde hair is loose, a little messy, and she looks exactly how you hope to look when you don’t expect anyone to see you—comfortable, cozy, and somehow still a little magnetic.
Maybe it’s the alcohol speaking, but I really can’t stop looking.
She smiles like she’s been caught but doesn’t mind. She lifts one of the mugs already set on the counter. “I was about to make tea.”
“Same.” I nod toward the kettle, already filled.
We move without talking, finding spoons, picking out bags from a wooden box filled with blends I’ve never seen before. Basil and hibiscus flower with cardamom notes. I’m not a huge tea connoisseur, but that really doesn’t sound very appealing.
There’s a rhythm to it that I wasn’t expecting, unspoken and easy. She slides a mug toward me as the water starts to boil, and I hand her a teaspoon before she even asks.
It’s domestic, almost. Foreign, in this strange house.
When the tea’s steeping, she turns on the stool and leans back against the counter, facing the lake. “This place doesn’t feel real yet.”
I get it. The glass, the magnificence, the view. The way everything looks designed up to the tiniest detail. Manufactured in a way that can make you feel cozy. “Feels like at any point, we’re going to realize it’s really the set of a movie.”
She grins. “Right? I keep expecting someone to yell ‘action’ at any given point.”
That makes me laugh, and I let the sound fill the space.
Being with someone who doesn't pretend this is normal. That’s what makes it different.
I grew up around this—outlandish vacations, spectacular homes, scenes pulled straight from Nancy Meyers movies.
It was always there, expected. But it never felt real to me. Not common. Not mine.
Maybe because I knew the price tags that came with them, not just the dollar amounts but the pressure—the constant push to prove we belonged, to keep up, to want more, more, more.
My parents certainly thrived on it, but I never did.
I never learned how to look around a room like this and feel at home in it.
We take our tea into the sitting room off the kitchen.
Couches built for sinking into and potentially falling asleep, windows wide enough to make the lake feel like it’s part of the room as it glitters in the moonlight…
There’s a floor lamp in the corner casting warm light across the room, making everything feel cozy.
We sit, mugs in hand, a little apart. Not distant. Just… careful.
After a while of staring out, she says, “I think we’re the only ones not sharing a room tonight.”
I tilt my head toward her. “You sound surprised.”
She shrugs. “Not surprised. Just… watched? I don’t even know that’s a fair conclusion of what’s happening. Sometimes…”
She drifts off mid-sentence with a deep sigh. I want to probe, to know more, but I leave it, letting her look out onto the lake and the slow darkening of the mountainside as the houses around us start shutting off for the night.
“You could’ve brought someone.”
“I don’t really know anyone that well,” she says, sipping her tea. “At least, not enough to share a bed for a couple of weeks.”
“Fair.”
A beat of silence passes. Then, from upstairs—barely audible—a faint sound. A breathy gasp. A moan.
We freeze.
Her eyes meet mine, wide. And then, like the tension breaks all at once, we both burst into dramatic, over the top laughter.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, laughing so hard she has to stop and wipe under her eyes. “This house has no soundproofing.”
“Apparently not.”
She takes another sip of tea, then sets the mug down. “God,” she says with a sigh. “I miss sex.”
It’s so sudden, so honest, that it stuns us both. Her face goes red in an instant, and even in the dim light, I can see how it reaches the tips of her ears. “Dios. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
But I’m still laughing. Not at her—but at the realness of it. “You kind of did.”
“I really didn’t.” There’s a tiny squeak at the end of her sentence, and then she buries her face into her hands, lightly chuckling into them. I don’t know if she’s also buzzed like I am, but she’s definitely relaxed, guard down. “I didn’t. I swear.”
“Well.” I pause, contemplate my next few words. We are the only single people in this group, and we will, most likely, be partnered up for all activities that require a buddy on this trip. “Same.”
She turns toward me, blinking. “Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s been a few months.” Seven, to be exact. But who’s counting, really?
There’s a pause. She doesn’t make it awkward at all, but she studies my face, looking for whatever answer she’s been after since this morning.
In this moment, I don’t even think it’s about sex—not really. At least, not for me. It’s not about getting off or scratching an itch. It’s about what it could mean. The chance to be close to someone, to let myself be seen for once instead of performing.
I don’t know if she feels any of that. Maybe it’s just attraction for her. Maybe it’s nothing more.
The silence sits between us, just like it has all day. Heavy and rough around the edges, yet comforting and stable.
Then Manuela says, “Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
Her gaze skims the table, like she’s debating whether to risk it.
“What’s… going on with you and Athena?” The words come out carefully, almost like she’s afraid they’ll break something.
For a second, my chest tightens. I keep my eyes on the tea swirling in my mug, willing my face to stay neutral. “We broke up seven months ago.”
She doesn’t jump in, but it looks like she wants to say something along the lines of duh, it’s obvious since you haven’t been with her and she was always dragging you around. But she doesn’t. Manuela waits patiently for me to be ready to say something.
“She wanted more structure. A plan and timelines. I get it; she deserved to know where it was all going after so many years together. And I couldn’t give her that.
” I shake my head, trying to find the words I haven’t uttered to a single soul because it makes me uncomfortable to divulge so much of myself and to lose control of the narrative that threads my life.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived like everything depends on what people see when they look at me. If I stayed on script, people nodded with approval. If I strayed, even for a second, it felt like the floor tilted under me.
Telling the truth about Athena means opening the door to everyone else’s version of the story—my parents’ disappointment, my friends’ pity, the quiet what’s wrong with him whispers I’ve heard my whole life about other people. And once those versions exist, mine would stop mattering.
“I built my whole life on plans,” I admit, almost to myself. “Every move mapped out five steps ahead. I used to have a five-year plan.” A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Now even the next five weeks feel blurry.”
Her brows draw in.
“I thought I knew what I wanted. A lot of what I wanted had to do with familial expectations—a career, a stable relationship, marriage, and kids. And then I got half of that and… I don’t know.” I shrug. “It felt like someone else’s life. Feels like someone else’s life.”
Manuela is quiet, but her presence is grounding. She moves her body in my direction, switching her angle enough so that now I’m the center of her attention. She’s nodding along like she totally gets it. And maybe she does, and I want to prod, but how do I even ask? What do I even ask?
“There’s this itch I can’t shake,” I say. “Like I should be doing something else, but I have no clue what. I keep waiting for a sign or a moment or something, and all I get is noise.”
“You sound like someone who needs a vacation,” she says softly.
“Or a personality transplant.” Or maybe a new group of friends.
She smiles again, tucking a leg beneath her. “For what it’s worth… I think you’re doing okay.”
It’s a simple thing to say. But something about the way she says it makes my chest ache.
We sit there a while longer, letting the tea cool. The laughter and flirtation from earlier lingers, but quieter now. Like we’re both aware that something shifted.
She glances towards the stairs. “I should probably sleep before someone else starts up.”
“Let me know if you need earplugs,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Only if you snore,” she throws back, already walking away. “Don’t we share a wall?”
I watch her go, her steps soft against the floor.
Then I lean back on the couch and take a long sip of lukewarm tea.
I don’t know what this is becoming. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like nothing.