2. Elliot
ELLIOT
“ G ah, why does he have to be here?”
Even without her boots on, Scout’s footsteps are more like stomps. Naomi will be up in a minute asking what all the racket is.
“It’s just a few weeks,” I remind her.
“It’s our few weeks, Eli. This is supposed to be our vacation time.”
I look up from the Patti Smith record I’d been studying. “Scout, we live a ten-minute drive from each other. I’m sure we’ll survive one summer with your brother hanging around.”
She growls and throws herself onto the bed. “It’s still not fair. You could have had his room if he’d stayed in California.”
My face floods with heat at the thought of sleeping in Connor’s bed. Scout looks up with an accusatory squint. “Please tell me you don’t still have a crush on him.”
“What? I … pfft … I never had a crush on Connor.”
Scout leans up on one elbow to bring her glare a few inches closer to my face. “Elliot … promise me you’re not still pining for my idiot, neanderthal, dude-bro brother.”
I scoff. Surely she can see how red my face is? I manage to compose myself enough to reply without spluttering this time. “I’ve never ‘pined for’ your brother.”
She rolls her eyes and flops onto her back. “Come on, you weren’t exactly subtle about it.”
A cold sweat starts at the base of my neck. “What do you mean?”
“You went all googly eyed every time he was in the same room.”
“I did not.”
“And he loved it.”
Oh my God, Connor knew I had a stupid crush on him?
“Scout, your brother is straight and I don’t have a crush on him.” The lie feels like vinegar on my tongue, but it’s necessary. Scout is extremely sensitive about her friends being attracted to Connor.
“Him being straight is the only reason I didn’t care about your stupid crush. Doesn’t mean he didn’t still love the attention, though.”
I desperately rack my brain for evidence of my obvious crush.
All I can bring forth is memories of Connor walking around in sweatpants, eating cereal out of the box, drinking orange juice straight from the carton, bickering with Scout, scratching his bare belly while watching TV, climbing out of the pool, dripping with water… . Nope.
I’m sure if he suspected I had a childish crush back then, he doesn’t assume it still stands, right?
I’m an adult now. I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had actual sex with another human being.
I do not still fantasize about Connor Ryan taking my virginity and declaring his undying love for me directly afterward .
Scout jumps up from the bed to move the needle on the record player.
“Whatever. Just don’t let him take over our summer.” She turns and flashes me a wolfish grin. "This summer, Elliot Bancroft, you’re mine.”
When we go downstairs for dinner, Connor’s leaning against the counter in a well-worn Harvard t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Oh great, like he couldn’t have found a less erotic outfit to wear?
Of course I still think he’s hot. The entire male-attracted population would appreciate the man standing in front of me. But I’m used to being attracted to people who don’t reciprocate. Connor Ryan was just the first—and most notable—in a long list.
It isn’t just that he has perfect proportions or an amazing six pack.
In fact, Connor’s beauty is anything but basic.
I’ve spent hours studying his face, and I can say wholeheartedly that Connor is so much more than boringly handsome.
Even his so-called imperfections are endearing.
Like the slightly hooked nose, or the freckles and tiny moles covering his neck, chest, and shoulders.
Or those two sharp teeth that give the impression of fangs.
His small ears and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
His skin is olive-toned and tans easily, but he looks just as good when he’s paler in the winter months.
Connor Ryan is in possession of a unique and breathtaking beauty, and you know the worst thing?
—He isn’t even a dick about it. It makes him impossible to forget.
He’s smiling at something his dad said when we walk in, but when he looks at me, something changes on his face. He quickly looks away.
I flinch. What was that? Did I do something to piss him off? Does it have something to do with why he was staring at me outside?
I tell myself I’m being paranoid and take a seat at the table.
“What’s for dinner?” Scout asks. “Is that Dad’s spaghetti sauce?”
“Hold up, honey. Your brother brought us all gifts back from California.”
Scout rolls her eyes. “Oh, goody.”
Ignoring the attitude, Connor takes something from a gift bag on the counter and hands it to Naomi. She unwraps the tissue paper to reveal a stuffed bear wearing a t-shirt. “Aww,” she says. “It’s wearing a little ‘Mom’ shirt.”
“Dad next.” Connor’s smile never leaves his face. Not even when Scout huffs and crosses her arms to show how bored she is.
Richard walks away from the stove with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. We all watch as he unwraps the tissue paper to reveal … something plastic with things floating inside?
Everyone stares in confusion while Richard turns the object over in his hands.
“It’s a paperweight,” Connor explains, the confident smile never leaving his face. “You know, for your office. It’ll stop your papers flying around when the fan’s on.”
“So it is,” Richard says, smiling. “Thank you, son. I’ll put it to use right away.”
“Scout and Eli are next,” Connor says. A pleasant shiver runs up my spine.
When was the last time Connor said my name? The way he naturally shortens it with such automatic familiarity makes me giddy.
I block out everything else while I unwrap my gift. At first, it just looks like a plain, black fridge magnet. But when I turn it over, it has a picture of Fox Mulder hugging a wall, looking all moody and tortured. Underneath, it says, I’m not saying it’s aliens, but … it’s aliens.
I’m too touched that Connor remembered my favorite show to even laugh at the joke. When I look up, everyone’s too busy watching Scout unwrap her gift to notice mine.
“A little bear,” Naomi says. “Like mine. Twinning.”
Scout rolls her eyes.
“What does yours say?” Naomi asks, pointing to the shirt on Scout’s bear.
Scout grits her teeth. “ Even baddies get saddies. ”
Naomi snorts before clamping her hand over her mouth and I note how Richard smothers his smile with a cough.
Connor’s the only one grinning unabashedly, those attractive fangs on display.
“Very funny,” Scout spits.
“I saw it and thought of you, sis.”
“What did he get you, Eli?” She turns to me and I have to stop myself from covering the magnet with my hands.
It feels somehow … private. But of course it isn’t.
Connor’s watching me openly, that confident, easygoing smile still in place.
There’s no way his intentions are anything but friendly, so I should have no reason to hide—right?
Scout picks it up before I have a chance to make a decision. “It’s Mulder, from The X-Files .” She reads the quote and laughs. “That’s actually funny.”
Connor clutches his chest. “Did you just say something vaguely nice about me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Get over it, loser. ”
At that word—loser—Connor’s easy layer of confidence disappears. It happens suddenly, and the moment passes before anyone else notices. But I saw it. It was disarming. Like seeing a superhero without their costume.
His gaze flickers to me for just a second and I blush deeply and look away.
When dinner’s ready, we all take a seat and clasp hands to say grace.
I close my eyes and go through the motions.
Once, when we were kids, I opened my eyes and caught Connor watching me with a cheeky smirk.
Later, he pulled me aside and said, “Don’t worry, I don’t believe in God either.
” It had felt as though we were in on a conspiracy together.
I was too shy to tell him the real reason I felt awkward saying grace is because at my house, we ate Japanese-style and my mom taught me to bow over my food and say a simple Itadakimasu.
All through dinner, I try to focus on the moment I can slip away to catch up on my reading for the class I failed last semester.
Scout will tell me I don’t need to stress about it—that I had good reason for failing that class and I should probably just drop it—so I’ll need to slip away as discreetly as possible to avoid a scene.
I’ll probably have to wait until she falls asleep, but that shouldn’t take too long.
She’s usually snoring by the time her head hits the pillow.
Connor keeps drawing my attention simply by existing.
I’m used to ignoring my straight guy crush by now, but that second of a mask slip has sent me off balance.
Was it a mask slip? Of course I know that no one is that confident and happy all the time.
But there was something so drastic about the change that I can’t get it out of my head .
I’m brought back to reality when Naomi asks, “How’s your dad, Elliot?”
The table goes quiet.
I clear my throat to give myself a moment before answering. “He’s fine, thanks.”
I’ve barely been home since Scout picked me up from school for the summer break. And even then, I just popped in for some clothes and books and to check he had food in the fridge. I didn’t stick around.
Richard changes the subject, asking Connor about his job in Palo Alto.
I only need to be half tuned into the conversation to be confused about the topic.
Scout told me that Connor was taking a break from Harvard to do something in California, but I’d assumed it was hockey-related.
Why is he working in sales for some tech company?
Connor is a hockey player. Ever since I can remember, Connor has been obsessed with hockey.
That’s always been his thing. Skating on the frozen lake at the back of the house until his mom had to practically drag him inside.
All those youth league games we froze our asses off watching at Coach Garvin’s rink.
The summer camps. The private coaching. How many hours have been spent planning Connor’s hockey career over this very dining table?
And now he’s letting it all go? Why? Because he wasn’t signed by his draft team?
So what? He could still make the NHL happen.
He doesn’t have to give up. I look over at Scout, trying to figure out why she didn’t tell me that Connor’s break from Harvard was more serious—and permanent—than she let on, but she’s too busy shoving pasta into her mouth.
I keep glancing at Connor while he speaks about Palo Alto and the office he works at, the business trips he gets to go on and the cool people he’s met, to see if I can spot that mask slip again.
But all I see is Connor being his confident, cheerful self.
Answering his parents’ questions about his plans for the future. None of which involve hockey.
CONNOR
I try to ignore how distracted I am by Elliot sitting at the other side of the table and act normal, despite the fact I can’t stop staring at his pretty hands on the tablecloth or admiring the way he eats.
He’s a part of the family and one of our oldest family friends.
Scout might be grumpier than a feral alley cat with me these days, but Elliot is still my friend, too.
I catch him glance at me a couple of times and try to throw him a friendly smile.
By the end of dinner, my face is aching with trying to keep up the charade.
I take my plate to the sink when I’ve finished eating and offer to wash the dishes.
“No complaints here,” Dad says, pouring himself a glass of wine before steering Mom toward the living room.
“I’ll help,” Elliot says.
“Let him do it.” Scout’s tone is growly.
I stick my tongue out at her and she snarls at me.
“You can dry, Eli. Scout, you put the dishes away.”
Elliot’s rolling his sleeves up and grabbing the dishcloth, so Scout sighs and rests her weight against the counter while I fill the sink.
“How’s school going, Eli?” I ask as I dip the first pasta bowl into the sudsy water.
His cheeks tint. Did I say something wrong? Elliot is the smartest person I know. He’s always loved school. Always been in his element when studying or reading a book .
“It’s okay,” he says. “I failed a class last semester, so I have to take a summer class online.”
Elliot failed a class? How the fuck did that happen?
His mom passed away suddenly from an aneurism in his sophomore year, and he didn’t even take the compassionate leave they offered him.
He just went on studying, saying it helped, and I’m assuming he passed the year because he moved onto his junior year just fine.
“He doesn’t need to catch up,” Scout says from the other side of the kitchen. “It’s just one class, and he’ll pass once he retakes it.”
Elliot’s looking down at the dishcloth, wringing it in his hands.
He forces a smile when he catches me looking at him.
I know that feeling. I try to communicate that he doesn’t have to hide anything from me with just my eyes, but I don’t think we have that kind of relationship. Not enough for him to understand.
Did something happen with this particular class?
Is his professor a bully or something? I know Elliot well enough to know he isn’t a quitter.
He wouldn’t drop a class unless he had absolutely no other choice.
Is he forcing himself to do something that’s making him miserable?
Is he blaming himself for not being good enough?
A wave of protectiveness washes over me.
I reach out to squeeze his shoulder, but Scout barges between us and grabs the dishcloth from Eli.
“I’m bored. Can I help dry?”