7. Connor #2
The need to make him feel better grabs me and tells me to stay with him.
Perching on the arm of the couch, I want to reach out and touch him, but I think better of it at the last second. “Eli? Everything alright?”
He swallows, slamming the book shut. His whole demeanor right now is like the universal signal for I don’t fucking wanna talk about it, okay?
“You wanna watch something?” he asks—like it’s the first thing he can think of to get me to shut up.
I should just read between the lines and leave him alone, but the small chance he doesn’t want to be left alone wins out. I take the cushion beside him and pick up the remote.
“What do you feel like watching? Wanna see if I can find any bad movies?”
I leave a little room between us while I search for something to watch.
For some reason, that feels weirder than if I’d sat closer, maybe put an arm around the back of the couch.
I wouldn’t have had a problem touching him before.
It’s suspicious that I do now. But I don’t trust myself to touch him innocently anymore.
Not when every time I glance at him, my stomach clenches in knots at how good he looks in his glasses and his pajamas. His hair a little messier than usual.
“ What Women Want? ”
“Urgh, Mel Gibson’s a dick.”
I laugh. “Isn’t he supposed to be a dick? Don’t you wanna watch him shave his legs in pantyhose?” Why did I say that? Who the hell says pantyhose?
He frowns. “How do you shave your legs in pantyhose? And no—it’ll ruin men in tights for me forever.”
My whole body gets hot. It’s too dark to tell if Elliot’s blushing. Was that a slip? What does Scout call it?—a Freudian slip?
“Okay, no Mel Gibson … but we’ll definitely go for some men in tights.”
Elliot snorts a laugh. “I don’t actually have a thing for?—”
“No, no. It’s fine. We don’t kink shame here.”
“I do not have a kink.”
“It’s okay.” I grin. It feels nice teasing him like this. So long as I try not to think about the fact it’s over kinks. And it’s fucking Elliot. I keep searching for something to put on, grinning when I find the perfect distraction. “Look, Burlesque. Don’t you and Scout watch this once a week?”
His face softens and I do a little whoop in my head.
I made it better.
ELLIOT
Why the fuck did I say that thing about men in tights, to Connor of all people?
It doesn’t matter. Connor does not look at me like that and never will. Even if I did have the right equipment, I wouldn’t be anywhere near his league.
I just felt weirdly at ease with him in that moment. Like I was talking to Scout.
I manage to stop berating myself once we get settled into the movie.
But then Connor tries to get comfortable by folding his legs under him and his knee touches my leg and stays there.
The warmth from his body is like a radiator.
My brain can’t focus on anything except the shape of that knee.
It’s even worse when he wriggles, changing position only to have his thigh pressed against me.
He swallows so loudly I can hear it over the movie. His breathing has become shallower and more noticeable, too. I covertly glance at him from the corner of my eye and his eyes are all glassy. He’s blinking slowly, like something is distracting him, maybe even turning him on.
Is it Christina? She does look good in all those skimpy outfits. I forget that straight men might actually find this movie sexy rather than camp.
“Do you like it?” I ask, unable to handle the silence any longer.
“Hm? Yeah, it’s good,” he says, painting one of his easygoing smiles on before turning to me. “Better than Mel Gibson in tights.”
“ Urgh .” My embarrassment returns and I cover my face.
When I pull my hands away, he’s watching me with a weird smile.
“What?” I ask.
He blinks slowly again—like he zoned out—before shaking his head. “Nothing.”
We go back to watching the movie in stiff silence.
And then he yawns. Arms above his head. His smell …
god, his smell … attacks me. That masculine deodorant, mixed with the faintest hint of fresh sweat.
I can imagine the hairs in his armpits when he raises his arms. The sliver of belly showing under his t-shirt that I won’t allow myself to look at.
When he puts his arms down, he lets one drape over the back of the couch behind my head—almost like he has his arm around me. If this were absolutely anyone else, I might think he did the old fake yawn bit to get closer to me.
Now he’s wafted his scent around the place like a gorilla marking his territory, I can’t escape it.
It doesn’t help that he has his arm propped up behind me on the couch.
The glow of the TV highlights the way his sweatpants tighten around his thighs and…
. I don’t realize I’m eying the shape of his dick and biting my lip until I glance up and find him watching me.
My breath catches. Shit.
I made it so obvious. He’s going to be disgusted, angry … wait, if I didn’t know better, I’d read the look on his face as the heavy-lidded, glassy-eyed look of desire.
He leans in … what’s happening?
“Connor?” My voice comes out small, but he pauses inches from my face anyway. His minty toothpaste makes my head swim and my lids get heavy.
My eyes are closed when something brushes against my lips.
It takes me a second to realize that he’s kissing me, that the skin brushing against my mouth, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine, is Connor’s lips—lips I’ve imagined kissing a million times.
My head spins as I start to move my mouth and I’m suddenly overwhelmed, my heart pounding, breath catching.
I pull away. “Wait, stop.” It’s like trying to repel a magnet. But I do it.
He’s a little breathless as he looks at me. His face is a map of confusion and desire.
“Why did you ... I mean, what was….”
He blinks hard at me, like he’s just as surprised by what he did as I am. “I wanted to kiss you.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Because … you’re hot and I?—”
I snort. It’s not the most attractive sound I’ve ever made, but I think it accurately portrays how I’m feeling.
Connor’s forehead crinkles. “Eli, you are hot. ”
“Even if that were true, you’re straight.”
He swallows. “No, I’m not.”
I shake my head. Surely ‘wishful thinking brain’ is translating this all wrong. “You had a ton of girlfriends in?—”
“I’m bi.”
“Oh.” My heart does a little jig before I give it a reality check. “Well, still …”
“Still what?”
“We shouldn’t …” I shake my head, not quite able to believe I’m going to do this. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
Yes, why not, Elliot? “Why do you think?”
I glance up at the wall where family photos of Connor and Scout hang.
High school graduations and Christmas mornings.
They may not get along as well these days, but they are brother and sister, and maybe them not getting along is even more reason why this can’t happen.
I think about what happened at Scout’s sweet sixteen, how upset she was, and everything in me shrivels in shame.
“Because of Scout?” Connor asks.
“Yes.”
He opens his mouth to protest and then closes it again.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says with a sigh, running a hand over his face.
Everything in me groans. I just rejected a make-out session with Connor Ryan and he’s actually disappointed we can’t kiss right now.
I console myself with the knowledge that it’s the right thing—the only acceptable thing—to do.
We’re quiet for a moment. Burlesque really didn’t get the memo that this is a somber moment. Cher’s belting it out up there in sequins.
Eager to break the silence, and genuinely curious to know, I ask him, “How long have you known that you’re bi? ”
He clears his throat. “A while. But these past few years have been the first time I’ve … experimented.
Experimented.
“So, you’re still figuring it out?”
“No. I know I’m bi. There’s no more figuring it out. Junior year of college was just the first time I’d actually slept with a man.”
Connor Ryan has slept with a man.
I can’t stop the images rushing through my head. Connor, naked and writhing in a bed with another man. Connor on his knees— nope, I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that.
“Does anyone know?”
“Only my old teammates and friends at college. A few people at work.”
“But no one here? Not Brad or your other friends?”
“No.”
I let the silence stretch for a minute in case he wants to say something.
When he doesn’t and it starts to get awkward, I ask, “Are you going to tell your parents?”
He swallows. “Yeah. At some point.”
“You know they’ll be cool with it.”
“I know that, it’s just …” He runs a hand over his face again. The sandpaper scratch of stubble causes heat to pool in my stomach. “I don’t know. I will tell them. Just … not yet.”
“Okay. I won’t tell anyone, either.”
“I don’t want to ask you to keep secrets from Scout.”
“You’re not asking me. And it’s your business. She’d understand.”
We share a look. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? She might understand why Connor would want to come out on his own terms, but she definitely wouldn’t understand him kissing me.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. Connor Ryan is bi, and he kissed me.
The movie plays on, but neither of us are paying attention to it now.
“I think maybe I should go to bed,” I say.
Connor looks stricken. “Shit, I made you feel awkward, Elliot, I’m so sorry.”
“What? No, it’s not that. I really am tired.”
He squints at me. “You sure?”
I nod.
“Because … I was serious about this being your house more than it is mine. The last thing I ever want to do is make you feel weird here, or like you can’t hang out, because you can—I promise I’ll never do that again. I’m not a creep. I can take no for an answer.”
Everything twists inside me. Did I say no? I said ‘we can’t.’ That’s a little different. But it should have been a no, and that’s the main thing.
“I know you can, Connor. And I don’t feel awkward. I promise.” Liar.