Then I blink, narrow my eyes, lean forward until my nose is almost against the glass. It couldn’t be . . . no one would be out in that. But there it is again—a figure, tall and dark, hunched into the wind, trudging along the sidewalk across the street. As he passes by the house, he turns my way just enough, and I gasp, bolting out the side door before I can stop myself. In an almost run down the driveway, I yell, “Connor?”
I squint against the pelting snowfall, arms wrapped around myself as protection against the biting wind, and call his name again, louder. “Connor!”
His head jerks over, and for a moment he stands still, looking disoriented, but when I wave him over, he trudges across the street toward me. Up close his cheeks are pink. “I didn’t even realize I was back here,” he says.
“What happened?” My eyes widen. “Where’s Ella?”
Connor shakes his head. “I dropped her off. Made it about two blocks before my truck got stuck.”
I nod, relieved that Ella is safely home. “Where are you going?”
He glances out at the thick falling snow. “I . . . guess I don’t really know.”
My eyes flit to my parents’ house, light and warmth pouring out through the windows. “Do you want to come inside?”
“No.” He’s already shaking his head. “It’s not too bad out here. I’m sure I can find a gas station, or somewhere warm to wait out the storm.”
The wind picks up as if in protest, and I shudder. “No way, it’s terrible out here.” Before he can say another word, I reach a mittened hand for his arm and pull him toward the doorway.
Inside, we’re instantly enveloped by warmth, and I hear Connor exhale in relief behind me in the entryway. I smile as I turn to face him, but it quickly fades. The twinkling Christmas lights now reveal just how cold he is—he’s trembling, though some macho part of him is trying to hide it, pink ears sticking out from under his hat, hands curled up into tight white fists. I gasp. “Where are your gloves?”
He shakes his head. “I guess I forgot to put them on when I got out of my truck.”
Without thinking, I reach forward to clasp his cold hands in mine to share some warmth, but then I freeze—I just met this man; what am I doing? I pull my hands back and quickly cross my arms. “Uh . . . you . . . you should take off your wet coat,” I stammer. He nods and plucks off his hat, and I bite back a smile—even his disheveled hair is cute.
As he shrugs out of his jacket, I hurry over to the closet, soon returning with a fleece blanket. I step up on my toes to loop the thick checkered monstrosity around his shoulders. “There,” I whisper. We’re standing so close to each other now, and when my eyes float up to his, I can’t make myself look away.
“Thank you.” His voice is soft, his smile tentative, and my entire body warms. There’s a beat of silence, a shiver of something silvery and light.
Behind us, a throat clears again. I turn around quickly, put some distance between us.
“What’s going on?” Dad’s arms are crossed.
“Dad, this is Connor. He gave me a ride. And, well, now he’s stuck.”
Mom—whose motherly radar must have finally kicked on—calls out from the dining room. “Bob, what’s taking Monie so long?”
Dad steps back and gestures us toward the dining room with a look that’s part annoyance, part amusement. I hold my head high and march into the dining room, but when Connor comes in behind me, all conversation stops. I take a deep breath. “Everybody, this is Connor. His truck got stuck, and I noticed him walking by outside when I took the garbage out, so I invited him in.”
As all eyes turn to Connor, he flashes his wide smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you all. I was hoping to find a gas station or something, but I wasn’t making it too far out there in this weather. I called for a tow, but we know how long that takes.” He flashes me a conspiratorial wink.
Mom’s face suddenly lights up. “Oh, you’re the young man who rescued Simone.”
Connor fixes his disarming smile on Mom, and I’m pretty sure she’s already naming her grandchildren. “Yes, ma’am. And now I guess she rescued me.”
Emmett smirks, and I shoot him a dirty look. Dad, too, looks unconvinced. “Why didn’t you go back to your niece’s house?”
Connor’s eyes darken—a flash of the sadness I witnessed in the truck crosses his face but is quickly gone. “They’ve got a full house. My sister-in-law has her entire family visiting, so I didn’t want to impose.” He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. “But now I’m imposing here.”
“No.” I say it too quickly—I see the way Walter raises his eyebrows, the way my brother’s smirk deepens.
Luckily Mom drowns me out. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stay. The way it looks out there, I don’t think a tow truck will make it out tonight. We’ve got plenty of room.”
She gives Dad a look, and he sighs in resignation as Mom ushers Connor toward the table. I take my seat again as Connor sits down next to Walter. As Mom fills his wineglass, Connor flashes his wide smile across the table at me. “You were right, Simone—this looks like a great party.”
Heat creeps into my face and neck, but attention shifts from me immediately as Mr. Colt starts firing questions at Connor—favorite sports teams, political leanings. In my pocket I feel my phone buzz and reach in to retrieve it. Nikki: WTF? Did you get abducted by aliens or what?
I tap out a reply: The party took an unexpected turn.
Her reply comes within moments, and a rush of gratitude warms my chest. My best friend knew this Christmas would be hard and was ready at her phone. Good unexpected or bad unexpected?
I bite my lip, glancing at Connor before typing my response.
Good. Definitely good.
My appetite has returned, so I sneak another hefty piece of Mom’s Christmas fudge. It helps to rationalize glass number four, which is going down as smoothly as the holiday tunes my parents have cranked up. We all gravitated to the living room after the meal, with murmurs of conversations now taking place around the room. Eventually it gets late enough—and the weather gets bad enough—that our neighbors decide to walk home before trekking across the street becomes too treacherous.
But the Midwestern goodbye lasts forever in the entryway, with lingering thank-yous and merry Christmases. Finally it’s the cookies—Mom’s dogged determination to frost them, to be precise—that gets them out the door. She steps to the door, places a hand on the doorknob with a smile. “Thank you so much for coming, everyone, but we’ve got to finish these cookies before Santa comes.”
Dad laughs a little too loudly—he passed glass number four a few hours ago—as he ushers people toward the door. “Mone, get the coats, will you?”
“Better you than me,” Emmett mutters next to me.
I punch him on the shoulder as he slips back into the living room unnoticed by my parents, then pop the last square of fudge into my mouth with a flourish. I’m in that warm, fuzzy stage of tipsiness where life is beautiful, and uncertain futures are easy to ignore.
Plus I’ve noticed Connor sneaking glances at me all night—oops, he’s doing it right now from the back of the room and caught me looking back.
I busy myself handing out coats, saying a polite “Merry Christmas” without really paying attention to who I’m talking to, but one recipient pauses before me, jacket in hand. I look up at last, right into Walter’s eyes.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for inviting me.”
I didn’t. I’m not tipsy enough to be that rude. “Sure. It’s good to see you.” Such a good boy. Not tipsy enough to let a giggle slip out, either, thank God.
He glances over his shoulder to where our mothers are chatting, his mom wrestling herself into her coat. When he turns back, his smile is apologetic, his voice low. “Look, about before . . . I think my mom only meant my uncle was diagnosed a long time ago. He did well for a long time. It wasn’t always easy for him, but he lived a good life.”
I blink, let out a breath. “Thank you.”
H
e nods. “It was good to see you, too. Merry Christmas.” Then he turns away to help his mom finish putting on her coat. A pang of guilt hits me—Walter is a good guy. It’s too bad I don’t have feelings for him. It would make sense for us to end up together. He’s been a part of my life forever.
But life doesn’t always make sense.
My buzz fades as I watch him go.
CHAPTER FIVE
The guests are gone; Dad shuts the porch light off, signifying the end of the night, and I follow him into the kitchen.
“We started without you,” Mom says as we walk in.
I smile, expecting to see Emmett sitting next to her, but it’s Connor at the kitchen bar, carefully slathering pale-green frosting onto a star-shaped sugar cookie.
He looks up at me and grins. “I haven’t done this in years.”
My neck warms, and I smile back but turn to Mom. “Where’s Emmett?”
“Probably playing video games,” Dad mutters.
“He was tired.” Mom shoots Dad a warning glance as she shakes red sprinkles onto a cookie.
“Well, I might head to bed myself,” Dad says. “You guys look like you can handle this, huh?”
Mom rolls her eyes, but she lets him kiss her good night, giving him permission to retreat to the bedroom.
I chuckle as I rummage through the silverware drawer for another butter knife, then sit down on a stool on the opposite side of Mom and Connor. The three of us settle in to frost, Mom breaking the contented silence to sprinkle Connor with her typical flurry of nosy questions—pointed but polite, more interview than interrogation. As impressive as it is annoying.
Mom looks out the window. “It’s getting even worse out there.” She turns to Connor. “You are definitely staying here tonight—no arguments.”
He raises his hands as if in surrender, one of them holding a butter knife globbed with green frosting. “Okay.”
I smile, then continue gliding the knife across each cookie methodically, slathering on frosting the way I like it—thick and plentiful, because no calories exist at Christmastime. I hum along to the holiday tunes that have been playing steadily in the background all evening, leaning back periodically to stretch and try to avoid the stares of Mom’s decidedly creepy army of porcelain snowman figurines lined along the windowsill above the sink.
Finally, Mom sets her knife down with a sigh. “I think we’re done.” I smile at her but notice the slump of exhaustion in her shoulders. She has put together this entire party, taken care of Grandma, kept the peace between Dad and Emmett, and welcomed a stranger into her home. And she has frosted the damn cookies.
An impressive feat; and yet, something is different this year.
She hasn’t been humming along to the holiday tunes, her laughter carrying above the music from a joke Dad told. The spark I’m used to seeing in her eyes when all of us are gathered under one roof, warm and safe together at Christmas, isn’t there this year.
My mind pulls out a long-ago memory of the last time I saw this. Emmett was a baby and had gotten sick right before Christmas—just a virus, and yet he was feverish, miserable, crying constantly. Mom had insisted we’d still have our normal festivities, but even at thirteen I couldn’t miss the forced cheeriness in her voice, the haggard look in her eyes.
Back then, my brother’s fever had thankfully broken by Christmas morning.
But this year is different. Mom’s worried about a sick child whose illness won’t go away.
The wine, apparently, has given me clarity—and emotion. I thrust forward and hug her tightly, basking in the comfort of the flowery perfume she has worn all my life. After a moment of surprise, she hugs me back. “Thank you,” I whisper. We pull back, and she wipes her eyes. “I’ve got this, Mom. You go to bed.”
She surveys the rows of red, green, and white cookies that fill the counter, then blinks at me. “Are you sure?” She leans in, lowers her voice. “You shouldn’t stay up too late, Monie. Your doctor said rest is important.”
Even her comment—and the fact that Connor surely heard it—can’t burst my wine bubble. “I’ll go to bed right after I’m done cleaning up, Mom. I promise.”
She nods, then squeezes my arm. “Merry Christmas, hon. I’m so happy you’re home.” Then she turns to Connor. “I’m glad you’re here, too, and so grateful you helped our Simone this evening.”
Connor looks down—I’m pretty sure he’s blushing, but then again, so am I.
After Mom leaves, there’s a beat of silence, save for the Christmas music. I take a deep breath. “My mom set out some blankets by the couch—I’ll try to keep it down in here as I get this all put away.”
“No way,” Connor says. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
He shrugs. “It’ll go a lot faster with two people.”
We’re locked in an epic battle of Midwestern politeness, and the match goes to him because I can’t argue with his logic. We place the cookies into faded blue Tupperware containers and stack them in the refrigerator, and within minutes the kitchen is clear of all evidence of a frosting operation.
I settle back into one of the stools at the counter and pour more wine into my almost-empty glass. “You know, we really shouldn’t let this go to waste.”
Connor stands on the other side of the island resting his hands on the marble top, watching me. I hold the bottle up toward him, offering to top off the glass in front of him, but it’s already full.
Suddenly he stands up straight. “Wait.” He turns around, opens the fridge, and pulls out two cookies. “Do you have a plate?”
I furrow my brow but stand up and pull a plate out of a cabinet. He places the cookies on it and sets it on the counter, then turns to me with a grin. “We have to leave some out for Santa, right?”
My mouth twitches, and I melt. “Right.”
Our smiles linger for a moment; then we both look down, awkward for the first time that night. My eyes scrutinize the floor as if searching for my wine-induced confidence, but I look up when Connor clears his throat. “So, uh, that guy who was here . . . Walter, is it?”
I blush even brighter, holly-berry red, I’m sure. I reach for my wineglass. “Yes.”
“Nice guy.” He licks his lips. “So is he . . . ? I mean, are you two . . . ?”
Did his voice get a little higher? “Oh no,” I say quickly. “We’re totally just friends.” I cringe—my voice definitely got a little higher.
Connor nods, smiles, and it’s about to get awkward again, but suddenly he cocks his head, then walks over to the radio and turns the dial. The melody of “Feliz Navidad” gets louder.
“I like this one.” Connor holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”
“What?” I scoff, but I’m already setting my glass down. He takes my hand, and soon we’re spinning around the room in some sort of swing dance.
When the song ends, he dips me back with a flourish, and suddenly our faces are inches apart and I’m staring into his eyes. A thrill shoots through me, but he pulls me up and steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets, his smile cautious. “Uh, thanks. Haven’t danced like that in a long time.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever danced like that.” We laugh and the electric moment passes. I’m as relieved as I am disappointed.
He follows me into the living room, and we sit on the couch, wineglasses in hand. The room is dark except for the glow of the Christmas tree, its winking lights a colorful reminder of holidays past. I let my shoulder lean in to Connor’s, but somehow that’s okay. The wine is kicking in now, and I’m sleepy. The silence is comfortable, but the air crackles with expectancy.
“Thanks again for the ride,” I whisper at last.
“No problem. Thank you for inviting me in. Not sure what I would’ve done otherwise.”
I swallow. “So . . . can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you stay at Ella’s?”
His shoulder slumps, and I sag farther against him
. “It’s complicated, but basically I don’t feel welcome there. My sister-in-law’s family . . . well, they don’t like me very much. They think it’s my fault that my brother . . . that he . . .”
Oh God. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
We’re silent again. Questions swirl in my mind, but I can’t bring myself to ask any more. He stares at his glass, then sets it down on the end table next to the couch. “Let’s just say I would rather walk in a blizzard than stay there. But I’m sorry I messed up your plans.”
I take a deep breath, catching a faint scent of a musky aftershave, and now I have to fight the urge to lean my head against his shoulder. “Believe me, you didn’t. You improved my plans.” I shrug it off, somehow not embarrassed by my forwardness. Thanks, wine.
Connor clears his throat. “So . . . can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What did your mom mean when she mentioned your doctor?”
I sit up straighter, hold my breath. It’s not that nobody knows. Hell, Mom put me on the church’s prayer chain, assuring that everyone within a fifty-mile radius now knows my business—including, clearly, nosy Mrs. Johnson. And yet, besides my awkward explanation at work of why I needed time off, I haven’t actually told very many people about what I’m going through—I’m not sure how to explain it, to make someone else understand something I’m struggling to comprehend myself.
But when I glance at Connor, there’s such earnestness in his face, and maybe it’s the wine or the comfort of sitting here staring at the tree—or, probably, the fact that I will never see this nice man again—that draws the answer from my lips. “I might have multiple sclerosis.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “You might?”
I take a gulp of wine. “Yeah, it’s not exactly easy to diagnose. I’m going to a specialist to be sure.”
“Okay.” He nods. “So, uh . . . what makes you think you might have it? I’m sorry if that’s a dumb question.”
I smile, shake my head. “No, it’s fine. It started when my foot went numb last summer. The numbness kind of kept spreading, and I couldn’t walk very well, and my doctor decided it was probably MS. But I’m feeling better now.” I squeeze my eyes shut as if to hide from the sting of my own betrayal. I’ve just trivialized one of the scariest, most difficult times of my life. And yet even in the comfort of this moment, I can’t bring myself to detail those terrifying memories of my leg locking up or those first few weeks when I didn’t know if I was dying, or if it was all in my mind, or if I would ever have an answer at all.
The Speed of Light Page 4