I choke on my coffee, cough-laughing as I wipe it off my chin. “Sheesh. No, of course not.”
“Damn. That guy sounded hot. What was his name again?”
“Connor.” I shrug away the thrill that ripples through me. “But I’m never going to see him again.”
“Why?”
“He lives in Fargo.”
I wince then because I know it’s coming—the classic Nikki look. Sure enough, she crosses her arms, lowers her chin, shoots daggers at me with fire in her eyes. “Because Fargo is sooooo far from here, right? Three whole hours? No relationship could possibly withstand that kind of distance.”
“Three and a half, actually.” She leans forward to argue or smack me, I can’t tell, but I hold up my hand. “But point taken. It’s just . . . not the best time for me.”
“Because?”
I blink. “Hmm, maybe because I was just diagnosed with multiple sclerosis?”
“So you intend to use your diagnosis as an excuse not to date ever again?”
Her voice is chiding, but my breath catches in my throat. I just can’t right now—I didn’t even want to talk about my diagnosis, and now here she is calling me out on this when things have been so damn hard. My tone is harsher than I mean it to be. “Dammit, Nik. You don’t understand.”
Several seconds tick by, the hum of my computer monitor the only sound to break the silence.
“Morning, ladies.”
I look up, and our boss stands smiling in the doorway, the epitome of a TV sitcom father with gray hair and tie askew, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a coffee mug of his own. And, like those clueless TV dads, he is completely unable to read the awkward tension in the room.
I force a smile. “Morning, Stan. How was your Christmas?”
He lets out a sigh. “Oh, it was fine, but there’s always family drama when you have both sets of grandparents trying to spend time with the grandchild.”
I nod sympathetically, eyes on Stan so I won’t look at Nikki and risk bursting out laughing if she’s making a face. She refers to Stan’s new grandchild as “Baby Uggo.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have forwarded the poor kid’s newborn picture around the office—but I thought the little kiddo was precious in that wrinkly, red-frowny-faced way.
“Anyway, back at it.” Stan rubs his neck, then turns to me. “Thanks for coming with on the residence hall tour today. Construction is actually going faster than expected—I’m excited to see it, honestly.”
I smile. “Me too. Meet you in your office in five?”
He nods and walks away, and the excruciating silence returns. I struggle to collect my thoughts, to phrase my feelings correctly, but Nikki speaks first. “You’re right. I don’t understand. But I care about you. And I’m trying to help.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Have you decided if you’re going to try that support group I texted you about?” Her eyes bore into mine.
“I haven’t really had time to think about it.” The truth is, I have made a conscious effort not to think about sitting in a roomful of strangers as I pour out my life story, but I leave that part out. I followed the link she sent me to the group’s website, looked up the schedule, and then buried it among the exhaustive mental list of emotionally difficult things for future Simone to worry about.
“I know it’s easier to bury your head in the sand, but you can’t do that forever, you know.” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it.
I wince. “I know, okay? I know.”
“When’s the next meeting?”
“Tomorrow,” I mumble. Her eyes are still on me, so I squeeze mine shut. Damn, that Nikki look. “Fine, yes. I’ll go. But just once—to try it out.”
“Good.” Her smile is triumphant.
“But look, about dating.” I cross my arms, stick out my chin. “I’m not ready, okay?”
She nods.
I stand and force a chuckle, but it’s flat. “Anyway, I don’t even know Connor’s last name, so I it’s not like I can even stalk him on Facebook or anything.”
Nikki smiles. “Well, that is a damn shame.”
A shame, indeed, I think as I walk away. But it’s how it has to be.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twisting puffs of our own breath against the crisp winter air lead the way for Stan and me on our hurried walk across campus. The walk isn’t that far—our campus is small, with the cluster of residence halls situated just beyond the campus quad. But thankfully, it’s too cold to talk.
“So, Simone, how are you feeling?”
Damn. Guess I was wrong. “Oh, fine, thanks.”
“That’s really great to hear.” Stan’s exaggerated cheeriness makes me cringe, though he’s genuine in his own odd way. “So, no more . . . uh . . . trouble, then?”
I hesitate. Stan knows I’ve been having medical problems—that I’ve been going through the hell that is searching for a diagnosis—because of all the time off I’ve needed. But he doesn’t know everything.
To him, in this moment, I don’t have MS. I’m still just me.
I smile. “Nope.” Technically true. I no longer fear my leg will lock up on the way to my car—muscle spasticity, I learned from Dr. Montgomery. He also told me it’s normal for my knees to get weak and achy in the cold and isn’t a sign of a new attack, so I push through the current flare in my left knee as we forge ahead.
Stan clears his throat. “Well, look, if you ever need anything, or need to take any more time off, don’t hesitate to ask. Anything at all.”
I glance over in surprise. “Thanks,” I whisper.
We continue our walk in silence, feet crunching against the snow-packed walkways, passing a few small groups of parka-clad staff members hurrying between buildings.
When at last we near the construction site for the new hall, my stomach drops. The ground in front of the building is a sheet of ice. My damn lack of balance—even in my boots, I’m afraid I will fall. And along with the risk of injury and humiliation comes a fear that this is the first crack in my self-reliance—a tiny one, perhaps, but I don’t know how fast and how far it will spread.
Stan is clueless, forging ahead across the ice toward the main entrance. Anxiety pulses through me, but I have to go on, so I try a shuffling, penguin-like approach—my feet don’t leave the ground as I advance, one foot in front of the other, at a pace rivaling that of a turtle. At one point, my body jerks into an awkward version of an ice dance—where your foot slips and you flail your arms and jerk your whole body around, trying to right yourself.
But I don’t go down.
I pray no eyes are on me, grateful the construction crew is working inside the building and that Stan doesn’t turn around. When I reach the doorway, I allow myself a tiny fist pump of victory before following Stan inside, where we’re greeted by wood-framed walls, the smell of sawdust, and the whirr of power drills. Music blares in the distance, and they’re pumping heat throughout the building—it’s so warm that sweat immediately begins to pool inside my thick wool coat.
Stan tugs off his stocking cap and wipes the sweat off his brow. “Chet said he was going to let the contractor know we were coming, so someone should be ready to show us around.” Then he almost mutters to himself, “But Chet hasn’t exactly been trustworthy lately, so who knows if he really did tell them.”
I roll my eyes at that last part—Stan and Chet have a weird, competitive frenemy thing. As Stan pokes his head around the corner to look for our tour guide, I shrug out of my coat because I know getting too hot can make MS symptoms worse. I don’t really know yet how hot is too hot, but I do know that I don’t want to risk embarrassing myself around a bunch of strangers. I turn and drop my jacket in a corner by the door. I’d rather wash the sawdust off it later than lug it around the whole building.
“Ah, here he comes,” Stan says. “Good morning.”
“Morning. Ready to see the new building?”
My heart stops in recognition before I’m even fully turned back around. When we’re face
-to-face, it does an all-out back flip.
“Connor?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Simone?” Connor’s eyes are as wide as his smile.
I blink at him. Stan looks from me to Connor and back again, confused. “You live in Fargo!” I blurt out.
Connor’s brow furrows for a moment, but his smile remains. “Uh, well, my parents do. But I . . . uh . . . I live here in Sioux Falls.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage, I am so goddamned flustered.
Connor removes his hard hat and runs a hand through his hair before sticking it out toward Stan. “Connor Davies.”
Now I know his last name.
“Stan Lawson.” He grips Connor’s hand into a too-solid handshake—apparently a guy’s need to appear manly in front of other dudes doesn’t dissipate with age. He breaks the machismo to glance at me. “I guess you two already know each other?”
Heat creeps into my face and neck. The truth is, I’ve woken up every morning since Christmas thinking about Connor, even though I thought I’d never see him again.
And now he’s here. At my workplace, where I need to remain poised and professional.
I nod and fix a smile on my face, prepared to masquerade myself with my communications persona. “Yes, we met at Christmas. Mutual car trouble.”
Stan’s face is confused, but Connor’s eyes linger on mine, and I force myself to look away.
He clears his throat. “Uh, you guys might need one of these.” He replaces his own yellow hard hat and reaches for two more on a nearby table.
I take one, careful not to brush his hand or even meet his eyes, but then I struggle as I try to smash the damn thing onto my apparently large head.
“You need some help?” I look up and Connor’s mouth twitches.
My face is on fire, and it has nothing to do with the heat. “Um, no, thanks. I got it.”
He nods, smiles, then pulls out a pair of hideously large plastic goggles. I wrinkle my nose, and he flashes his wide grin as he hands them to me. “Sorry, rules are rules.”
I slip them onto my face and blink a few times—they’re scratched and a bit foggy. But I have a clear view of Connor, whose eyes are once again fixed on me.
Stan steps up beside me then and, true to form, fails to read the room. “Well, I think we’re ready.” He gives his own hard hat a solid knock and chuckles. “Lead the way, Mr. Davies.”
The tour commences, and somehow I manage to post on Twitter and Facebook—even string together a couple of short video clips and a Boomerang into a decent Instagram story—as we make our way through the semifinished building. This is a miracle, considering I spend the entire time trying not to stare at Connor. The way he folds his arms across his chest while he’s talking. The way he laughs, soft and deep, at Stan’s dumb jokes.
About a half hour in, he accidentally brushes my arm while pointing out a study alcove. That flash of warmth, skin against skin. The waft of a spicy cologne I didn’t expect to remember.
I almost drop the goddamn phone.
Nearly a full hour of agony goes by and we’re wrapping up the tour when Stan’s phone rings. He takes off his goggles and squints down at it; then his jaw clenches as he raises it to his ear. “Hey, honey. Nope, not in the office—I’m on that tour I told you—” He stops abruptly, face reddening; then his eyes meet mine. “Louise,” he mouths. “Sorry.”
He shuffles down the hall a few feet, and it’s not at all far enough for me to miss hearing the tension in his voice. Without thinking, I walk quickly through the nearest doorway, trying to ignore this weirdness—Louise has called his office plenty of times, but the calling has definitely increased lately. Tense calls, almost like she’s checking up on him.
I’m preoccupied with this fact, and with the artsy way the sunlight filters through the window into this space—a future dorm room. Perfect: I haven’t added anything to Snapchat yet. I flip through filters as I turn to the door, but when I look up, Connor is there, leaning against the doorway, smiling. “It’s good to see you,” he says softly.
My masquerade melts away. “You too.”
He looks down, kicks at the floor, looks up again, and opens his mouth—but then stands up straight, smiling awkwardly as Stan steps up next to him. “Sorry about that.” Stupid, clueless Stan. “Let’s finish this, shall we?”
I stand as close to Connor as possible without seeming creepy, and when we return to the main entrance, I shrug into my sawdust-filled coat slowly. It feels too soon to have to leave him again.
But Stan already has the door open. “Thank you, Mr. Davies. We really appreciate the tour.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Ready, Simone?”
No. A blaze of bravery strikes and I turn back to Connor, but just then another construction worker rushes past in the hallway behind us. “Hey, Davies, we need you back here, man.”
Connor squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, be right there.” He tosses an apologetic smile over his shoulder as he walks away.
My shoulders slump. Just as well.
I step outside behind Stan, blinking into the blindingly white sky. His phone rings again, and he swears under his breath. “Sorry, gotta take this again. Seems like everyone’s on my back lately. See you back at the office?”
He rushes ahead before I can reply—man, to be that confident on the ice.
I stare at my slippery nemesis, the frigid breeze stinging my nose as I take one step, then another. I square my shoulders. Come on, Archer, you can do this.
Behind me, the whoosh of a door, and I turn into a gust of warm air and sawdust. Connor steps outside. “Hey, sorry about that—crisis averted.” He looks from me to the ice and back again. “It’s pretty bad out here, huh?” He holds out his arm, and a puff of breath escapes me, emotions battling within, eyes blinking at rapid fire to keep the storm inside.
But his smile is easy, his arm steady, and I reach for it. We walk together across the ice, and this time with his warm, solid presence next to me, I have no fear of falling.
Back on the safety of the parking lot asphalt, I don’t want to let go of his arm, but it’s awkward now, so I slip my hand into my coat pocket, whisper, “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He glances back at the residence hall, then takes a deep breath. “Hey, so, what are you doing tonight? For, uh, for New Year’s, I mean.”
I bite back a scoff. Oh, big plans—lying on my couch bingeing on ice cream and trying to stay up to watch the ball drop on TV. I clear my throat. “Nothing major, really. How about you?” I pray my voice is casual, though my hand inside my pocket is trembling.
“I’m supposed to meet a few friends at a bar downtown around seven o’clock. Do you . . . I mean, would you want to come?” Yes. The word comes quick, the snap of a whip. I don’t want to let him get away again.
But on the outside I hesitate. I meant what I told Nikki—I need time to adjust, to wrap my brain around my diagnosis. The thought of a first-date conversation now makes me cringe: Hi, I’m Simone and I like going to the theater and reading books and talking about movies and by the way remember when I mentioned I might have a chronic neurological condition? Well, I sure do, and to be honest I don’t know what it’s going to do to me tomorrow let alone years from now but would you like to see me again?
And yet despite everything, Connor is standing here in front of me, this handsome man I never thought I’d see again, smiling with so much hope. Maybe we wouldn’t have to talk about it, not right away. Maybe we could just have fun.
Finally, the word pushes its way past my lips. “Yes.”
We exchange numbers, say our goodbyes, and when I walk back across campus, my steps are lighter somehow, almost like I’m floating.
That evening, however, my stomach roils as if I’m adrift on a stormy sea, about to heave over the side of the ship. Christ, flipping through the clothes in my closet is like falling overboard into that murky seawater—nothing but boring neutrals I’m flinging one by one across the deep-blue comforter on my bed.
I’m supposed to meet Connor at the bar in an hour, and as I rake through the clothes hangers, my mind reels—there is absolutely no way tonight can go well and maybe he won’t even show up and holy shit what was I even thinking—but when I shove a pair of gray yoga pants aside, a pop of shimmering gold emerges.
“Wait, what’s that one?” Claudia clutches my arm, stopping my spiral, and yanks the dress from the closet—slinky and white with intricate golden designs that glisten as it moves. She sweeps her hand across the sparkly swirls and blinks her brown eyes at me. “This is yours?”
“I know, right? Got it at Goodwill during college.” I turn to Nikki, who sits cross-legged on the bed. “We were going to go as an angel and a devil for Halloween, remember?”
Nikki snorts. “You chickened out and wore a white choir robe instead.”
I cross my arms. “It was too cold.” Plus, the flowing robe was much more forgiving than the form-fitting dress.
She shoots me the Nikki look; then it twists into a smirk. “Well, now’s your chance to redeem yourself, kiddo.”
“No way. It’s still too cold!” And it would be even tighter now.
“Wear a coat.”
“But . . .” I gesture at the dress. “Look at this thing. I’m going to be bulging out everywhere.”
“That’s what Spanx are for.” Her singsong voice annoys me even more, and I glare at her. Her eyes burn back into mine. “You deserve this,” she whispers.
I roll my eyes, frustrated. Claudia takes a deep breath, smooths a shiny lock of black hair behind her ear, then sits down by her girlfriend, putting a hand on her arm. They exchange a brief look; then Claudia turns to me with a gentle smile. “It’ll be warm in the bar, Mone. How about you just try it on?”
I sigh, and my posture softens. Nikki’s my best friend, but Claudia is definitely the voice of reason in their relationship. I huff and pull the dress off the hanger before slamming the bathroom door behind me and then setting to work squeezing myself into this garish costume of a dress. But it has more give than I expect as I pull it up over my hips—it’s actually sort of comfortable.
The Speed of Light Page 6