Chet runs a hand through his perfectly clipped dark hair, peering at me like he’s calculating, then finally sighs. “I just don’t understand how you have no idea where your boss is in the middle of a workday.”
My defenses shoot up. “Well, I mean, I think he had a video to work on, so maybe he’s out shooting some footage with the videographer.” I scrunch up my face, thinking. “Or that might be tomorrow . . .”
Chet raises his eyebrows for a full two seconds before his lips curl up, his smile crueler than before. “So you don’t know anything?”
I ball my fists. “Last time I checked, it wasn’t part of my job description to keep tabs on my boss. We’re a little too busy over here to do that.”
He throws a pointed glance at my computer screen before his icy eyes cut back to me. “Yeah, it sure looked that way. Perhaps you can find the time to give Stan a message for me?” I fight to keep my face blank, fuming inside, as he continues. “I came over here to tell your boss that Joel over in Financial Aid has been let go.”
My eyes widen. “Why?” I don’t really know Joel, but he’s always seemed friendly. Nikki said he has two daughters in high school he likes to brag about.
“Used up his FMLA.” Chet shrugs, indifferent. “Rules are rules. Weakness doesn’t give you a pass.”
I shrink back from the sting of this callous dismissal. But Chet is oblivious—or maybe that’s part of his game, a cat toying with his mouse before he destroys it. “Fortunately, his duties were absorbed by the rest of his department, but if someone in your office could find time in your extremely busy schedules to update the website accordingly, that would be—” Suddenly he turns, a look of irritation quickly replaced by a tight smile. “Can I help you?”
Connor steps into view, arms crossed, stony gaze on Chet, who takes a step back. “I’m here to see Simone.” Connor’s voice is one step above a growl, and I’ve never loved him more.
“Ah, well. We were just finishing up.” Chet’s face is red now as he turns to me. “Have Stan call me when he comes back from wherever he is.” His eyes flit to Connor, then back to me. “Please.”
He walks away and Connor glowers after him. “Who was that?” He turns to look at me. “You okay?”
I take a deep breath, flash a brave smile. “He’s nobody important.”
“I’ll say.” Connor glares down the hallway in the direction Chet left, then turns back to me with a smile. “Well, I’m on a late lunch break and wanted to stop over to say hi.” He walks to my desk, and I stand, lean over, and meet him halfway for a soft kiss. When I pull back, he grins. “And to let you know I’m all packed.”
“Already?” I raise my eyebrows. “It’s Tuesday.”
We’re planning on leaving Thursday night to beat the Memorial Day traffic, and I intend to wait until the very last minute to pack. And to prepare for yet another extended gathering of family and friends at my parents’ annual barbecue.
Connor shrugs. “I might be a little excited for our first trip together.”
“Me too.” I reach up and pull his face down toward mine for a kiss, and suddenly all of Louise’s awkwardness, all of Chet’s assholery, melt away.
Suddenly the weekend can’t come fast enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
May 27, seven months before
Connor and I reach Aberdeen as the sun is dipping low. As we pull onto my parents’ street, I immediately see that the driveway seems to have turned into a used-car lot. My nose wrinkles. “Why are there so many cars here?”
“Is the barbecue tonight?” Connor asks.
I groan. “Mom said something about maybe needing to change the date, but I never checked back with her.”
Connor shrugs and steps out to walk to the trunk for our bags, and I flip down the rearview mirror. “Yikes.” I comb through my hair with my fingers, reapply my lip gloss, rub off the excess mascara smudged under my eyes—evidence of a car nap.
I step out and grab the smaller bags from the back seat, but Connor takes them from me, looping them over the handle of my suitcase, which he’s pulling behind him. He lugs his own duffel bag over his shoulder and smiles. “Ready?”
Before I have a chance to answer, the front door creaks open. “Ah, you’re here!”
I turn and smile. “Hi, Mom. Sorry, I didn’t realize the party is tonight.”
“Oh, this is just the pre-party,” she says. “We’ll be having family fun together all weekend long.”
My eyes flit to Connor, who smirks. “Sounds great,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
We near the door, and a woman steps out behind Mom. I squint into the dusky haze, but her squeal reveals her identity. “Mon-ieee!” My aunt Kit rushes down the steps and races toward me. “I haven’t seen you in ages, girl. You look great.”
Aunt Kit is not really my aunt but an old friend of my mom’s, super fun and clinging to her youth with vigor—ever since a very nasty divorce from Uncle Dean (who actually can no longer be called “uncle” and in fact whose name shall never again be uttered in our household). Kit has dyed all traces of gray from her hair, hired a personal trainer, and let a touch of Botox even out the rest. These days she usually has a much younger boyfriend on her arm, but tonight the only thing in her hand is a red Solo cup, which she now raises toward Connor—along with her eyebrows—before leaning back to me with an approving nod. “Speaking of looking great . . .”
“Kit,” I whisper, and Connor blushes. She flashes a toothy smile. “Sorry. Where are my manners? You must be Connor.”
He recovers brilliantly, flashing his own wide smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes flit to the bags he’s carrying. “You sure are . . . handy to have around.” She turns her smirk toward me. “You got another one of these for your favorite auntie? Maybe he’s got a brother or something?”
There’s an awkward silence and I wince, my eyes darting to Connor, but Mom swoops in and saves the day. “Kit, for God’s sake, let these kids get inside, will you?”
She giggles and embraces me again, pulling Connor in as well. “I’m only kidding. So happy for both of you.” She steps back, puts her hand gently on my face. “And so glad you’re doing well. You really do look great.”
By “great,” she means “healthy,” but I don’t bristle. It’s Kit, and I’m happy for the compliment. “Thanks,” I whisper, and we walk inside together arm in arm.
Backyards on a summer evening are a glorious thing. The citronella candles and bonfire keep the mosquitoes at bay, the scent of grilled meats lingers in the air, the soft breeze carries laughter and chatter and the cracking of beer-can tabs. From my comfortable patio chair—parked out on the lawn because this party is sprawling—I have a great view of the sunset, its smudges of oranges and purples brilliant against the blue-back sky.
Kit walks over and refills my glass of moscato. “One should really be my limit,” I say, but she only winks and pours a little more. I sigh, shoving the stern faces of the neurology nurse and Dr. Montgomery out of my mind—be as healthy as possible. Exercise, low-fat diet, don’t drink too much. Such a subjective term, really. I look down at my full wineglass and the empty dish of ice cream on the ground next to my chair, then shrug. “Special occasion, I guess.”
“Attagirl.” Kit plops down in the chair next to mine with a flourish, crosses her tanned legs, and tips the wide-brimmed hat covering her blonde highlights toward me. “I won’t tell anyone.” She raises her own glass in a toast. “May all of life be a special occasion.”
I smile. “Here, here.”
We sip in silence, surveying the yard games and conversations around us, until she lets out a dramatic sigh, bringing a hand to her forehead. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Oh, fine, really, but I . . .” She drops her hand, bites her lip, pauses a bit too long. “I don’t know if your mom told you, but I’ve been diagnosed with low blood sugar.”
I blink. “What?”
She nods, pulling out a granola bar
from her bedazzled purse. “I’m okay, really, just need to keep it in mind when I’m planning the day.”
My chest constricts, and I try to paint a sympathetic smile on my face. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry, that’s tough.” I take a swig from my glass, drowning out the vicious thoughts within: At least it’s not MS. This is Aunt Kit, the woman who came to all my piano recitals, the woman who talked my mom into letting me pierce my ears when I was eight. I care about her, about her well-being.
And yet the stabbing in my chest burns out all the sympathy; the cruel comparison to my disease erases empathy for anyone else who might be struggling, telling me their suffering can’t possibly match mine. I take one more gulp of wine to push it back, but it’s there, nibbling at me from the inside.
Kit turns to me, and for a moment I fear my pettiness is transparent. But she places a hand on mine. “You know, we have an opening at the library this summer.”
I smile. Kit is the director of the Aberdeen Public Library, and ever since I interned one summer in high school, helping out with children’s events, she’s been trying to lure me back. “I’m happy where I am, but thank you.” My smile falters. “Besides . . .”
She turns to me. “Besides what?”
I swallow. “I have really good health insurance right now. Probably wouldn’t be wise of me to give that up.”
“The city has excellent insurance as well.”
I draw a shuddering breath, my mind flashing to Joel—poor, jobless Joel from Financial Aid. Perhaps having a backup job offer wouldn’t be such a bad idea. “But would they . . . I mean, what if they . . . denied me?”
She sets her glass down and leans in, a flash in her eye. “Simone, do you know how many people live with a preexisting condition?” She scoffs. “Shit, being a woman seems to be a preexisting condition these days. But they’ve never denied anyone yet, and I’d sure raise holy hell if they tried to start with you.”
My throat burns with shame and gratitude for this woman who’d stand up for me even when I’ve secretly judged her. “Thank you so much,” I whisper. “And thank you for the job offer. I’m flattered, but I’m not looking to move back to Aberdeen anytime soon.”
“I can see why.” She winks. “Where did your hot guy run off to, by the way?”
I blush involuntarily and look around. “You know, I’m not sure.” Then I cringe. “I’d better go make sure our neighbor Dave doesn’t corner him and find out he’s a Democrat.” She giggles and I shake my head.
Kit waves me off, and I walk around the yard, saying hellos and scanning crowds—wow, there are a lot of people here; Mom and Dad sure know how to throw a party. But no Connor. I turn to walk up the steps of the back deck and almost run into someone. “Oh, sorry.” I look up and blink. “Walter?”
His smile is sheepish, and he raises his red Solo cup in salute. “Surprise.”
“I didn’t realize you were coming back for Memorial Day.”
“My parents needed help with some remodeling work, and you know my mom—she said it had to be this weekend.” He rolls his eyes and I laugh. Then he clears his throat. “I flew into Minneapolis to see an old friend and, uh, check out some houses.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re moving?”
“My parents aren’t getting any younger. Figure it’s time to be closer to home.”
“Well.” I nod. “Good for you.”
He clears his throat again. “Say, Simone, I wanted to mention something.” His tone is off, forced—oh God, please don’t ask me out. I search for an escape route, but there’s no way to bolt without being a total jerk, so I stand still, a smile frozen on my face. “I have a good friend in Minneapolis who is . . . well, she knows a lot about your disease.”
Slow blink—man, did I misread the situation. “Oh yeah?” My voice is flat. Walter was so cool about it last time. I hope he hasn’t turned into one of those people whose flaky friend has read on Facebook that all I have to do is pray more—like getting MS is my fault, the result of some sort of moral failing.
He nods. “She’s young, but she’s already really well respected in the field of neurology.”
Hold up now. “Wow,” I say, and I mean it.
“Yeah. My mom—again, I’m sorry, but you know how she is—she heard from your mom that you weren’t . . . entirely pleased with your neurologist. Amira is phenomenal. She really listens to her patients.”
I smile, cock my head. “Amira?”
He blushes. “Sorry. Dr. Amira Bukhari. We did our undergrad together, and we’ve . . . kept in touch over the years.” Suddenly it all makes sense—flying into Minneapolis to see an old friend. Maybe he’s moving back for more than his parents. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a business card, then hands it to me. “Anyway, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but she’s really great. I wanted to mention it in case you ever want to try a new neurologist.”
I take the card with a shaky hand. This is so unexpected and kind—and something actually useful. Plus I’m happy for Walter. Without thinking, I lean forward and wrap my arms around him for a hug. He seems surprised at first, and I’m pretty sure I slosh out some of his keg beer, but eventually he hugs me back. “Thank you,” I whisper when I pull back.
He smiles. “It’s what friends are for.”
“Good luck. With the move and everything, I mean.” He blushes again, nods, and we continue on our separate paths.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When I find Connor at last, my heart fills even more—he’s in the garage with Emmett, tinkering on that old piece of junk snowmobile. They’re laughing and joking when I come in; then I hear another voice. A third man stands up from a crouched position in front of the snowmobile, and I freeze.
“Dad?” I don’t even try to hide the incredulity in my voice.
All three look toward me, and Dad shrugs. “What? Your mom thought it would be good bonding time.” Emmett smirks and Dad smirks back. “He’s still grounded.”
I smile and shake my head. “Well, I think it’s great.” I meet Connor’s gaze, and he smiles back, but not as fully as I expect. I walk up and step on my tiptoes to kiss him, but I catch a whiff and narrow my eyes. That’s when I finally notice the red cup in his hand. “You’re drinking?”
Dad and Emmett exchange a look. “What, is he not twenty-one?” Dad asks. “Should I have carded him?”
I roll my eyes. “Very funny. Can you give us a minute, please?” They turn away, and I take Connor’s hand, pulling him over to the corner. “What’s going on?”
He shrugs. “I decided to have a beer.” His voice is defensive, and there’s a challenge in his eyes. “I didn’t realize it would matter.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. I mean, it does, but only because it’s your own rule—I thought you didn’t want to drink anymore.”
His laugh is bitter. “Of course I do. I just wish I could go back to when it was fun and didn’t remind me of the worst day of my life.”
“So if it’s not fun, why are you doing it?” I ask gently.
He looks down, his jaw set. “It’s just . . . being here with all your family is harder than I thought it would be. It makes me miss my brother even more, especially with the anniversary coming up . . .”
Oh God. “The anniversary is coming up?”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “It’ll be a year next week.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “Babe, I’m so sorry.” I reach my hand out to touch his arm, and he stiffens. “Is something else wrong? I mean, did I do something wrong?”
He takes a swig of his beer, his face red like his cup. “How’s Walter?”
I blink in surprise. “Why do you ask?”
He won’t meet my eyes, but I can see the flash of pain in his. “That was quite a hug.”
I cross my arms and look at him with my eyebrows raised. “You’re seriously mad because I hugged Walter?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly the highlight of my evening.” His eyes flick up and then down again. “I was al
ready feeling shitty, and that just wasn’t what I expected to see when I went out to grab your dad’s toolbox from his truck.”
I take a deep breath, bite back my annoyance—he’s hurting—then reach up and place my hands on the sides of his face, pulling him down for a deep kiss until my dad clears his throat and my brother calls, “Really, Mone? Gross.”
I ignore them, and when I pull back, Connor finally meets my eyes. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. From Walter, or anyone. Okay?”
He nods, his shoulders relaxing.
“I’m sorry you’re having a bad night. It looks like you’re having fun in here, though.”
He smiles, but it’s sad. “Working on this stuff still reminds me of hanging out with Cam, but in a good way at least.” He takes my hand, brings it up to his mouth, and kisses it. “And you’re having fun? Besides your boyfriend being a jealous bastard, I mean?”
A giggle escapes my throat. “I am. I got a job offer from Aunt Kit. Told her thanks but no thanks. And the thing with Walter—the reason for the hug—is this.” I reach in my pocket and pull out the card. “He knows a really good neurologist in Minneapolis, who I actually think might be his girlfriend. She sounds great, and honestly I might consider it. At least looking her up online, I mean.”
Connor looks down at the card and back up at me. “That’s wonderful. Really.” He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. “Now I really feel like an asshole. I’m sorry.”
I wrap my arms around him. “Hey, it’s okay. I think that qualifies as our first fight, so that’s a milestone, right?”
There’s a spark in his eye, and he leans down, whispers in my ear, “You know what we’re supposed to do to make up after a fight, right?”
My entire body tingles. My moment has arrived. “Well, thank God we have a hotel room for tonight,” I whisper.
“We do?” Connor keeps his face even. His eyes cut to where my dad and brother are working away, but he can’t stop his eyebrows from raising, a kid who knows he’s getting the shiny new bike for his birthday but is trying to play it cool.
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