Connor

by Daryl Banner

  7

  I sit in the downstairs lobby and stare at my hands for approximately one and a half eternities.

  Thank God for loaded parents, am I right?

  My dad had to work two jobs to afford putting me through college. Even then, I’ve got a mountain of loans I slowly need to pay back, since my small scholarship barely covered the cost of my books. I had to work every summer, too, picking up any odd job I could find, while maintaining a minimum wage gig pressing meat patties to grills, or pushing mowers over lawns, or helping out on a neighbor’s farm. At last, I thought I earned a break, scoring an internship in the big city, preparing for a job that’d make all the blood, sweat, and tears worth it.

  Only to discover it doesn’t pay.

  Not that that sobering fact has much impact on the rich kids I’m interning alongside at all, who are probably set up in their parents’ studio high-rises, bought and paid for. Bree didn’t even bat an eye.

  How’d I not know this? I clearly fundamentally misunderstood something. Or my professor did.

  My phone buzzes, the first thing that pulls my attention from my hands in nearly twenty minutes. It’s Brett, asking me if I’m up for pizza—again—since he and Lex are hanging out at the apartment.

  Fuck. And how am I going to tell this to Brett, who is counting on me to uphold my end of the rent?

  I look up from my phone just in time to catch a familiar face heading toward the front exit.

  I’m on my feet at once. “Alan …?”

  He turns, then stops at once when he sees me, stunned. His eyes drag down my body, taking me in, and then a tiny smile breaks over his face. “Hey there, Kansas boy Connor. What are you—?”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask at the same time. Then the both of us laugh. Mine is notably a bit strained. “Sorry. I, uh … I have an internship here. With Mr. Wales himself. Upper levels.”

  “Oh.” Ten versions of shock pass over his face. “That’s a very … peculiar coincidence.” He gives me another once-over, this time with anxious eyes.

  I wonder if his anxiety has anything to do with that humiliating text I sent him a few nights ago. I haven’t forgotten, and I doubt he has either. “Hey, um … Alan …” I clear my throat and come up to him. My hands find comfy homes in my pockets. “About that text the other night … uh …”

  “Oh, it’s okay.” Alan laughs it off. “I figured you were just—”

  “No, no, no, let me explain. It wasn’t me. Well, not really me, at least. See, my new roommate and his friends got me super drunk, and I … uh, wait. I mean, I lost count of how many bars and clubs we went to, and I …” My face flushes. “I’m realizing none of this sounds good at all.”

  Alan laughs. I love how his eyes sparkle when he laughs, scrunching up with his smile that is so infectious, I find myself smiling too, despite my clear mortification.

  “All I want to say in my defense,” I conclude, red-faced, “is that I was … not myself. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of who I am.”

  “Other than a boy from Mayville?” he asks.

  “Or the new kid in town who partied a little too hard his first night here,” I add with a smile.

  Alan nods slowly, his eyes dropping to my tie. “Hmm. No, it’s all wrong. Let me fix it.”

  “Fix what?”

  He comes right up to me before I’m ready. He grips my tie, holding me like a lovesick puppy on a leash, and begins to adjust my knot. I freeze up, a host of butterflies stirred awake within me.

  He fixes my knot with such compassionate yet confident authority, I could believe in this instant that we’ve somehow known each other for years. He might be fixing my tie before I head to work.

  It feels so strangely natural.

  Even the butterflies.

  And his face is so close to mine right now. His cologne—a faint hint of oak and spice—intoxicates me. His lips, full and round and plump, are inches away. They invite me to kiss them. They dare me.

  Then Alan finishes, pats me on the chest, and steps back to admire his work. “Better,” he decides.

  I smile. I can’t seem to keep the flush off of my cheeks when I’m around this guy. That intimate moment has gotten me so flustered, I can’t speak.

  Until suddenly I do: “I’d totally like to get a bite with you sometime. That’s my answer,” I add, a nervous chuckle spilling from my chest. “To your text, I mean. My sober answer. It’s a yes.”

  Another of Alan’s signature warm smiles spills over his face. “I was actually on my way to grab a bite,” he tells me. “Have you eaten? There’s a nice Italian place up the street. I assume you’re hungry, after a day of interning at a place like this.”

  The one word I give him is delightfully choked with excitement: “Starving.”

  8

  The late afternoon sun is only just now giving way to the evening by the time we’re finished with our tasty meal. Despite my insistence—and a word or two of protest—Alan does not let me pay for a bit of it. He doesn’t even let me see the check.

  “Seriously,” I tell him, “you gotta let me pay for something. At least take my money for the tip. I still owe you for the Uber, you know.”

  “Let’s not do the tit-for-tat thing,” he says. “I wanted to treat you after a hard day of work.”

  “And so you did.” I chuckle, then playfully rub my belly. “That was … the best dinner I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever. What was in that sauce?”

  “A lotta love,” teases Alan. He finishes the last of a glass of wine he got himself, which he claimed “pairs well with his dish”, then smiles. “You ready to get out of here?”

  “Sure!”

  The street we walk down is full of upscale cafés and designer storefronts. After my night out with the boys, it is very evident that I’m on the other side of town right now. Just from a glimpse through the window of a shoe store—which shows off a hot pair of high-tops I could totally rock … if I wanted to pay the hefty price-tag of half my month’s rent—I know I can’t afford a damned thing here.

  We had mostly small talk about nothing at all during dinner. Getting-to-know-you things. Making a joke or two. Me almost clumsily knocking over my glass. Him talking about something to do with software that went straight over my head. We didn’t really dive into anything meaty.

  So I figured now might be my chance. “Do you live around here?” I ask for a start.

  “Yep. Seventeenth floor, pretty nice view. But I can’t step out onto my own balcony.” He shudders. “I got a thing about heights.”

  “A thing about heights??” I laugh. “Why aren’t you on a lower floor then?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, then gazes at me, sidelong and snarky. “Guess I like to live dangerously.”

  I smirk. This guy is full of surprises. “I could never afford to live in this part of town. Oh, I bet you have an elevator, at least. I’m on the fifth floor of my building and it doesn’t have one.”

  “A building has to have more than five stories to require an elevator by law. I know,” he adds before I say anything, “it’s kind of messed up and super ableist.” He gives it a second thought. “Or maybe it’s five or more stories, and some five-story buildings are exempt? I don’t remember. Did I tell you I had planned to go into law at one point?”

  “Oh? What kinda lawyer did you want to be?”

  “One that knows right from wrong.”

  I study him as he gazes up in thought, as if recalling his days of wanting to study law. There is a lot more to Alan than meets the eye, I’m slowly—and happily—learning. “What stopped you?”

  “From pursuing law?” He shrugs. “I guess the reality of law was … too much to bear. I know that most beautiful things have an ugly side to them. I think it might take a stronger person than me to find enough beauty in law that outweighs the ugly. Maybe life is supposed to be poetic in that way. Let’s take a left here,” he decides, pointing.

  We wait for the light to change before making
our way over the crosswalk with a small crowd around us. The stimulating aroma of fresh-baked bread pulls my attention toward a fancy high-dollar French bakery on the corner as we walk along.

  “You seemed troubled when I found you.”

  I glance at him. “Troubled? Me?”

  “Yeah. In the lobby. Did you have a bad first day at your internship?”

  “Oh. Well, it’s just that I …” Maybe I can look at this as a kind of practice round before delivering the news to my roommate Brett. “I didn’t exactly realize that I … wasn’t being paid.”

  “They cut the funding,” he says.

  “Yep. Oh, how did you know?”

  “Wait a second.” He stops. I stop, too. “Are you telling me you don’t have a day job outside of that internship?” I shake my head no. “Connor … Connor, Connor …” He crosses his arms, which pull my eyes to the veins and modest musculature in his biceps and forearms. He’s a slender guy, but he definitely works out. Why am I noticing that right now? “What are we going to do with you?”

  “I’m gonna have to get a second job,” I answer. “My roommate is counting on me. Not to mention my parents. I’m trying not to freak out, but …” I let out a sigh and lean against the cold brick wall at my back, deflated. “I feel like my life here in the big city is ending before it’s even started.”

  “No, we won’t let that happen. How much is your half of the rent? Is it eleven hundred? Twelve hundred?” Alan pulls out his wallet.

  I gape at him. “Alan, no! That’s not happening. You can’t just—”

  “Seriously, it’s not a big deal. You can pay me back, Connor. How much is—?”

  “I have enough loans,” I insist, reaching out to gently push his wallet to his chest. Oh, even his chest is toned and firm; that’s quite an accidental and untimely discovery. “You can’t keep throwing money at me.”

  A pinch of hurt crosses Alan’s eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Please, just put it away. Please.”

  He closes his wallet, but doesn’t put it away. His expression has turned critical, eyebrows pulled together as he studies me. “So what’ll you do?”

  “Find another job,” I answer him. “Like any other rent-panicked city boy would do. I should’ve known,” I add with a sigh. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Or I missed an email. Or something.”

  “You really won’t take my money?”

  “Alan, I said no.” I sigh. “I mean … thank you,” I amend my tone, a touch kinder, “but no.” After a moment, I give him a look. “What’re you doing carrying that much cash on you anyway? Aren’t you the least bit concerned with gettin’ robbed?”

  “Didn’t I say I like to live dangerously …?” he asks, smoothly putting his wallet away at last.

  Then he comes up to me, presses his hands to the wall at my back, and brings his face within an inch of mine.

  My eyes go wide, astonished, my back pressed to the brick.

  “I like the way you talk to me, Connor.”

  I swallow. “How do I talk to you?”

  “Like I’m not some spoiled rich prick. Like I’m not an acrophobic idiot who lives on the seventeenth floor of a high-rise. Like I’m not me.”

  His eyes drop to my lips.

  There’s only one thing that can possibly be on his mind right now.

  “I like you, Connor,” he says, “and I respect you. I need you to know that before I kiss you. Can I?” he asks suddenly, lifting his eyebrows to expose a bunch of cute wrinkles up his forehead. “Can I kiss you right now on this busy street?”

  Energy crackles between us. My heart tries to leap its way out of my chest and into his.

  I lean forward and touch his lips with mine.

  They feel perfectly soft and pliable and full, just as I imagined them.

  His tongue traces my lips, then gently teases its way between them. I open my mouth, inviting him inside. Suddenly my hands take hold of his hips, pulling his body against mine. All the downtown noises are drowned out by our crashing breaths.

  I’m raging hard, and as evidenced by what I’m feeling with our fronts pressed together, I can tell he is, too. The desire between us is unmistakable.

  He releases my lips with his eyes still closed, as if slowly savoring the last tendrils of a dream. Then he looks at me, passion swimming in his eyes.

  “You are a very good kisser,” I tell him.

  “Yeah?” A cocky smirk curls his lips. “Speak for yourself.”

  With that, he pushes away from the wall. Then as natural as anything at all, he takes my hand, and we continue our way down the street of appetizing aromas and delicious fragrances flirting with our nostrils. I doubt the thing either of us hunger for is on any of these overpriced menus.

  “I’ve never held another guy’s hand out on a crowded street,” I admit.

  “Does it bother you? Is it too much? Too fast?”

  “No.” I smile at him, then let our hands swing playfully between us. “I like holding your hand.”

  “Good. Keep up, because I’ve got a few more surprises to show you, Kansas boy Connor.”

  Our evening “bite” turns into a fun-filled night of ice cream parlors, fancy vanilla wafers, and melt-in-my-mouth chocolate muffins, which we playfully feed each other. I get some frosting on his nose. After we finally say goodnight at the subway station, I can’t wipe the smile off my face the whole ride home.

  [ THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER ]

  The quest for a paying job proves far more difficult for Connor than he realized, especially while being occupied by his internship six hours a day. By the end of his first week, he’s nearly ready to fall upon his last resort: begging his parents for some cash to cover his first month’s rent.

  That is, until Brett approaches him with a strange request.

  9

  “Look, I wouldn’t normally do this, but seeing as we’re basically best buds now …” Brett starts.

  “Can I get dressed first?” I ask, wide-eyed.

  He kind of caught me in the middle of getting out of my business clothes from my internship. I’m down to a pair of tight black boxer-briefs and white socks, my slacks hanging from my hands.

  Despite his insistence that my not having a lock on the French doors of my room wouldn’t matter, he never seems to knock before tumbling in.

  “Of course, bro! Don’t let me stop you.” Brett leans lazily against the doorframe as he picks at a spot on his tight heather-gray athletic shirt, waiting.

  I stare at him.

  Okay, I guess I’m supposed to just accept being accompanied while changing, or else my roommate doesn’t grasp the notion of “boundaries”.

  “So like I was saying,” he says after a moment, “we’re basically best buds, right?”

  “Right!” I cheerily agree, going along with him as I pull on a pair of shorts.

  “So I need a favor. You’re free tonight, right? I mean, once you finish changing,” he adds, glancing at my chest. “I have a hook-up at the gym around the corner, by the way. You work out? You look like you do. Dante and I lift there from time to time … when he’s in the mood. The fuck is this stain …?” He keeps picking at that same spot on his shirt.

  I slip a tank top over my head. “You want me to go to the gym with you? That’s the favor?”

  Brett’s eyes light up. “Yeah! Uh … wait, no, that wasn’t what I was wanting to ask.” He comes inside, plops down on my bed, and rubs a big hand over his messy hair. “Okay, I’m just gonna ask it straight. Have you ever been a wingman before?”

  I blink. “You mean for picking up guys?”

  “Yeah! Well, a specific guy. His name is … uh, I don’t know, actually.” Brett laughs nervously and scratches at a spot on his arm. “All I know is, he goes to Pogo’s every single night, according to Lex. I hope I don’t sound like a stalker. Ugh, I do.” He laughs again. “I just wanna kinda … make us meet, you know? But in a seemingly accidental way, kinda like … a funny coincidence, know what I mean?”


  I think about me and Alan running into each other against all odds at an airport, and then the lobby of Wales Weekly. “Sure,” I say with a smile as I head into the kitchen, snatch a bag of ranch-flavored chips, lean against the counter, and scarf them in handfuls. “So you’re into this guy? A lot?”

  Still kicked back on my bed, Brett nods at me through the doorway. “He came to one of my, uh, spontaneous house-party things. Dante sees him at our gym Weights & Mates every now and then. Also, I swear he’s come into Bailey’s a few times—y’know, the bookstore where I work as a barista—but he never comes over to get coffee.” He rolls over with a huff. “I sound like a schoolgirl, don’t I? I’m not usually like this, bro.” He turns his head my way. “Dude, you hungry or something?”

  “Starved,” I say through my mouthful of chips.

  “Don’t you get lunch breaks at your big fancy internship?”

  “Nope. As it turns out, Wales Weekly doesn’t believe in food. Guess it isn’t in their budget,” I add acidly, then toss the (now empty) bag of chips at the waste bin and struggle to suppress my negativity, which might also have a little to do with a snarky remark Jay made at me today. I already regret insisting to Bree in the elevator that we give him a chance. That third-generation Harvard guy really does have a stick up his ass. “So you want me to come with you to Pogo’s?”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble. Just be my reason for being there, and then you can leave us be. I’ll text you if I need rescuing. Will you do it?”

  “Hmm. Why not,” I decide with a shrug.

  Brett’s off my bed the next second. “Hell yeah! Uh, now I gotta get ready.” He leaves my room, makes it halfway to the hall, then stops and turns back to me. “Bro, will you help me pick something out? I need to look fucking hot.”

  I push away from the counter and quickly dust the ranch chip crumbs off my hands over the sink. “Connor to the rescue!” I announce, following an uncharacteristically anxious Brett to his room.

  An hour or so later, we’re smack dab in the heart of Pogo’s, a cramped bar with billiard tables and a jukebox. All around our tiny, dimly-lit table, I hear the smacking of pool balls, chatter, and a TV in the corner playing 90s-era music videos on loop. A smoky haze fills the space, making me squint as I text back and forth with Alan while waiting for Brett’s guy to materialize from thin air.