Unspoken Words

by K. M. Golland

  “My Chucks? Ha!” I smiled, remembering my childhood coloured shoes. “I haven’t worn a pair of them in years.”

  “Why not?” He opened the front door.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. The weather is warmer up north so I kinda live in flip-flops, and if I’m not in flips-flops, Byron and I normally go out to gatherings and stuff, so I’m in heels a lot.”

  I felt awkward explaining my footwear to him. It was a weird topic to discuss, not to mention none of his business.

  Connor sounded a “hmm” as we walked to his truck, which aggravated me further.

  “What was that for?”

  “What?”

  “That judgemental hmm.”

  “It wasn’t a judgemental hmm. It was a curious hmm.” He stopped by the passenger side door and opened it for me, his hand casually resting on the belt of his jeans, his face alive—too alive for the time of day.

  I cocked my hip but soon melted under his gaze and sweet chivalry, instead thanking him with a playful grunt and choosing to let the ‘hmm’ discussion go.

  “Now, are you going to try and kill my seatbelt again, or do you need me to help you with it?”

  Rolling my eyes, I reached back and took hold of the belt, slowly unravelling it and dramatically clipping it into the buckle across my lap, my teeth pressed in a cheesy open-mouthed smile. “Was that okay?”

  His eyes shot to my mouth and held there, his stare intense. My stupid smile faltered, and I swallowed, heavily, the sudden urge to stare at his mouth, too, now overwhelming. I bit my lip, and he licked his.

  A car sped by and tooted its horn, distracting us. I sat straight and placed my hands on my lap as if in class at finishing school.

  Connor smirked and said, “Seems we’re good to go then,” before closing the door and making his way to the driver’s side.

  My eyes followed his every step. The way he dragged his hand across the bonnet and scanned the street for oncoming traffic before stepping onto the road, and how his eyes met mine before he opened the door.

  He seemed different: carefree and mature. Confident. He now wielded an air of arrogance and control albeit still playful. He no longer seemed reserved and … unspoken. He’d definitely changed, though, and I wasn’t quite sure if it were for the good or otherwise.

  “So where are we going for breakfast?” I asked, hugging my handbag to my chest.

  He turned the key in the ignition, threw the car in reverse, and flashed me his pearly whites. “My house.”

  Déjà vu settled over me as Connor opened the door to his house, but more so when the sound of Trevor Trout’s high-pitched voice halted my steps. “Eloise, please kiss me.”

  I gripped the handle of my handbag and fought back a smile, remembering the time Connor had helped me catch my first fish—Trevor Trout—and how he’d coaxed me to kiss it just like he was doing now.

  “Pleeeease. It’s been so long.” Connor waved the door, prompting me.

  I shot him a look of warning.

  “Kiss me. Kiss meeeeee.” He made the same stupid kiss sounds he’d made all those years ago by the river, his puckered lips right beside my ear.

  I turned my head to glare at him, which was a mistake because his lips were now mere centimeters from mine. So close. So soft. So familiar yet … not.

  His kissing noise stopped, and I sucked in a breath, the urge to taste him pulling from deep within. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I was with Byron, and I would never do to him what was done to me.

  “Forget it!” I said, pushing past him to enter the house. “I’m not kissing your damn door.”

  “Meanie McNo Kiss Head,” he mumbled.

  I bit my lip to suppress my laugh, his playful voice incredibly cute coming from a six-foot-plus man with tattoos and a five o’clock shadow.

  Glancing over my shoulder real quick, I sneaked a look at his arse as he turned and closed the door. I’d always loved his tight arse in jeans and football shorts. Firm. Round. Strong.

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  My eyes snapped to his, a silvery—and perhaps, knowing— glint shining back at me. “I am. Yum. What have you been cooking?” I blurted, turning on my heel and following the scent of bread and bacon like a sniffer dog. Oh my God, Ellie! Get your shit together.

  “Croissants. Hopefully they’re still warm.”

  I entered the kitchen and spotted a small four-seater dining table covered with a clean, black and white, polka dotted tablecloth, and on the centre of the table was a vase of homegrown, clipped, white hydrangeas. There was a setting for two: plates, cutlery, and two glasses of orange juice. It was all very sweet, and I couldn’t ignore the tinge of guilt creeping over me for having complained about breakfast back at my house.

  “This is really lovely,” I said, quietly.

  He relieved me of my handbag then pulled out a seat for me to sit on.

  “Thank you. It smells amazing.”

  “We have a lot to get through today, and we can’t sign paperwork and write songs on an empty stomach.”

  Connor slid oven mitts on his hands, opened the oven door, and pulled out a tray of golden brown croissants with bacon, cheese oozing over the sides.

  My stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  “So you are hungry? Go figure.” He carefully carried the tray to the table and served a croissant onto my plate. “One? Two?”

  “One is perfect. Thanks.”

  He pushed two onto his plate. “Two is perfect.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Now, how do you take your coffee? Still white with two sugars?”

  “Oh, I can make the coffee,” I said, pushing back my chair. “You sit and eat before it gets cold.”

  “No, you’re my guest, so you sit.”

  “But you’ve gone to all this trouble. I feel lazy.”

  “Ellie, think of it as a thank-you-for-working-with-me breakfast of champions. Please just sit, eat … enjoy.”

  “Fine.” I sat back down.

  “So, how do you take your coffee?”

  “White with none.”

  He paused. “White with none? Are you mad? Who has coffee without any sugar?”

  My mouth opened to say Byron and I but I caught the words before I said them. “I do.”

  “Mad.”

  I bit into my croissant and mumbled, “Am not.”

  Connor turned his back and made our coffee at the bench then sat at the table and slid a mug in front of me, a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, for someone who was against having breakfast, you sure do look like you’re enjoying it.” He leaned forward and brushed his thumb over my cheek, collecting a flake of pastry that he delicately placed on my lip.

  My cheeks burned, and I swallowed and opened my mouth, my tongue uncontrollably darting between my lips to sweep it up, lightly grazing the tip of his thumb. Connor’s eyes flared, a low groan reverberating within his chest. Deep. Carnal. Desperate.

  Every muscle in my core tightened, and I wanted to hear him do it again. It was incredibly sexy and so virile, so … different from when we were kids.

  I swallowed again and sat back, choking out a ‘thanks’ and adding, “They’re good but messy.”

  His darkened eyes closed for the briefest of seconds before he reopened them, picked up his croissant, and bit into it almost aggressively. Good God!

  “So,” I said, my voice shaky as I picked up my coffee. “What are we working on today?”

  “The song I sang to you in the boardroom.”

  “Oh, the one drenched in pain?” I rested the rim of my mug against my lips.

  “It’s not just about pain. Well, that’s not what I want it to be. And if that’s all you got from it, then it definitely needs work.”

  “That wasn’t all I got from it, but, yes, I felt despair the instant you started playing the riff.” I sipped some coffee and nearly spat it back out again in protest. “CONNOR!”r />
  “What?” Mischief danced over his face. “Too hot?”

  “You put sugar in it.”

  “It’s supposed to have sugar.”

  “No, it’s not. Argh! Why are you so annoying?”

  “You still find me annoying?” he teased, his damn dimples a delightful sight.

  I groaned. “YES!”

  “Good, because I still find you adorable, and incredibly sexy.”

  The look of warning I shot him did not go unnoticed, but he dismissed it nonetheless. “Shh. Hurry up and drink your coffee or we’ll be late.”

  Shaking my head and pulling the ew-yuck face, I grabbed my orange juice instead.

  “Suit yourself. But you’re missing out and you know it.”

  Truth be told, I did know it. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  Whispering to you

  Always wanting more

  Only you

  Arrived in my thoughts

  Only to find you

  When the tears start running down

  I open up to you

  When the tears start running down

  I remember the fall

  It don’t mean much at all

  When the tears start running down

  That’s where I wanna be

  “So you’re saying you want to be where it hurts most, the place when the tears fall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “I want to feel the pain, because it’s real. It means everything was real. Not a dream. Not a fantasy.”

  I tapped my pen on my bottom lip and then circled the lyrics ‘It don’t mean much at all.’ “Okay. So why didn’t the fall mean much at all?”

  “Because the fall was nothing compared to everything else.”

  “Hm.” Clamping my teeth down on the plastic ink tube, I released the pen from my mouth and scribbled an asterisk. “Okaaay. I get it, but … if you want more light in this song, we need it to climb after the fall.”

  “That’s the thing.” Connor laid his guitar across his lap. “I don’t necessarily want to add more light to this one.”

  “But you said you didn’t want it to be all about the pain?”

  “I don’t want it to be all about pain pain.”

  I glanced up over the rim of my reading glasses at him. “Pain pain?”

  “Yeah. Not all pain is bad, right?”

  “I guess not,” I said, placing down my notebook.

  I raised my arms and stretched, bouncing them a little behind my head. We’d been in the studio all day, working on the fourth song on the album, and I was starting to ache all over.

  Connor’s eyes dropped to my chest and held there, so I looked down, too, finding that the seams between my shirt buttons had popped open, exposing my bra.

  I decided to leave them that way to torture him. Probably not my smartest move but whatever. “So you’re saying you want the song to depict that pain has a purpose other than to hurt?”

  “Yes. Sort of.” He swallowed heavily and picked up his guitar again. “Some pain is positive because it teaches a lesson.”

  His lean, strong fingers caressed the strings, sounding a slightly modified, more upbeat tune than the one he’d played moments before. Such a small change with a dramatic effect. He was brilliant, both in mind and talent, and it excited me knowing the calibre of music we were going to produce.

  “Yes. Good. Okay, I can work with that.”

  Connor stopped playing and smiled. “I know you can. That’s why I hired you.”

  “About that,” I said, removing my glasses and placing them on top of my notebook. “We still haven’t discussed the terms of my contract.”

  “That’s because we’re not going to.”

  “What do you mean? Of course we are.”

  “No, you and Jackson will. Or you won’t. Basically, I stipulated my share to be split fifty-fifty with you. This is our album, not mine.”

  “Connor, no. Are you insane?”

  “I’d like to think not.”

  “For starters, this is not our album, it’s yours. I’m just a co-writer. And, secondly, ARE YOU INSANE?”

  He chuckled.

  “Stop that! This is not funny. You are not funny. Ugh! I’ll be sorting this out with Jackson tomorrow. Trust me, they’ll be no more of this,” I said, gesturing to the room and what we’d been doing, “until the contract is sorted.”

  Connor hopped off his stool, opened his guitar case, and shut the instrument inside. “Let’s go. I’m beat.”

  “Don’t ignore me. I’m serious.”

  “I’m not ignoring you. I’m just calling it a day.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I checked the time on my watch. It was nearly six o’clock. “Okay. We did good today.”

  We gathered our stuff and made our way to the parking lot, the late summer evening air warm and inviting.

  “So where to?” he asked, once again opening the car door for me.

  “Um … home?”

  “How ‘bout a movie instead?”

  I smiled. It had been so long since I’d seen a good movie. But I also needed to check in with Byron. It had been days since we spoke.

  Sensing my deliberation, Connor added. “I hear the new Adam Sandler one is funny. Something about a water boy?”

  “Oh, I love him. Happy Gilmore is one of my favourite movies.”

  Connor let go of the car door and placed his hands on my hips, his chest pressed against my back.

  My legs nearly buckled at the feel of him, and I had to brace my hand on the car. “Wh—”

  He started swaying us in unison, from side to side, while reciting what Chubbs had said and done in the movie about golf being all in the hips.

  I relaxed and burst out laughing, stepping out of his embrace because the feel of him so close was everything but could be nothing.

  “Oooh, a little tap tap tappy, ay?” he said, mimicking Adam Sandler.

  “Stop it, you goose.”

  He chuckled. “So what do you think? You wanna go see The Waterboy with me?”

  I did, I really did, for old time’s sake. “Sure. Why not?”

  We both climbed into the car, and Connor pulled out of the parking lot, both of us looking at each other, smiling, and looking away. Repeat. I felt like a kid again, and for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely excited about something so mundane like going to the movies, and with Connor of all people. It was such a weird yet familiar feeling, and I loved it. So when his phone rang and his face crumpled at the caller ID, I wasn’t surprised at all that our bubble was about to burst.

  “Shit. I have to pull over and take this call. Sorry.”

  “Sure, not a problem. Is everything okay?”

  A look of uncertainty shot from the corner of his eye. “Yeah. Should be.”

  Connor cut the engine and answered the call, his voice calm but slightly annoyed. “What’s up?” His back stiffened. “Calm down. I can’t understand you.”

  The colour drained from his face. My heartbeat quickened.

  “Fuck! Where?” He threw the car into drive. “Okay. I’m on my way.” Connor tossed his phone onto my lap. “Sorry. Change of plans. Max has been rushed to hospital.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Connor

  The glass entry doors to Greenhills Hospital parted, and I hurried through them, clipping my shoulder on the slow-moving doorframe.

  “Connor, be careful,” Ellie said from behind me.

  I wasn’t concerned for my own safety, only Max’s. I didn’t want him being in this place a second longer without me by his side. I hated hospitals with a passion. The smell: sterile, sour, and stifling. It was a scent distinct from anything else on earth. The scent of promise and hope amidst pain and suffering, and it permeated stark white walls and overly polished linoleum flooring.

  Hospitals were death, and sickness, and life.

  Rushing through the foyer, I stopped at the reception counter where a middle-aged clerk was typing on
her computer keyboard.

  “My son, Max Bourke, was brought here by ambulance with a broken arm. He’s only three-years-old,” I explained.

  She clicked her mouse and stared at the screen. “You said the patient’s name was Max Bourke, yes?”

  “Yes. I’m Connor Bourke, his father.”

  “Right.” She clicked her mouse again then jotted down a string of letters and numbers on a sticky note before handing it to me. “He’s at the ER. Head down that hallway to your left and give this note to the clerk at reception counter B. Explain you’re next of kin. They’ll help you.” Her eyes were kind but mostly emotionless as she passed me the note, the panicked-parent scenario probably nothing out of the ordinary for her.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking it from her and heading in the direction she advised.

  Ellie rushed along with me, her steps smaller but much faster in order to keep up.

  “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to be here. I promise I’ll get you home as soon as I know he’s all right.”

  “It’s fine, Connor.”

  “Are you sure? Lilah will be her—”

  “I don’t give a shit about Lilah,” Ellie stopped and pulled her asthma puffer from her bag, shaking it before inhaling. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, breathless. “I’m a big girl.” She took a couple of deep breaths. “And anyway, Max is your number one priority.”

  “You okay?” I touched her shoulder.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She placed her hands on her hips and sucked in a deep. “Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.”

  “I can wait.” I wanted to, to make sure she was all right; she obviously hadn’t grown out of her asthma. But I was also desperate to be with my son.

  She inhaled again. “No, just go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  I turned the corner and nearly slammed into a group of hospital staff in white lab coats and coloured gowns, clipboards pressed to their chest as they made their rounds. I apologised but kept jogging until I reached reception counter B, where I handed over the sticky note and explained who I was.

  The clerk pointed to a curtain-covered area on the other side of the counter. “Your son is in cubicle eight, Mr Bourke. Although, he may have just been taken to Radiology for X-rays.”