The Speed of Light: A Novel(11)
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.”