Music drifts into the room from the hallway where my Wurlitzer jukebox, one of my most prized possessions, plays.
“That jukebox is badass,” Connor notes in between songs as the records change.
“It’s the only thing I have left of my father’s,” I note. “He loved that thing.”
“How’d he go?” Connor asks, and I snort.
“On a Greyhound bus, I’m told,” I reply somewhat bitterly.
Connor’s gaze meets mine, and he sighs. “I’m sorry. I assumed you meant he died.”
“Don’t be. He left when I was ten.”
Taking his beer, he steps toward me and raises it in a toast. “To deadbeat dads.” Then after a beat adds, “And deadbeat mothers.”
I toast him with my beer and can’t help the sad smile I give. Connor knows what it’s like to have your father bail. His mother, too. After we take long swigs, he turns back to the stove and stirs the sauce.
“Oh, I have something for you.” I jump out of my seat and grab the small shoebox from the hall closet in the living room, returning to the kitchen with it and placing it on the table. Connor meets me at the table and watches as I open it. When he see the photo on top, a wide smile spreads across his face.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he chuckles as he picks it up and gazes at it.
The photo is of Blake and Connor in the bathtub, bubbles everywhere. Connor looks angry while Blake is laughing hysterically. Connor flips the photo over, reading the back, and bursts into laughter. He laughs so hard he’s coughing, but still manages to show me the writing on the back. I already know what it says, but I read it again anyway.
You were always pissed that my dick was bigger.
Blake certainly had a way with words. Maybe the photo would’ve made Connor sad or made him miss Blake, but instead he’s laughing. Blake was just that way; like his purpose was to make everyone else’s day better, no matter what.
“I was pissed because I wanted to sit next to the faucet, but Blake was the baby and always got his way,” Connor chuckles.
Placing the photo aside, I watch as Connor gingerly removes each item from the box as if each is made of precious ivory. There’s a few photos of them from their childhood, some little trinkets, and at the bottom there’s an envelope. He stares at it for a long moment, his expression uncertain.
“He was very clear,” I tell him, my hand on his large forearm. “That’s for you to read when you’re ready.”
After a moment, he lets out a long breath before placing the envelope back in the box and returning all the other items. “I can keep these?”
I smile sadly as I place the lid back on the box. “He wanted you to have these things. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner.”
Connor clears his throat, then meets my gaze head on. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“No,” he says. “Thank you for being there for him and taking care of him. Grams too. She wrote me and told me how you stepped up, how when Blake got sick you stepped up and took care of both of them. I’m truly grateful.”
My eyes tear up, and I quickly wipe them, hoping to stop any tears from falling. “I’m lucky to have had both of them in my life. Grams is like a mother to me. And Blake, well, I’m pretty sure anyone that ever met him feels like they were lucky. He was just that kind of guy.”
Connor brushes his hand over the box as he stares at it. Then, leaving it on the table he returns to the stove. As he breaks the noodles to put in the boiling water, the sauce starts splattering from where the burner is turned up too high, and several drops of sauce stain his shirt.
“Shit,” he grumbles under his breath.
I grab the lid to the saucepan and cover it. Then I grab a dishtowel and wet the end of it under the faucet. “If you don’t get this off, and in the wash, it will stain.” Without asking, I grab the hem of his shirt and begin dabbing at the stains with the dishtowel. Shaking my head, I look up to find Connor staring down at me. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing and all I can do is stare back. The confident, flesh and blood, woman in me thinks I see desire in his eyes, but the self-conscious and self-doubting part of me says, that’s silly. He doesn’t want me.
“Um . . . I think we need to throw it in the wash,” I manage as I step away. “Better do it now.”
Connor tugs his shirt over his head and hands it to me. I can’t keep my eyes from looking at his chest and stomach. Before I know it, my fingers are brushing against one of the scars on his left side. “What happened to you?” I ask quietly. I’ve played out quite a few scenarios, but all of them are similar to scenes I’ve seen on television. Inmates shanking other inmates.
“That one . . . I got shanked by a guy inside because I broke up . . . something he was doing.”
Okay, so I was right. “And this one?” I ask, as my fingers move down and run along the next scar.
“Shanked again,” he chuckles, but his expression doesn’t look humored. It’s more a look of embarrassment or disbelief.
When my fingers touch the third scar on his right side, he grabs my hand and holds it still. “That one was Blake.”
“What?” I smile slightly.
“We were wrestling in the bed of our grandfather’s truck while he was inside the hardware store. The tailgate was down. Blake tackled me, and I fell sideways on the springs. Cut me good.”
When my gaze meets his again, he’s still holding my hand, pressed against his abdomen. My mouth is suddenly dry, but I can’t help darting my tongue out and licking my lips. His mouth parts slightly and his shoulders rise as he breathes in deeply as his eyes move from my eyes to my mouth.
I’m transfixed as I watch him, but the moment is broken when the pot boils over on the stove and makes sizzling sounds as the water meets the hot burner.
“Shit,” Connor grunts as he spins around and turns the burner down.
“I’m going to throw this in the wash,” I blurt, as he fights the chaos on the stove. I rush away and into the utility room where I close the door behind me.
“What the hell, Demi?” I whisper to myself. I just touched him . . . like touched-touched him. “You really need to get laid,” I tell myself.
After I start the wash, I return to the kitchen where Connor is dumping the pasta into the strainer over the sink. He’s still shirtless, and I curse myself for making him remove his shirt. How am I not supposed to stare at him in all his tattooed glory?
“I should grab a shirt, but dinner is ready,” he informs me. He must think I’m uncomfortable. And I am. But I’m not going to make him run out in the middle of cooking for a shirt. We’re adults here. I can handle it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.
“Have a seat,” he orders as he swipes at the steam rising from the pasta. “I’ll make us a plate.”
Moments later, he places two heaping plates of spaghetti on the table and sits beside me. There’s enough spaghetti on my plate to feed three grown men, and I can’t help chuckling.
“What?” he asks as he smiles at me, his dark eyes filled with curious humor.
“Nothing. It looks great,” I assure him. “It’s just . . . a lot.”
“Oh, sorry,” he laughs. “Don’t feel like you have to eat it all . . . or any of it for that matter.”
“Oh, I’m eating it,” I confirm enthusiastically. I love spaghetti. It’s my favorite food. There’s no way I’m not eating it.
“Well, bon appetite,” he smirks.
“Thank you.” Picking up my fork, I start twirling the pasta on it as Connor begins shoveling food in his mouth, like a starved man. I imagine it’s been a while since he’s had to use table manners. I’m sure etiquette in prison is of low priority.
“When do you go back to work?” he manages between bites.
“Next week. It’s only summer school right now, so my days are short anyway. I’ll have the month of August off before the new school year starts.”