“How?” I ask at the same time my dad says, “What?”
Connor starts laughing again and lets go of my hand to rub his face. I can’t figure out if he does it to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes or hide from our questioning. Maybe both.
I reach across the car and run my fingers through his hair, then let my hand land on the base of his neck. I give him a few gentle squeezes and he sighs.
To my dad, he asks, “Has he always been this tactile?”
“Yes,” my dad says; his tone has turned heavy, and I know what he’s thinking. After what happened with my mother, he’d be woken up constantly by my little hands on his cheeks, making sure he was still warm.
Feeling exposed, I slide my hand away and place it back down onto the lid of my coffee sitting in the cup holder between our seats.
It doesn’t stay there long. Connor picks it up and threads our fingers. “Believe me,” he says. “I’m not complaining.”
As he says it, I understand something. This entire conversation is connected. Connor doesn’t know how to drive because Connor driving was never important to his father. Just like showing Connor any affection has never been important to him, either. We may have been broke, but affection between me and my dad has never been in short supply. Even looking back to when my mom was alive, my dad was always the more affectionate parent.
At the time, I was too young to understand why, but I always preferred him over my mother anyway. He taught me not just how tobe a man, but how to be a good man. How to get up and push through no matter how hard things would get. How to express love in both quiet and loud ways. Being taught how to drive was one of many simple ways my dad supported me where money didn’t matter.
My dad must pick up on it, too, because he says, “So your father never taught you how to drive.”
“Nope.” Connor shakes his head. “Honestly, he doesn’t really drive much himself unless he’s taking one of his sports cars out for a joyride. And, of course, I could never touch those.”
“What about your mom?”
Connor looks over his shoulder at me. “Would you trust her behind the wheel?”
“Fair point,” I say with a nod of my head. “But how do you get around? Run errands and stuff?”
“Drivers mostly. That’s how I grew up, and I don’t really run a lot of errands. It’s kind of hard to go grocery shopping when everyone knows who you are.” He looks at me. “But you know how that is.”
“Sort of,” I say. “Our fan base isn’t the type to hound us if they see us out. We might get asked to sign an autograph here or there, but they mostly let us go about our days.”
“That sounds nice,” Connor says. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the fans. I wouldn’t have a career without them, but still…”
His voice trails off, so I squeeze his hand and finish for him. “Some privacy would be nice.”
He nods his head.
“Yeah,” my dad says. “I don’t think you two will be getting much of that anytime soon.”
“No.” I laugh as we pull up to the airport. I put my car in park but let the engine idle. “Probably not.”
Connor takes a deep breath. He lets go of my hand and rubs his palms on his pants.
“You ready?” I ask.
He nods yes. “I am.”
All three of us step out of the car together and I walk around the back of the car to grab his bag for him from the hatch, then help him sling it across his shoulders. Despite what I just said in the car, we have already attracted some attention, but true to Buffalo Blizzards fans, none of them are rushing in to bother us directly. A few, however, have their phones pointed at us. Which is good. Part of our plan counts on us being recognized at the airport.
My dad shakes Connor’s hand, then wraps him in a bear hug, patting him on the back. “Come up to Alaska this summer and I’ll teach you how to drive a car.”
“I’d like that.” Connor’s cheeks flush pink.
My dad lets him go and climbs into the front seat of my Jeep. I’ll have to bring him back here tomorrow to catch his flight back to Alaska.
Connor steps into my arms and I hold him tight. “I’ll pick you up here in a couple of days.”
“If we can pull this off,” he says, squeezing me back.
