“I can imagine,” Connor said.
But he added nothing more. I sighed. I took a gulp of my beer. Connor, to his credit—or maybe to my desperation to see something of this date—looked like he had some questions on the tip of his tongue. None of them were just coming forth.
“So, a fucking gas station,” he said. “For real?”
I nodded. I was just happy he was asking questions.
“I really wanted to go into marketing, but my parents offered me the store if I worked for them for three years,” I said. “And then they’d retire and hand it over to me in full. You’d think a station like that wouldn’t rake in money, but so far, it’s been a six-figure job.”
“Huh,” Connor gruffly muttered.
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
“Guess the money is nice.”
Yeah, it is. Not much else about it is, though.
The surface-level conversations didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Connor at least had hinted at a shitty past in Long Beach, but if we wanted this to be a date and not a stupid Q&A, I knew I needed to go deeper.
“Well, it’s good, but it’s tough, because I don’t have the best relationship with my parents,” I said. “They’re not the greatest at being empathetic or understanding. They always blame shit on me, probably because they don’t want to look bad themselves. So sometimes, that can be shitty.”
Something in Connor’s eyes told me he understood that. But boy, if our communication was only going to be verbal, I could stop trying now because Connor had the communication skills of a ten-year-old boy.
Which, I thought, was probably the age when he had to deal with the worst of the Long Beach culture. But I was no therapist; if I were, I’d be able to answer the questions about my own family.
“How are things with your parents?”
“I don’t talk to them,” Connor said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
I bit my lip and sipped on my drink. This entire thing felt like a disaster. I was expecting a date; Connor was expecting an interview of sorts.
“They’re strict religious types,” Connor finally said. “We don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”
I looked at him in surprise and empathy. My parents were by no means zealots of the religious type, but clearly, we both understood where the other came from. Maybe…
Maybe this wasn’t the complete and utter disaster that I thought it would be.
“And you do with the Black Reapers?” I said.
“As much as I ever will with any group,” he said. “We’re not good guys. It’s what I’ve told you since day one. But we try and do good things for our town and for those around us. If we can’t be good, we can at least do good.”
That was giving too little credit to himself and to his biker buddies for what they did. Yes, I had my own attractions and mistakes, but I wasn’t going to date an outright asshole.
“So yeah, they’re not my parents,” Connor said with a half-forced chuckle, taking another massive gulp of his beer.
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “And you work construction?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
Connor shrugged. I didn’t know how to ask questions that would both allow me to get to know him better and not make him feel uncomfortable. I might as well have been tasked with combing my hair with a knife.
“It keeps me in shape.”
