Mortification consumes me. For almost an hour I’ve been picking large twigs from a gutter while vomit-inducing headlines float through my brain, and now I’m on the ground. I’d love to stand up, laugh at myself and keep going, but I can’t. It’s too much, all of it. My heart is heavy and it hurts, and the horror floating through my mind has weakened me.
I squeeze my eyes closed and will the burning heat in them to go away.
“Brynn?”
More heat. A warm hand rests on my shoulder.
I look up to see Connor, his knees bent, level with me. His eyes hold concern, but more than that, they hold emotions I didn’t expect to see from him. Dismay and anguish, care and uncertainty.
It fucking wrecks me.
I hate the tears, the way they are big and fat and roll down my cheeks, the next one coming right after the last. Everything inside me needs this cry, but every ounce of self-preservation screams at me to stop.
Connor wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. His hand brushes the top of my head, running through my hair and tucking it behind my ear.
The front of his shirt smells like body wash and salty sweat, and I have to stop myself from clinging to it. I want his warmth, his touch, his voice. I want someone to love me despite the tragedy that now defines me. These are all things I can’t afford to have, much less want, but in this moment that doesn’t matter.
“Connor,” I say through my tears.
“Shh, Brynn.” His thick, deep voice floats down to me. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I don’t need to know anything.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
When I’m down to only sniffles, Connor stands and helps me up. I’m embarrassed, and I don’t want to look him in the eyes, but after all that, I feel like I should. I force my gaze to his and find him smiling.
“What?” I ask tentatively.
“Surely not everybody was kung fu fighting.”
Laughter bubbles up. I glance down. Using two fingers, I pull the T-shirt away from my body and read it upside down. “I thought you might find this one funny.” The admittance makes me feel bashful.
“You wore that for me?”
Shit.“I… No. I mean…” Where are my words? Why can’t I talk? Why can’t I turn on my ice queen defense and leave this conversation frozen in a glacier?
Connor takes a step backward and turns, climbing two feet up his ladder. He stops and looks back at me. “Remind me to tell Anthony he was right.”
I cover my eyes from the sun and look up at him. My eyes still hurt from crying. “Right about what?”
“Things people say when they aren’t talking.”
I’m not sure what he means, but I know I need to discourage him. One day I’ll leave. End of story.
“I didn’t wear this shirt for you, you know. Not really, anyway.” Even to my own ears, my rebuttal sounds weak.
“Come on up here,” Connor calls. He’s nearly to the top of the ladder by now. “There’s somewhere I want to take you. Help me finish this so we can go.”
So I do. We flush the gutter opposite the downspout. Connor double-checks it has proper flow, and I bag the debris and tie off the opening. Thank goodness for thick gloves.
When we’re finished, Connor tosses the bag into his truck bed, along with our gloves.
“Do we need to stop for lunch?” I ask when were settled in his truck.
Connor leans over, reaching into the backseat. He stretches out, his chest brushing my upper arm. The hair on my neck stands straight up. A spot near my heart twists. I want to touch Connor, run my fingers through his light-brown hair, sweep my lips across the small, flesh-colored scar on his neck.
My desire, my want, myneedis strong, and with Herculean strength, I abstain. Tucking balled fists in between my knees is the only way I can stop myself.
Connor rights his body, pulling a little ice chest from the backseat. He plunks it down between us.
