“Come on,” he says, tapping my shoulder just hard enough to rock me from side to side. “It’s gonna be a good one. You don’t want to miss it.”
“If I’ve ever been sure of one thing in my life,” I mutter, “it’s that Idowant to miss this fucking sunrise.”
A husk spins low in his throat. He’s close to me. Really close. Leaning over me as I lie nearly naked in bed. “Are you up, or do you need more encouragement? Either way is fine with me.”
“Fuck no.” I’m not even sure what kind of encouragement he’s talking about, but I am sure I want no part of it. “No encouragement.”
I roll out of bed, muttering about what a dumbass he is. He hums happily and tells me how much I’m going to enjoy the sunrise.
I stand and cast my gaze in Connor’s direction. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and I half expect him to be looking. I ready myself to feel whatever it is I’m going to feel about that. Discomfort, most likely. That’s what I used to feel when Havi checked me out when I wasn’t dressed.
To my surprise, he’s not looking. He has his head turned away from me and both hands buried in his pockets.
It’s…fucking weird.
I’m right here, and I know he likes how I look. He’s told me numerous times that I’m attractive. I don’t have a shirt on, and I’m showing a fuck ton of skin, so why isn’t he looking?
Not that I want him to or anything. I don’t.
Why would I?
No. Of course I don’t want him to look, but I do think he should. Not a lot, just like a little bit. Just a quick flick of his eyes. Just a very slight stutter before he looks away. It’s normal for people to do that, that’s all.
I guess Connor isn’t a normal person because he doesn’t look until I’m fully dressed. Not even when I make a point of asking him how he slept to see if that draws his eye to me.
“Ready?” he says.
That’s debatable. I’m wearing warm-ups, a hoodie with no T-shirt under it, and Docs with no socks. I don’t need a mirror to tell me what my hair looks like. I can tell by the dimple in Connor’s cheek that he’s trying not to laugh at the state of me.
As he leads me past the kitchen, he grabs an army-green thermos and a couple of mugs.
“Seriously, Grandpa,” I say. “A thermos? What are you, seventy-nine?”
“I’ll have you know this is a vintage thermos, and a very important piece.” His mouth tics at one corner and his eyes flicker with humor.
“Bullshit.” It’s not vintage. It’s new. I saw him buying it in a camping goods store a few months ago. It was one of the first times I followed him. It was before he started back at college after his surgery, when he was still recovering at home. My heart thudded so hard the entire time I was in the store that I thought about driving myself to the ER on the way home.
“You’re going to love it, you’ll see. Enjoying a coffee from a thermos is a lost art.”
“Coffee from a thermos is guaranteed to burn your mouth. There’s no other possible outcome.”
“Bad experience road tripping with your parents as a kid?” he fires back.
“Bad experience road tripping with my grandparents,” I admit. My gran and grandpa used to take Caroline and me to Cold Springs for a couple of weeks every summer. It was a long trip, and they broke it up by stopping regularly. My gran served us sandwiches and coffee, even though my mom would havebeen appalled to learn that her mother was routinely plying us with caffeine.
“Ah, well, don’t worry, bud. I got you. This’ll be completely different.”
I follow him, taking the elevator and then a flight of stairs to the roof. He pushes a heavy metal door open and lets it slam shut behind us. He gestures to a weather-beaten bench placed against a wall that faces east.
The bench has Connor stamped all over it. It’s made of timber that’s been painted many times over. Seafoam green the last time, but beneath that, I see layers of baby pink and black. It’s small and low. Meant for one big person, or two small ones, at most.
Connor sits down and scooches over, patting the space next to him, so I’m in no doubt he expects me to sit beside him. He sets the mugs down between his feet and opens the thermos. A thread of steam wafts up as he pours, meandering for a few seconds before disappearing into the morning.
There’s a railing in front of us. Not so high that it would be impossible to climb over, but definitely high enough that it wouldn’t be an accident if you fell over it. The palings are narrow, thin circular posts that don’t obscure the view all that much. There are buildings behind them. Apartment buildings mainly, but some houses too. In the distance, streetlights flicker and most windows are black.
That’s because it’s six a.m. on a Saturday morning. Most people are fast asleep with no intention of rising for hours. They’re enjoying sleeping in, as they should. It’s the fucking weekend.
Connor screws the lid onto the thermos and holds out a mug to me. I take it and raise it to my lips, blowing over it gently. My knees are pretty much at my ears from the bench being so low, and one of my ass cheeks is hanging off it.
