Connor considers that for several seconds.
“They don’t want to encroach,” I add. “Your life is… rather public these days. I imagine they assume you prefer distance. Or that perhaps, you would see them as fame-hungry. I assure you, they have no reason to seek out your fame when they have plenty of their own in their respective fields.”
“That’s not… I don’t care about that bullshit.” He lets out a quiet breath. “I’ll make an effort.”
The words arrive smoothly. Too smoothly.
Another lie. Not a malicious one. Merely a convenient one.
Unfortunately, it is remarkably difficult to read anything Connor says with certainty. When two people lack a foundation of shared history, interpretation becomes guesswork. So, I let the moment pass without pressing him further. There are some white lies that should be respected.
Dinner winds down in the slow, careful way conversations do when both parties are aware they have ventured near delicate territory and would prefer not to shatter the fragile progress made so far. Connor leans back in his chair, turning the stem of his glass between his fingers in a quiet, absent-minded rhythm.
It strikes me again how difficult it is to read him.
Connor has grown into a man whose exterior presentation is polished, confident, and remarkably controlled. The advertising campaigns, the tailored clothing, the carefully cultivated image—these things project an image to the outside world. A curated one.
Yet sitting across from him now, I realize how little of that polish translates into something human. A father is supposed to recognize his son’s moods, his hesitations, the small tells that reveal what he is thinking.
I have no such advantage.
“I realize this evening may have seemed… unusual,” I begin after a moment.
Connor glances up from his glass. “Dinner with my father usually qualifies.”
“That is an unfortunate truth.”
His mouth curves faintly at that, though the expression fades quickly.
“I invited you because I would like us to know each other,” I continue, choosing the words with deliberate care. “That may sound obvious, but it has not historically been something we’ve attempted with much consistency.”
Connor watches me across the table. His posture remains relaxed, but the attention in his eyes sharpens slightly. “You want to fix things.”
“I would prefer the term improve.”
Connor studies the table for several seconds before finally looking back at me. “I wouldn’t hate that.”
For the first time tonight, his voice carries none of the careful distance he has maintained through most of the conversation. The admission is not dramatic. It’s not even particularly emotional.
But it is sincere.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I reply.
Connor exhales slowly, as though releasing a tension he has been holding for some time. “We don’t really know each other. But we could.”
“Then perhaps this evening is a start.”
Connor lifts his glass slightly in a quiet, informal gesture that is not quite a toast but carries the spirit of one. “To starting.”
I lift my own. “To clean slates.”
9
SAGE
Pregnancy,it turns out, is mostly waiting.
Waiting for appointments. Waiting for symptoms. Waiting for your body to decide what bizarre new trick it’s going to pull this week. Some days it’s nausea. Other days it’s exhaustion. Today, it’s the strange sensation that my entire life is balancing on a decision I already made but haven’t fully processed yet.
