“Hey.” I reach out to grab his forearm, and as soon as I make contact, I know I’ve fucked up. His skin is slick with sweat from the steam room’s heat, and he tenses at my touch, making the muscles under his skin flex. “I’ve never lied to you.” To my horror, it comes out raspy and weak. I’m actually hoping he interprets it aspleadingand not the lust-filled reaction that it is.
He gives a soft huff of a laugh, like he doesn’t really think it’s funny.
“Unfortunately, that’s not true, but I guess I’m not surprised that day meant a lot more to me than it did to you.” He’s climbing out of the steam room before I can fully process his words, but my skin is still buzzing everywhere we touched.
What day?
After getting back homeand showering, I still have enough time before simulator training to make the drive and do the only thing that makes me feel better when my brain plays the guilt game—which, thanks to this…pull…I feel toward Vox—has increased lately.
When Grey found me, I was only living an hour from here. After the accident, I couldn’t move away. It felt like abandoning Sam and Louisa, and I couldn’t do it. Not when I was the cause of their altered lives.
I shoot off a quick text asking if I can come by, and I’m thankful when the answer is yes.
The entire drive, I try to think about anything else: the weather, today’s training plan, what I need at the grocery store, the meaning of life…literallyanything, but all my traitorous mind will give me are images of Vox, shirtless and sweating with flushed skin.
I’m so wound up by the time I pull into Sam’s driveway, I have to sit in the car for a minute and get myself under control.
When I’m finally able to get out, I walk up the ramp and ring the doorbell, immediately regretting not stopping for flowers, or a bottle of wine, orsomething.
But as soon as Sam opens the door, he greets me with a laugh and says, “Thank God you showed up empty-handed this time. We still haven’t gotten through the last six bottles you brought us.”
I shake his hand as I step into the familiar living room.
“Sam, how are you?” I ask, shedding my coat.
“Doing great, Connor. How about yourself?” he asks, spinning his wheelchair around to lead me into the kitchen.
“I, uh, I’ve been better,” I confess. How fucked up is it thatSam,of all people, is the one I choose to talk to about this?
Then again, I don’t really have anyone else.
A thought slams into me at a hundred miles an hour…Vox isn’t the only one who avoids relationships like the plague.
“Tea?” Sam asks as he wheels up to the counter, grabs two mugs, and begins pouring before I can even answer. He knows I’m going to say yes. This has become our ritual.
“Please,” I respond, taking my usual seat. “Where’s Louisa today?”
“It’s noon on a Tuesday, Connor,” Sam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She’s at work.”
“Oh, right.” I grab the mug he’s holding out for me andstare into it, watching as the hot water pulls the tea from the little floating bag. “Aren’t you working?” I ask, knowing Sam works from home.
“Yeah, but I’ll always make time for you, you know that.” The kid in me wishes I could crawl into Sam’s lap and just be told that everything will be fine. My face and fidgeting hands must give away my unease, though, because Sam adds, “Start talking, Lang. I haven’t seen you this torn up in quite a while.”
I love talking to Sam. He already knows the worst of me, and despite that, he allows me inside his home. He and Louisa, both. They should hate me. They should’ve turned me away the first time I showed up. Instead, they welcomed me with open arms and have always made it known that I have a place at their table anytime I want it.
Fuck, I get choked up every time I think about it.
“I got a new job,” I finally say.
“Well, congratulations!” Sam bellows with honest enthusiasm. He’s in his early fifties now. A good-looking guy with a full head of gray hair and a killer mustache to go with it. The muscles in his legs have atrophied, as was to be expected, but he works hard to keep up the strength in his arms, chest, and back.
It’s his strength of spirit that I admire more than anything, though.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You don’t sound so thrilled. I’d have thought anything was better than that office you were in. Why’d you take it if it was going to make you more miserable than your last gig?” he asks, bringing the cup of hot liquid to his lips.
Taking a deep breath, I dive in.
