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Conor changed all that.
For all of one whole day. And what do I do? I walk away from it all, just like my mom did.
Shit. Maybe there’s no hope for me, maybe we really are all just like our parents, doomed to repeat the same failed patterns over and over.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, feeling about as low as I can go when I force myself to get up and keep going.
“Way to cheer yourself up, Rachel. Yay me,” I murmur to myself, checking the time and realize just how long I’ve been sitting here moping about the past and a future I probably never have to worry about.
Dad’s right, there’s a stack of food in the refrigerator but after that closet clean out, I don’t feel like eating.
After, I tell myself. I can pack up a little more, keep busy and-
Moving my jacket off the bed a card flutters out of the pocket and lands face side up right at my feet.
Conor Fox.
It’s not the man himself or his picture, but it sets off everything in me I’m trying hard to forget.
Picking it up, I thumb the card’s corners, as if I can somehow materialize an answer for what I should do.
Like rubbing it for luck.
I’d rather be rubbing him.
Groaning a sigh, I shift myself to the tiny room opposite my dad’s office. The one room I know he wouldn’t have even started on yet. The general junk or storage room of our household. Everything he never looks at or even uses but can’t bear to part with.
It looks like dad has made a start though, I notice some boxes with their lids off, dusty handprints where he’s probably tried to busy himself through the night.
I feel a pang of guilt again, with the hollow feeling for a lack of Conor in my life now worse.
Scanning the contents of the box before I put the lid back on, I nearly drop the photo as I snatch it from the pile.
Letting out a sound of disbelief, I have to blink, rubbing my eye with a dusty hand as I try to tell myself it can’t be.
It’s an old photo of my dad, probably from his college days, I’m guessing.
But it’s who he has his arm around that knocks the wind out of me, making me feel faint as I have to lean back against the wall and slide down it so I’m sitting.
My knees up to my chest, I sit staring at the photo stunned.
It’s Conor Fox alright. That smile, his chiseled jaw, and of course, those arms.
It’s unmistakably him. A younger, perfect version of the man himself, if there ever could be such a thing.
It’s hard to tear my eyes from it, but I flip it over. Dad always marks his old snapshots.
Conor and me, spring ‘97
I feel my chest tighten, tears of nostalgia for a time before I was even born.
These two guys aren’t just college buddies. They’re best friends, I can just tell.
Closer than brothers.
My dad actually looks happy for once, and Conor’s deep and penetrating eyes are shining with pride, his huge arm around my dad who doesn’t look too shabby himself I must say.
But what happened? How could such close friends not be anymore?
Jesus, I told Conor who my dad was yesterday. His questions all make perfect sense now, and then the fact that someone just happened to call our house late last night?
I hear the phone ringing, but I’m too absorbed to even bother with it. It’ll be someone for dad, it always is.
I’ll let his machine get it.
Scrambling to find more photos of Conor, with or without my dad, I’m fresh out of luck but I know I’m pocketing this one.
I’ll treasure it.
Even though it leaves me with more questions than answers, it makes my mind up on one point at least.
I have to see Conor again. I have to know what happened between him and my dad.
The sound of heavy steps followed by my dad’s gruff voice breaks the moment.
He’s gotten up and answered the phone himself, making me wince.
I guess he’s already packed the answering machine.
I hear him grunt some and then listen as he shuffles up the hall, finding me sitting in the doorway of the spare room.
“Hi,” I murmur, watching him rub his eyes and groan, half-asleep still.
“The moving guys will be here soon, they’ll pack everything up today, sweetie. I’m going back to sleep. Wake me when they get here will ya?” he asks me, “Or maybe not. See if you can all manage without me, I’m beat,” he adds with a yawn.
I squeak a reply, not wanting to say or do anything that isn’t going to make him head back to get his sleep.
I have a million questions though, and if dad’s asleep there’s only one other man alive who could even begin to set things straight for me.
