Page 22 of Backward Motion

“Of course, I’d be happy to help.” Sally held out the sugar bowl for Sam, which he politely declined.

Ms. Thatcher was the last of six testimonials he’d gathered to submit with the nomination. The entry requirements only asked for three, but Sam hadn’t been able to choose from the slew of glowing reviews he’d received from customers and associates. In the end, the nomination had practically written itself. All Sam had to do was knock out a snappy cover letter. It had been nice to work his powers of spin on someone deserving, for a change, and not anothervapid commercial brand. He was quite proud of what he’d put together and secretly thought Connor had a decent shot at winning his category.

The only problem was that he hadn’t told Connor about any of this. When Sam had seen the flyer on the noticeboard at Jenny’s, he’d been puzzled by Connor’s muted reaction. Connor didn’t seem to take any of Sam’s cheerleading to heart, but maybe if the acknowledgment came from the town, he would be forced to accept that he was doing a great job. So Sam had snagged one of the tear-off tabs from the flyer and pocketed it when Connor wasn’t looking. He’d just have to find the right moment to surprise him.

He meant what he’d said to Connor that afternoon in the van: He was a nice person. And nice people deserved to get ahead for once. Not that Sam had much experience with the type. He’d worked a succession of jobs with people who were only interested in what they could get from him. Dating had proven a hellish variation on the theme. Like he was part of some fluffed-up peacock contest where he had to show the goods up front, be down for anything, and pretend not to give a shit when his heart got trampled.

Sam hadn’t realized how much effort went into mining every interaction for hidden meanings. Around Connor, he felt comfortable being himself, and—weirdly—that didn’t appear to bother the man. Sam often found himself thinking of things to say to make Connor smile. He had this impish grin that made his eyes sparkle, and Sam’s stomach always did a little flip when he saw it.

Sam opened the folder he’d brought with him and handed Sally a typed-up form. “Just fill in your info and anything you’d like to say about Finnegan’s. It doesn’t have to be wordy. A couple sentences is fine.”

“Shall I do that now?” Sally asked, picking up the pen he’d laid on the table.

“If you can. The deadline for submissions closes tomorrow, and I’d like to drop the nomination off on my way back.”

She nodded and printed her name at the top of the form. “About time that boy got some recognition. He’s been toiling away for years. I remember when he first started, he’d follow his father around like a lost sheep. Sure straightened himself out, didn’t he? That’s what a good trade can do for you.”

Sam remembered the dirty look Ian Finnegan had given him the day he’d stopped by the office. He couldn’t imagine how Connor had survived all those years working under the man.

“Last year, I was in a bit of a bad spot. Noodles had to go in for surgery, and my pension payment was held up. Connor let me split the bill over several months.” She reached out to stroke the sleeping cat. “You don’t see that kind of service anymore. It’s all franchises now, with their identical vans, only in it for the profit.”

“I’m hoping this will be a chance to celebrate that,” Sam said. “Let him know how much the town appreciates his hard work.”

Sally gave him a pat on the hand. “Good on you.”

While Ms. Thatcher filled out her testimonial, Sam flipped through the folder of paperwork he’d put together. There was the statement from Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez and the recommendation from a local builder who’d worked several jobs with Connor—all of them praising his work ethic and how he went beyond the call of duty.

Sam recalled an afternoon in English class junior year, when one of the jocks had shoved past Sam’s desk on the way to the back of the room and knocked his pen to the floor. Connor had reached over from a nearby desk to pick it up and held the pen out to Sam. It was a passing gesture, entirely forgettable, but in that moment had meant so much. A simple kindness, an acknowledgment of Sam’s existence. Perhaps that was why he still remembered it.

“Careful, Finnis. Wouldn’t want to catch anything,” someone had called out, to a flurry of snickers.

“Like I did with your mom?” Connor shot back, his voice carrying as the room took a collective intake of breath.

The jocks were scared of the burnouts, who were partial to less talk and more action. Sam had spent his entire high school career taking what people gave him. He’d admired Connor that day for refusing to do so, on Sam’s behalf.

When Ms. Thatcher was finished, Sam thanked her and made his way outside to his car. Then he drove back into town and found a place to park by city hall. He glanced down at his watch, mindful of the time. Sam had used the excuse of a personal errand to slip away and finish the nomination, and Connor was back at the office, keeping an eye on the phone. Connor’s morning job had been a quick one, and he’d returned early to catch Sam attempting to break down a stubborn filing box by the recycling bin. Connor had stood for a moment watching Sam struggle before taking the box from him and crushing it flat in his arms with ease.

After a childhood filled with straight crushes, Sam had learned not to want what he couldn’t have. But since their conversation after the football game, he’d noticed how much more aware he was of the warmth of Connor’s fingers when they accidentally brushed his own, the ripple of muscle along his forearm as he lifted his tool bag, the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders when he shrugged out of his overalls. Men who looked like Connor knew well enough how to use their physicality to get what they wanted. But Sam had never gotten that vibe from him. In contrast, Connor seemed oddly reserved, almost old-fashioned. He was either blissfully unaware of his appeal or deceptively good at hiding it.

Sam got out of the car and walked up the steps to city hall. He didn’t think he’d ever been inside before. It was a beautiful old building made of white limestone and sporting a domed column roof—nodoubt identical to many others of its kind in small towns across the country. The mayor had his office here, and it was where the city council met for their monthly meetings. From what he’d gathered from the flyer, it was also where they’d be hosting the annual Oakdale Business Awards.

Sam approached the reception desk inside the main entrance, and an older woman with glasses perched on the end of her nose greeted him. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m looking to submit a nomination for this year’s business awards.”

“A last-minute entry! You’re cutting it rather close.” But she smiled and pulled out a ledger, which she slid across the counter toward him. “Write your name and the business you’re nominating, along with the category you’re putting them forward for. Do you have all the forms with you?”

“I do.” Sam handed over the folder, and she flicked through the paperwork while he jotted his details into the ledger. He was just about to pass the ledger back when Mayor Greenfield himself breezed up to the reception desk.

“Debbie, do you have the poppy pins for the veterans’ lunch this afternoon? Joe said he left a box at reception.”

As Debbie hunted around in the shelves behind her, the mayor glanced over at Sam. “You’re David Bryant’s boy, aren’t you?”

Mayor Greenfield had a reputation for poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted. Sam wondered what else he knew about him.

“That’s right,” he replied, taking exception at his use of the wordboy.

“Putting in a nomination for the awards?” Greenfield leaned over to peer at the open ledger. “Finnegan’s Electrical? Wouldn’t you know. I’m surprised young Connor’s hung in there.”