Page 43 of Unforgettable Player

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

I pray he won’t bring up last night or ask me how I am. I sink into the passenger seat with relief when he says, “So, groceries.”

The stereo is playing a local radio station. Between talking about the weather and reporting traffic jams on the coastal road, they play oldies like The Beach Boys and The Mamas and The Papas. I let the music relax me and hum along. Connor has cracked the window so a soft breeze can blow in, tickling the hairs on the back of my arm.

“Any preference for store? I could drive up to the big Walmart on Cherry.”

“No, it’s okay, local will do. I just need a few essentials. And Walmart will be crammed today.”

I try not to look at him. Force myself to hold my tongue when all I want to do is tell him how good he looks. I’ve held back all these years, but now that I know my attraction isn’t one-sided, it’s ten times harder.

I watch his lips as he wets them with his tongue. I don’t have to imagine what that mouth would feel like on me anymore.

The silence should be awkward, so why do I feel so much calmer since he texted me? Why do I feel so safe in this car with this man? His hands look so capable on the steering wheel. There’s something so … comfortingly familiar about him.

He pulls into a parking space outside the local grocery store. There aren’t many cars in the lot, thankfully, and the store is quiet when we get inside.

I take a basket and start filling it with bread and pasta and jars of pre-made sauce.

Connor takes the jar of pasta sauce out of the basket and puts it back.

“I’ll give you Dad’s sauce recipe,” he says. “It isn’t the culinary masterpiece he’d lead you to believe. It’s literally just canned tomatoes and some herbs.” He grins, flashing those fangs. “It’s more about how you cook it that makes it taste so good.”

I nod. “Okay, sure.”

“I can help, if you want. He taught me all his secrets.”

Heat creeps up the back of my neck and I get flustered. “I … no, thanks, it’s okay.”

We’re quiet as we round the corner to the next aisle. I pick up a few packs of cookies and dump them in the basket.

“Hey, Eli …” Connor starts. He pauses and rubs the back of his neck. “You don’t have to be ashamed you know?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean … everything with your dad. It’s not your fault.”

I instantly bristle. Turning my back, I pretend to be studying the back of a cereal box.

“Elliot.” The hand on my shoulder softens my reserve enough for me to turn my head in his direction.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says. “You don’t have to pretend it’s fine.”

How many times has Scout told me I don’t have to be embarrassed about what’s going on with my dad? How many times has she told me I don’t have to pretend? Scout never pretends. How can she understand what it’s like to feel the need to? But Connor understands, doesn’t he? He knows exactly what it’s like to pretend everything is fine when it’s not.

“Okay.” I nod. “If you want to help that would be … good.”

His face softens as he drops his hand from my shoulder.

I don’t start to regret my decision until Connor is pulling up outside the house. The weeds and the dirty windows, so familiar to me that they’ve started to blend in, suddenly stand out. What is he thinking?

But Connor doesn’t give the mess a second glance as he gets out and starts unloading the bags from the trunk.

I let us in, relieved at least that I’ve tidied inside a little. The house still has a musty smell you don’t notice until you’ve been out and come back again. And there’s still this sad, unlived-in feel to all the rooms bereft of photographs or personal touches. But at least there isn’t a layer of dust over everything anymore, or take-out menus piled up on the welcome mat.