Page 44 of Unforgettable Player

Connor’s presence feels even bigger in this house. Not just because it’s smaller than most places I’ve been inside with him. It’s like he carries an antidote to the mustiness and sadness within the walls with his presence alone.

He deposits the bags on the kitchen table and looks at me. “Where’re your pots and pans?”

“Oh, um … top cupboard there.”

We work around each other. Once Connor’s found the pans, he gets everything set up for dinner while I put the other groceries away.

I keep expecting Dad to hear us talking and being louder than he’s used to it being in here and come out to see what all the noise is, but he doesn’t.

I’m grateful that Connor doesn’t mention my dad. Doesn’t ask where he is or if he’s going to come out of his hideout. He doesn’t look around at everything, wondering where all the family photos are, or why everything is so sparse. He doesn’t ask me why there were no groceries in the house, and why I had to buy everything from bread and milk to herbs. He just cooks, filling the kitchen with life.

My eyes stream when I slice the onions. I wipe the tears on the back of my sleeve. Connor swallows when he looks at me. He sees that I’ve caught him and forces a smile. “Don’t cry.” He laughs. “My cooking isn’t that bad.”

“Shut up, it’s the onions.”

“Sure.”

By the time the ground beef is in the pan with the vegetables, the kitchen smells like a home again. I watch Connor work, proving myself a useless cook. I couldn’t even chop onions without crying. But he’s a work of art at the stove. Beads of sweat dapple his top lip and there’s a red mark on his forehead where he took his cap off.

“Okay, time to drain the spaghetti,” he says.

I take this as my cue and take the pan off the heat.

“Save a cup of water to thicken the sauce,” he adds before I can pour it all through the strainer.

“I’ll just go and let my dad know dinner’s ready.”

Conner keeps his eyes on the pan and nods.

My good mood dips when I near my dad’s study. I ball my fist up and knock on the door, wait for a reply.

When he doesn’t answer right away, I panic. We’ve been out there for ages making noise and there hasn’t been a peep out of him. Is he okay?

I’m about to barge in uninvited when I hear his voice on the other side.

“Come in.”

He takes his glasses off as I enter and cleans them on his cardigan.

“Dad, I made dinner.”

He isn’t looking at me. He’s purposefully averting his eyes.

“Connor’s here.”

I watch his throat work as he swallows, feel the chasm between us and feel like screaming at him to wake up.

“I have a lot of work to get through, here, Elliot. Why don’t you leave me a plate and I’ll eat it later?”

My jaw clenches. I’m on the verge of shouting, crying, something. But my mom’s kind, calm face comes to mind, telling me to be patient. I nod.

“Okay, Dad.”

He’s typing again before I’ve even closed the door.

“Okay?” Connor asks when I come back to the kitchen. He’s set two places at the table and is hovering over a third.

“He isn’t coming out.”