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Okay, see you in a few.
CU
“Hi,” Connor said, opening the door for me. He was handsomely rumpled in his pajama pants and V-neck shirt, though it was Sunday evening. He bent to kiss my cheek.
“It’s kind of a mess. Ramona comes on Tuesday.”
I’d been over to his place a handful of times in the past month, never staying for long. Weston had ceased speaking to me beyond curt hellos and goodbyes, and I never felt welcome when he was there.
Despite Connor’s warning, the large apartment was nearly spotless, thanks to the cleaning lady the Drakes paid to come once a week. The only messes were a scatter of papers on the dining area table, and a pizza box beside a few empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Madden was paused on their gigantic flat screen TV.
“Is Weston here?” I asked. “I wanted to talk alone.”
“He’s taking a run,” Connor said, and then grinned. “Should I be scared? Call him for back up?”
God, he really is adorable.
I mentally fortified myself against Connor’s inherent sexiness and charm. “Nothing to be scared of. In fact…” I sighed. “Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say. But I know it will all come back to me the second I walk out that door.”
Connor laced his hands around my waist. “Maybe don’t walk out the door.” He bent and kissed my mouth softly but with intention behind it. Promises of more if I wanted it. “Stay,” he murmured.
“I want to,” I said. “But, Connor…”
He kissed me again, deeper, and I felt the floor tip out from under me. I clung to his strong arms, while his hands slipped up my back to tangle in my hair. His phone rang—a classical music ringtone—breaking the moment.
“Shit. My parents.” He released me and went to grab his phone from the couch. “Let me just see what they want.”
I nodded, still slightly breathless, and watched him answer. His usual smile replaced by a grimace, as if he were bracing himself.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
He held up a finger to me and mouthed sorry, hold on, then took the call into his room. I wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water. The kitchen was sleek—chrome and gray and masculine. It reminded me of Connor’s car. New and expensive. I supposed part of the cost of this luxury was Connor could never let his parents’ calls go to voicemail.
I poured a glass of water from the state-of-the-art filtration system on the marble counter and sat at the dining room table to drink it. My fastidious nature fixated on the sprawl of papers. They begged to be gathered up.
Stop. Don’t touch other people’s stuff.
Minutes passed and Connor didn’t come back. I sipped my water, then sat on my hands. The mess on the table was making me itchy. I pulled a few papers together, glancing at an essay on Macroeconomics, Connor’s name and date at the top. This was all his work. He wouldn’t mind if I straightened it. We were dating, after all…
Class handouts. Articles. Loose pages with handwritten lines of text, arrows to notes in the margin, a few doodles.
I sighed. What was Connor talking about with his parents?
I went on gathering papers into piles and my eye pulled a few lines off one scribbled page, half-hidden beneath another:
Without you,
The hours stretch
I glanced around the empty apartment. Connor’s muffled voice came from the other room, still sounding in the middle of a conversation, not wrapping one up.
Be patient and mind your business, I thought.
I made it all of six seconds before I slid the paper free and read what was there. A poem. The handwriting was a scratchy scrape of the pen, with sharp lines and angles. The words burned hot off the page.
Without you,
The hours stretch
