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It was the image that always came to mind when she thought of Connelly Davis.
The pang of nostalgia was as sharp as a knife blade. They had been so close once...
But that was before.
Before the assault that had left her broken and afraid.
Before she had shut herself in this house and pushed everyone away.
Before everything changed.
As he drew closer, her heart started galloping in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was because of her anxiety or the way he looked at her with those dark, intense eyes. He had always been able to see right through her, even when she didn’t want him to.
He looked so different from the boy she used to know. As a kid, he’s been smaller than other kids, scrawny and a little bit nerdy, with his nose always stuck in a book. He’d been bullied mercilessly until puberty hit. Suddenly, he was taller and more muscular than any of the other boys in their class, and he dropped one of his bullies to the ground without breaking a sweat. After that, the guys respected him. The girls flocked to him. And why not? He was handsome and brilliant and, most of all, kind. The whole package. Of course they had adored him. Of course she had adored him...
Right up until he stabbed her in the back.
Why the hell was he here?
She didn’t want him here.
She didn’t want the memories.
Veronica took a deep breath and willed herself to open the door and tell him off. It shouldn’t be hard. She just had to walk a few steps, release the locks, grab the knob, and pull.
But if she opened that door, he would come in. He wouldn’t give her a choice. And she couldn’t let him invade her safe haven. It wouldn’t be safe anymore.
She stayed in the window, watching as Conn tossed the stick for the Doberman. He grinned as the dog made a mad dash for it, then turned and walked up the front steps of her porch.
He knocked.
She didn’t move.
“Vee?”
She couldn’t move.
His heavy sigh carried through the door. “Fine.”
She heard him move away, but her exhale of relief caught in her throat when the old rocker on the porch groaned. She looked out the window again. Connelly sat in the rocker and pulled his laptop from his backpack.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
After a few more throws of the stick, the dog settled down at his feet, gnawing on her prize. Connelly scratched behind her floppy ear, a small smile crossing his face. He looked so content, so at ease, like this was right where he was meant to be.
How was he able to just sit there, so comfortable in his own skin? Meanwhile, she was trapped inside. Her own mind was a prison.
What was he doing here anyway? Did he think he could magically fix her? Did her father think that too?
She watched as Connelly opened his laptop and began typing.
What was he writing about this time? It was always something macabre with him.
Was he writing about her again? She couldn’t stand the thought of it. The last thing she needed was for her trauma to be dissected in another one of his horror stories.
But as she watched, she saw him lean back in the chair and run his hands through his hair. He looked up at the sky, exhaustion and frustration etched on his face. Suddenly, he looked vulnerable, like he needed someone to lean on.
He glanced up, and they made eye contact through the window. She quickly glanced away, feeling exposed and somehow also like a voyeur.
