Taking Connor(7)

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’ll give you a tour. But Blake said you needed to see something first.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” I laugh softly remembering my late husband staring starry-eyed, imagining the day he’d present this to Connor. “He’s had this planned for a while.”

Reaching in the car through the driver’s window, I press the garage door opener that’s clipped to my visor. The garage door starts to rise and when it’s fully open, I enter and flip a switch to turn on the above head lighting. The light illuminates the walls that are lined with shelving where tools and instruments are kept in bins or are hung on pegs, and there’s a lift in the second bay, ideal for working under vehicles or changing the oil.

“Holy shit,” Connor murmurs as he steps inside. “Blake worked on cars out here?”

I snort. “Yeah right. He was a man of many talents, but mechanics was not one of them. He did this for you. So you could start working on cars and build yourself a business.”

“Are you serious?” His brows furrow as he runs a hand across the metal tool bench.

“He wanted to help you get on your feet.” I smile softly thinking of Blake obsessing over every detail of this garage. “I think he wanted you to be close, too. He really missed you, Connor.”

Sometimes, something happens that completely blows you away. Like witnessing a freak accident, how it sucks the breath from your lungs, your body frozen, unable to even contemplate breathing for a long moment. Or when you get that tingly feeling all over as the adrenaline sets in. Well, that’s how it feels to witness Connor Stevens cry. It’s sad and dark, yet beautiful and soft all at once. His dark eyes are clenched closed as tears stream down his face. He doesn’t whimper or suck in air. He hunches over placing his elbows on the workbench and holds his head in his large hands.

Gingerly, I approach, hesitant to touch him. Mourning Blake has been hell for me, but Connor was locked away in Arizona when his cousin passed. I imagine the grief has finally hit him now that he’s home. My hand rests on his back—incredibly hard and bulging with muscles—and I begin rubbing comforting circles. I should probably leave and give him a moment alone, but grief is a fickle thing. It feeds on loneliness and Connor is pretty alone right now as he just got out of prison. I promised Blake I would help Connor and I will.

“There’s more,” I whisper after a few minutes when I see his eyes are open, staring blankly at his hands.

He stands quickly, wiping his nose with his forearm, eventually grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it up to dry his face. When I saw him in his bath towel yesterday I didn’t notice he has several thick scars on his stomach. They’re about an inch in length. Tugging his shirt back down he clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring. Again.

I quickly speak, and hope he didn’t notice. “Over here.” I lead him to the far side of the garage and pull the tarp off of the Harley.

“Are you serious?” he gasps, shock laced in his tone. “He was supposed to sell it and pay my attorney with that money.”

“He kept it.”

“Who paid my attorney?”

“He did. He kept the bike for you.”

The tears begin again and this time he doesn’t hide his face from me. His lip trembles as he battles his emotion. Every feature on his face reflects his pain, and it looks like he’s almost pleading silently with Blake in a way. I can read it like an open book. Why, Blake? Why did you do this for me? There are other feelings that are coming across such as, I’m such a piece of shit. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve a cousin like you. I imagine it’s not easy to be a man and cry. After all, society doesn’t exactly list it as a sign of masculinity. Connor’s eyes hold such anguish, I can’t help it. His sorrow is so prevalent, it seeps inside of me and I start crying too. Unexpectedly, he pulls me to him and wraps me in his massive arms. He’s warm and hard, and I bury my face in his chest and sob. We spend several minutes wrapped in each other’s arms before I finally pull away, and we both wipe the tears from our faces. Connor lifts his shirt again, but instead of wiping his own face, he wipes mine.

“There now,” he croaks. “All better.”

“Thank you,” I respond hoarsely, his sweet gesture melting my heart a little. When my gaze meets his again, I see he’s watching me, almost examining me. I wipe my face and nose some more wondering if he’s looking at my makeup smeared or if I have something hanging out of my nose.

“I probably look a mess,” I sniffle as I wipe some more.

He steps toward me and takes my wrist in his hand, pulling it from my face. “Actually, you look really beautiful.”

Silence falls as we stare at each other, neither of us even taking a breath. Didn’t I just think the same thing about him?

Connor scrubs his face roughly with both hands and clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to get emotional. It’s just . . . a lot,” he says, as he looks about the room. “I didn’t expect this. I didn’t know he was putting all of this together for me. He was here, dying, worried about . . . me.” He runs a hand over his head and down his face.

“Why don’t I show you the apartment and let you rest? It’s been a long couple of days.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “That sounds good.”