The Speed of Light: A Novel(10)

“Simone?” Mom’s eyes dart around the table—everyone else is now looking directly at me—before her nervous gaze lands on me. “Everything okay?”

I shove a hand through my hair, scrambling for an excuse to get the hell out of here, then narrow my eyes at the center of the table. “I forgot the buns.”

My brother snorts again, and my face blazes even hotter somehow. Mom sighs, “Ah yes, the dinner rolls. Thanks, dear.”

But before I can make my escape, Dad clears his throat. “The kitchen garbage needs to be taken out. I mean, since you’re up and all.”

I wrinkle my nose, but I’m grateful for the excuse to prolong my absence. “No problem.”



Outside, I’m blasted with the cold as I clutch my jacket closed with one hand, the other firmly grasping the white plastic bag stuffed to the brim with Christmas party refuse. The snow is thick and heavy as it falls on my head, weighing down my hair, and my feet push through the ankle-deep snow already on the ground. I make my way around the side of the garage, brush off the top of the large trash bin, and pull it open to hike the bag inside.

Then I make a beeline back to the side door. Inside, it’s cool but comfortable—and blissfully quiet. I sag down onto the back bumper of my mom’s sedan and let my head drop into my hands.

But I don’t cry. Instead, I fish inside my pocket, pull out my phone—cold but dry—then tap out a text: SOS.

It vibrates within seconds—Nikki is probably watching Christmas movies with her girlfriend, Claudia, and her family. Family drama?

More like neighbor drama.

Ooh, is Walter there? Are you going to give him a Christmas present?

A chuckle rips out of me before I can stop it—I clamp my mouth shut even though nobody can hear me out here. Very funny. He’s here, and so is his nosy mother. This is pretty much the most awkward situation imaginable.

A holiday season already ruined by medical anxiety made even worse thanks to people and their insensitive comments.

Across the garage, the interior door whooshes open, laughter and light pouring in, along with a slow shuffle of feet. There’s a pause—I’m hidden here behind Mom’s car, I’m sure of it—then the feet scuff across the concrete floor again. The door of the old garage fridge creaks open, bottles clink, then the door pads shut again.

The door to the house opens again, and I let out a breath, home free—then my dad clears his throat. “If anybody happens to be in here, she’s probably got about five more minutes before her mother notices and comes looking for her.”

Then he whistles a merry tune as he retreats inside, shutting the door behind him.

I shake my head at my dad’s nonwarning, then sigh and push myself to standing. You can do this, Simone. But even my internal pep talk is weak, and I stand there staring out the window of the garage door into the blizzard, stalling as I watch swirls of frenzied white snow against the black sky.

Then I blink, narrow my eyes, lean forward until my nose is almost against the glass. It couldn’t be . . . no one would be out in that. But there it is again—a figure, tall and dark, hunched into the wind, trudging along the sidewalk across the street. As he passes by the house, he turns my way just enough, and I gasp, bolting out the side door before I can stop myself. In an almost run down the driveway, I yell, “Connor?”

I squint against the pelting snowfall, arms wrapped around myself as protection against the biting wind, and call his name again, louder. “Connor!”

His head jerks over, and for a moment he stands still, looking disoriented, but when I wave him over, he trudges across the street toward me. Up close his cheeks are pink. “I didn’t even realize I was back here,” he says.

“What happened?” My eyes widen. “Where’s Ella?”

Connor shakes his head. “I dropped her off. Made it about two blocks before my truck got stuck.”

I nod, relieved that Ella is safely home. “Where are you going?”

He glances out at the thick falling snow. “I . . . guess I don’t really know.”

My eyes flit to my parents’ house, light and warmth pouring out through the windows. “Do you want to come inside?”

“No.” He’s already shaking his head. “It’s not too bad out here. I’m sure I can find a gas station, or somewhere warm to wait out the storm.”

The wind picks up as if in protest, and I shudder. “No way, it’s terrible out here.” Before he can say another word, I reach a mittened hand for his arm and pull him toward the doorway.

Inside, we’re instantly enveloped by warmth, and I hear Connor exhale in relief behind me in the entryway. I smile as I turn to face him, but it quickly fades. The twinkling Christmas lights now reveal just how cold he is—he’s trembling, though some macho part of him is trying to hide it, pink ears sticking out from under his hat, hands curled up into tight white fists. I gasp. “Where are your gloves?”

He shakes his head. “I guess I forgot to put them on when I got out of my truck.”

Without thinking, I reach forward to clasp his cold hands in mine to share some warmth, but then I freeze—I just met this man; what am I doing? I pull my hands back and quickly cross my arms. “Uh . . . you . . . you should take off your wet coat,” I stammer. He nods and plucks off his hat, and I bite back a smile—even his disheveled hair is cute.