The Speed of Light: A Novel(13)

Connor stands on the other side of the island resting his hands on the marble top, watching me. I hold the bottle up toward him, offering to top off the glass in front of him, but it’s already full.

Suddenly he stands up straight. “Wait.” He turns around, opens the fridge, and pulls out two cookies. “Do you have a plate?”

I furrow my brow but stand up and pull a plate out of a cabinet. He places the cookies on it and sets it on the counter, then turns to me with a grin. “We have to leave some out for Santa, right?”

My mouth twitches, and I melt. “Right.”

Our smiles linger for a moment; then we both look down, awkward for the first time that night. My eyes scrutinize the floor as if searching for my wine-induced confidence, but I look up when Connor clears his throat. “So, uh, that guy who was here . . . Walter, is it?”

I blush even brighter, holly-berry red, I’m sure. I reach for my wineglass. “Yes.”

“Nice guy.” He licks his lips. “So is he . . . ? I mean, are you two . . . ?”

Did his voice get a little higher? “Oh no,” I say quickly. “We’re totally just friends.” I cringe—my voice definitely got a little higher.

Connor nods, smiles, and it’s about to get awkward again, but suddenly he cocks his head, then walks over to the radio and turns the dial. The melody of “Feliz Navidad” gets louder.

“I like this one.” Connor holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”

“What?” I scoff, but I’m already setting my glass down. He takes my hand, and soon we’re spinning around the room in some sort of swing dance.

When the song ends, he dips me back with a flourish, and suddenly our faces are inches apart and I’m staring into his eyes. A thrill shoots through me, but he pulls me up and steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets, his smile cautious. “Uh, thanks. Haven’t danced like that in a long time.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever danced like that.” We laugh and the electric moment passes. I’m as relieved as I am disappointed.

He follows me into the living room, and we sit on the couch, wineglasses in hand. The room is dark except for the glow of the Christmas tree, its winking lights a colorful reminder of holidays past. I let my shoulder lean in to Connor’s, but somehow that’s okay. The wine is kicking in now, and I’m sleepy. The silence is comfortable, but the air crackles with expectancy.

“Thanks again for the ride,” I whisper at last.

“No problem. Thank you for inviting me in. Not sure what I would’ve done otherwise.”

I swallow. “So . . . can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you stay at Ella’s?”

His shoulder slumps, and I sag farther against him. “It’s complicated, but basically I don’t feel welcome there. My sister-in-law’s family . . . well, they don’t like me very much. They think it’s my fault that my brother . . . that he . . .”

Oh God. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

We’re silent again. Questions swirl in my mind, but I can’t bring myself to ask any more. He stares at his glass, then sets it down on the end table next to the couch. “Let’s just say I would rather walk in a blizzard than stay there. But I’m sorry I messed up your plans.”

I take a deep breath, catching a faint scent of a musky aftershave, and now I have to fight the urge to lean my head against his shoulder. “Believe me, you didn’t. You improved my plans.” I shrug it off, somehow not embarrassed by my forwardness. Thanks, wine.

Connor clears his throat. “So . . . can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What did your mom mean when she mentioned your doctor?”

I sit up straighter, hold my breath. It’s not that nobody knows. Hell, Mom put me on the church’s prayer chain, assuring that everyone within a fifty-mile radius now knows my business—including, clearly, nosy Mrs. Johnson. And yet, besides my awkward explanation at work of why I needed time off, I haven’t actually told very many people about what I’m going through—I’m not sure how to explain it, to make someone else understand something I’m struggling to comprehend myself.

But when I glance at Connor, there’s such earnestness in his face, and maybe it’s the wine or the comfort of sitting here staring at the tree—or, probably, the fact that I will never see this nice man again—that draws the answer from my lips. “I might have multiple sclerosis.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “You might?”

I take a gulp of wine. “Yeah, it’s not exactly easy to diagnose. I’m going to a specialist to be sure.”

“Okay.” He nods. “So, uh . . . what makes you think you might have it? I’m sorry if that’s a dumb question.”

I smile, shake my head. “No, it’s fine. It started when my foot went numb last summer. The numbness kind of kept spreading, and I couldn’t walk very well, and my doctor decided it was probably MS. But I’m feeling better now.” I squeeze my eyes shut as if to hide from the sting of my own betrayal. I’ve just trivialized one of the scariest, most difficult times of my life. And yet even in the comfort of this moment, I can’t bring myself to detail those terrifying memories of my leg locking up or those first few weeks when I didn’t know if I was dying, or if it was all in my mind, or if I would ever have an answer at all.