The Speed of Light: A Novel(18)

She nods.

I stand and force a chuckle, but it’s flat. “Anyway, I don’t even know Connor’s last name, so it’s not like I can even stalk him on Facebook or anything.”

Nikki smiles. “Well, that is a damn shame.”

A shame, indeed, I think as I walk away. But it’s how it has to be.





CHAPTER EIGHT

Twisting puffs of our own breath against the crisp winter air lead the way for Stan and me on our hurried walk across campus. The walk isn’t that far—our campus is small, with the cluster of residence halls situated just beyond the campus quad. But thankfully, it’s too cold to talk.

“So, Simone, how are you feeling?”

Damn. Guess I was wrong. “Oh, fine, thanks.”

“That’s really great to hear.” Stan’s exaggerated cheeriness makes me cringe, though he’s genuine in his own odd way. “So, no more . . . uh . . . trouble, then?”

I hesitate. Stan knows I’ve been having medical problems—that I’ve been going through the hell that is searching for a diagnosis—because of all the time off I’ve needed. But he doesn’t know everything.

To him, in this moment, I don’t have MS. I’m still just me.

I smile. “Nope.” Technically true. I no longer fear my leg will lock up on the way to my car—muscle spasticity, I learned from Dr. Montgomery. He also told me it’s normal for my knees to get weak and achy in the cold and isn’t a sign of a new attack, so I push through the current flare in my left knee as we forge ahead.

Stan clears his throat. “Well, look, if you ever need anything, or need to take any more time off, don’t hesitate to ask. Anything at all.”

I glance over in surprise. “Thanks,” I whisper.

We continue our walk in silence, feet crunching against the snow-packed walkways, passing a few small groups of parka-clad staff members hurrying between buildings.

When at last we near the construction site for the new hall, my stomach drops. The ground in front of the building is a sheet of ice. My damn lack of balance—even in my boots, I’m afraid I will fall. And along with the risk of injury and humiliation comes a fear that this is the first crack in my self-reliance—a tiny one, perhaps, but I don’t know how fast and how far it will spread.

Stan is clueless, forging ahead across the ice toward the main entrance. Anxiety pulses through me, but I have to go on, so I try a shuffling, penguin-like approach—my feet don’t leave the ground as I advance, one foot in front of the other, at a pace rivaling that of a turtle. At one point, my body jerks into an awkward version of an ice dance—where your foot slips and you flail your arms and jerk your whole body around, trying to right yourself.

But I don’t go down.

I pray no eyes are on me, grateful the construction crew is working inside the building and that Stan doesn’t turn around. When I reach the doorway, I allow myself a tiny fist pump of victory before following Stan inside, where we’re greeted by wood-framed walls, the smell of sawdust, and the whirr of power drills. Music blares in the distance, and they’re pumping heat throughout the building—it’s so warm that sweat immediately begins to pool inside my thick wool coat.

Stan tugs off his stocking cap and wipes the sweat off his brow. “Chet said he was going to let the contractor know we were coming, so someone should be ready to show us around.” Then he almost mutters to himself, “But Chet hasn’t exactly been trustworthy lately, so who knows if he really did tell them.”

I roll my eyes at that last part—Stan and Chet have a weird, competitive frenemy thing. As Stan pokes his head around the corner to look for our tour guide, I shrug out of my coat because I know getting too hot can make MS symptoms worse. I don’t really know yet how hot is too hot, but I do know that I don’t want to risk embarrassing myself around a bunch of strangers. I turn and drop my jacket in a corner by the door. I’d rather wash the sawdust off it later than lug it around the whole building.

“Ah, here he comes,” Stan says. “Good morning.”

“Morning. Ready to see the new building?”

My heart stops in recognition before I’m even fully turned back around. When we’re face-to-face, it does an all-out back flip.

“Connor?”





CHAPTER NINE

“Simone?” Connor’s eyes are as wide as his smile.

I blink at him. Stan looks from me to Connor and back again, confused. “You live in Fargo!” I blurt out.

Connor’s brow furrows for a moment, but his smile remains. “Uh, well, my parents do. But I . . . uh . . . I live here in Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage, I am so goddamned flustered.

Connor removes his hard hat and runs a hand through his hair before sticking it out toward Stan. “Connor Davies.”

Now I know his last name.

“Stan Lawson.” He grips Connor’s hand into a too-solid handshake—apparently a guy’s need to appear manly in front of other dudes doesn’t dissipate with age. He breaks the machismo to glance at me. “I guess you two already know each other?”

Heat creeps into my face and neck. The truth is, I’ve woken up every morning since Christmas thinking about Connor, even though I thought I’d never see him again.