The Speed of Light: A Novel(45)

I take a deep breath, flash a brave smile. “He’s nobody important.”

“I’ll say.” Connor glares down the hallway in the direction Chet left, then turns back to me with a smile. “Well, I’m on a late lunch break and wanted to stop over to say hi.” He walks to my desk, and I stand, lean over, and meet him halfway for a soft kiss. When I pull back, he grins. “And to let you know I’m all packed.”

“Already?” I raise my eyebrows. “It’s Tuesday.”

We’re planning on leaving Thursday night to beat the Memorial Day traffic, and I intend to wait until the very last minute to pack. And to prepare for yet another extended gathering of family and friends at my parents’ annual barbecue.

Connor shrugs. “I might be a little excited for our first trip together.”

“Me too.” I reach up and pull his face down toward mine for a kiss, and suddenly all of Louise’s awkwardness, all of Chet’s assholery, melt away.

Suddenly the weekend can’t come fast enough.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

May 27, seven months before

Connor and I reach Aberdeen as the sun is dipping low. As we pull onto my parents’ street, I immediately see that the driveway seems to have turned into a used-car lot. My nose wrinkles. “Why are there so many cars here?”

“Is the barbecue tonight?” Connor asks.

I groan. “Mom said something about maybe needing to change the date, but I never checked back with her.”

Connor shrugs and steps out to walk to the trunk for our bags, and I flip down the rearview mirror. “Yikes.” I comb through my hair with my fingers, reapply my lip gloss, rub off the excess mascara smudged under my eyes—evidence of a car nap.

I step out and grab the smaller bags from the back seat, but Connor takes them from me, looping them over the handle of my suitcase, which he’s pulling behind him. He lugs his own duffel bag over his shoulder and smiles. “Ready?”

Before I have a chance to answer, the front door creaks open. “Ah, you’re here!”

I turn and smile. “Hi, Mom. Sorry, I didn’t realize the party is tonight.”

“Oh, this is just the pre-party,” she says. “We’ll be having family fun together all weekend long.”

My eyes flit to Connor, who smirks. “Sounds great,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

We near the door, and a woman steps out behind Mom. I squint into the dusky haze, but her squeal reveals her identity. “Mon-ieee!” My aunt Kit rushes down the steps and races toward me. “I haven’t seen you in ages, girl. You look great.”

Aunt Kit is not really my aunt but an old friend of my mom’s, super fun and clinging to her youth with vigor—ever since a very nasty divorce from Uncle Dean (who actually can no longer be called “uncle” and in fact whose name shall never again be uttered in our household). Kit has dyed all traces of gray from her hair, hired a personal trainer, and let a touch of Botox even out the rest. These days she usually has a much younger boyfriend on her arm, but tonight the only thing in her hand is a red Solo cup, which she now raises toward Connor—along with her eyebrows—before leaning back to me with an approving nod. “Speaking of looking great . . .”

“Kit,” I whisper, and Connor blushes. She flashes a toothy smile. “Sorry. Where are my manners? You must be Connor.”

He recovers brilliantly, flashing his own wide smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes flit to the bags he’s carrying. “You sure are . . . handy to have around.” She turns her smirk toward me. “You got another one of these for your favorite auntie? Maybe he’s got a brother or something?”

There’s an awkward silence and I wince, my eyes darting to Connor, but Mom swoops in and saves the day. “Kit, for God’s sake, let these kids get inside, will you?”

She giggles and embraces me again, pulling Connor in as well. “I’m only kidding. So happy for both of you.” She steps back, puts her hand gently on my face. “And so glad you’re doing well. You really do look great.”

By “great,” she means “healthy,” but I don’t bristle. It’s Kit, and I’m happy for the compliment. “Thanks,” I whisper, and we walk inside together arm in arm.



Backyards on a summer evening are a glorious thing. The citronella candles and bonfire keep the mosquitoes at bay, the scent of grilled meats lingers in the air, the soft breeze carries laughter and chatter and the cracking of beer-can tabs. From my comfortable patio chair—parked out on the lawn because this party is sprawling—I have a great view of the sunset, its smudges of oranges and purples brilliant against the blue-back sky.

Kit walks over and refills my glass of moscato. “One should really be my limit,” I say, but she only winks and pours a little more. I sigh, shoving the stern faces of the neurology nurse and Dr. Montgomery out of my mind—be as healthy as possible. Exercise, low-fat diet, don’t drink too much. Such a subjective term, really. I look down at my full wineglass and the empty dish of ice cream on the ground next to my chair, then shrug. “Special occasion, I guess.”

“Attagirl.” Kit plops down in the chair next to mine with a flourish, crosses her tanned legs, and tips the wide-brimmed hat covering her blonde highlights toward me. “I won’t tell anyone.” She raises her own glass in a toast. “May all of life be a special occasion.”