The Speed of Light: A Novel(66)

Maybe a happily ever after with Connor is possible.

I was wrong to worry about what his mom said, or that stupid slideshow. Like he said, that was in the past.

However uncertain my future is, maybe I’m meant to spend it with him.

At the next corner the orange DON’T WALK sign is lit up, so I take the opportunity to stop and stretch—I’ve slacked on that today since taskmaster Nikki isn’t here to crack the whip. When I turn to the left, stretching my neck, I blink. Is that Connor’s truck?

I can’t be 100 percent certain—I don’t have his license plate number memorized, for crying out loud—but something sets the hair on the back of my neck prickling. He’s working, I remind myself, but I turn to the right anyway. I’m in front of O’Malley’s, where we had our first date. The sun is just right—no glare on the big front window—so I have the perfect view of the customers seated inside.

The perfect view of the middle of the room, where my boyfriend sits—not working at all, but leaning forward across the table toward a woman.

Even from out here, her long red hair shines, and it’s like a hot flame of fire scorching my insides. I lean a hand against the window to steady myself, and the motion startles the patrons nearest the window. I step back, but it’s too late. Connor looks over.

It’s the widening of his eyes, really. Until then, I could’ve explained it away. But when I see the guilt on his face in full display before me, I can’t pretend I didn’t just catch my boyfriend on a date, with another woman.

I can’t pretend anymore.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The door whooshes open, a bell jangles—a laughing couple walks out onto the sidewalk. The sound sets me in motion.

I run.

Back in the direction I came from, as fast as my legs will carry me, chased by the vision of them together—him leaning toward her, smiling that wide smile. The lies I told myself about the possibility of spending forever with him circle in my mind, taunting me for actually believing it could work out. All his excuses also swirl through my brain—meeting with a distributor, Ella’s dance recital, working late.

Was any of it true, or was he with her the whole time?

I run until my lungs heave, until I’m slowed by my own sobs.

“Simone!” Connor’s voice cries out behind me. “Stop!”

I don’t—not until he catches me, running beside me, pleading. “Please, Simone. Stop. I need to talk to you.”

I finally stop when he places his hand on my arm—and when the stitch in my side is unbearable. I turn and meet his eyes at last, my entire being radiating the pain of his betrayal, and he ducks his gaze. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh God.” I double over, hand to my mouth. Those words. Those words. That clichéd statement from every goddamned romantic comedy in the history of film.

“Please, Simone,” he pleads. “She texted this morning—I had no idea she was going to be in town.”

“I thought you had to work today.” I don’t look up, don’t know how I get the words out.

“I did, but not as long as I thought, so I was going to just sleep this afternoon.” He swallows. “But then Diana texted, and I mean, it’s been years.”

I look up at last. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. “Because . . . shit, I don’t know. Okay? I guess I remembered how you felt after the slideshow.” I wince as he continues. “It’s just . . . I haven’t seen her since before Cam died, and she said she wanted to buy me a drink and catch up.”

I bristle, my eyes flashing as they bore into his. “So you’re drinking again.”

“Christ, yes. I am, okay?” He rubs his face. “I’ve been so stressed—it’s like I just can’t handle one more thing right now, you know?”

Like he can’t handle one more burden. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, he’s staring at me imploringly. “Is the drinking that big of a deal?”

I set my jaw. “I don’t care about that. I care that you lied to me.”

He flinches. “I’m sorry. I know I screwed up.” Then he takes a step toward me, eyes eager. “But hey, maybe you can come meet her? She’s not a bad person. You’d like her. She just got back from a year in AmeriCorps, and now she’s starting a medical residency at a neurology department in Boston.”

I suck in a breath. “Neurology?”

His nod is cautious, like a puppy that senses danger but is willing to please at all costs. “Yeah. Maybe . . . maybe you two could talk. Maybe she has some advice, you know?”

The searing pain of humiliation bubbles over into a pulsing stew of red-hot anger. “I don’t need you to fix me.” The words spit like fire from my lips, and I flick my head back toward the bar. “And I certainly don’t need her to.”

He holds up his hands in defense, eyes wide. “Whoa, what? That’s not what I meant at all.” He takes a step toward me, but I lean away, as if a barrier has shot up between us, formed by the blinding truth.

I was right about everything.

At best, I’m a diversion who makes him feel good about taking care of someone—it’s what he does, as his mom said. At worst, I’m his way of proving himself to a fiancée he never got over.