Bring Down the Stars

I want to keep touching him.

The thought was both completely wrong and felt completely right. I fought for somethin

g neutral to say.

“You sure? I heard your car broke down.”

“It did,” he said. “But Connor and a buddy of his took it to the garage and had it fixed while I was in class last Monday.”

Warmth spread through my chest, feeling like relief. “That’s a classic Connor thing to do,” I said. “He has a generous heart.”

Weston nodded and abruptly began packing up his things. “Next week, when you meet his parents, it couldn’t hurt to tell them that.”

“I will.”

“Speak of the devil.” Weston tilted his head toward the door.

With a blast of chilly wind, Connor came into the bakery, eyes scanning the tables. His smile widened when he found me, then faltered to see Weston.

“Hey,” Connor said. “How’s it going?”

I got up and put my arms around his neck. “We were just talking about you.”

“Oh yeah?” He kissed me briefly, his gaze over my head.

Weston got to his feet. “I was just leaving.”

“We’re heading out to get something at Boko 6,” Connor said. “You hungry?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Weston shouldered his bag. “See you at home.”

“Bye, Weston,” I said.

“Yep.”

He pushed out the door. Connor watched him go, brows furrowed. I buried my hand that had been holding Weston’s in Connor’s hair.

“Everything okay?” I asked, feeling like a liar. A fraud. A cheater.

I was only comforting Weston. That’s all.

Connor blinked and then looked down at me. “I guess. I’m nervous about Thanksgiving, actually. Distracted.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Then I changed my mind.” His smile returned and his arms around me tightened as he kissed me deeply. “Everything’s great.”

It is, I thought as we headed out into the cold November wind, Connor’s strong arm around me, keeping me warm. I watched Weston walk to his car a block ahead and climb in alone.

Isn’t it?

Weston

Wednesday evening, we drove to Boston in Connor’s Hellcat, four days’ worth of luggage for three people crammed in the trunk. Autumn rode shotgun. I sat in the back with earbuds in, my music cranked up so I wouldn’t have to listen to their small talk. The sight of their twined hands on the console was unavoidable.

Connor was a wreck. Autumn did her best to comfort him, but I had to wonder if she regretted coming, instead of spending Thanksgiving with her own father.

We arrived at the Drake residence off of Dartmouth Street. Connor parked at the curb and peered up at the huge row house.