Ashton told him.
“And it wasn’t me going through the boxes.” His voice is even, his brow arched in a knowing look.
I take a ragged breath. “Ashton?”
After a moment, Robert nods. “He knew it was them right away. It’s impossible to miss the resemblance between you and your mother.” I look down at it again. It could be me sitting there. Ashton did this? Ashton spent a week going through someone’s dusty pictures, looking for this, not even knowing if it existed. For me?
“I don’t know a lot about that boy, even after three years. He’s not big on talking. But something tells me that nothing is quite as it seems with him.” His mouth presses into a firm line. “What I do know is what I can see. That he cares greatly about his teammates, he pushes them to excel, and he’ll do anything for them. They all know it and they respect him for it. He’s a born leader when he’s out on that water. That’s why he’s captain. I think he could make a fine coach one day. If that’s what he wanted to do.” A thoughtful look glazes over his eyes. “It’s like he . . . lets go of whatever is holding him back on land. Anyhow,” Robert says as his eyes fall on me again, “he asked me not to tell you about this. Told me to make up some cockamamie story about stumbling across it.” He gives me a wistful smile. “But I thought it was important that you know.”
My hands roughly wipe at the tears streaming down my cheeks before one falls and stains the photo. I whisper, “Thank you.”
Robert winks. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my wayward daughter and get some photos taken.” He ambles away, the crowd parting for him.
The river, the crowds, everything around me has vanished as I stare at the four-by-six in my hands, as I run my fingers along the edges, touching the people within. I’m so lost within the picture that I barely notice Connor’s arm slip around my waist.
“You okay?” I have to pry my eyes away from their faces to look up and see that Connor’s permanent smile is faltering. “You look a little pale.”
“Yeah, I’m just . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to process the intensity of this emotion flooding my heart. What am I?
“Are those your parents?” He leans in to get a look at the photo in my hand. “Wow, look at your mom! Where’d you get this?”
I clear my voice. “Reagan’s dad.”
“Wow, that’s nice of him.”
“Yeah, nice,” I parrot. No, not nice, Connor. Wonderful, unbelievable, remarkable. That’s what this is, Connor. Earth-shattering. My earth. Shattered. The one I knew or thought I knew, blown away.
Would Connor spend a week straight going through boxes? Delay schoolwork, risk his grades, all for me? That comment Ashton made about being behind on his papers . . . having something tying him up at night. This is what he was doing.
All I want to do right now is run to Ashton, to touch him, to be close to him, to thank him. To let him know how much he means to me.
“Come on.” Connor takes my hand, dismissing the entire topic so quickly. As if it’s trivial. “Come and meet my parents.”
I no longer simply dread meeting Connor’s parents; it has now become the absolute last thing I want to do on this planet. But I’m trapped. Swallowing the sudden urge to vomit, I let him lead me through the crowd as I put on the best fake smile that I can produce and pray that any sneers can be chalked up to nerves about meeting them.
He stops in front of an older couple. “Mom, Dad. This”—he gently places a hand on the small of my back—“is Livie.”
“Hello, Livie. I’m Jocelyn,” Connor’s mom says with a broad smile. I note that Connor has her eyes and her hair color. She doesn’t have an accent, but I remember him saying she was American. Her eyes quickly appraise me as she offers her hand. It’s a harmless and not unpleasant appraisal, and yet I fight the urge to recoil all the same.
Next to her is Connor’s father. “Hello, Livie.” He sounds just like Connor, and my father, except his accent is thicker. If I weren’t ready to bolt out of here like a girl on fire, I’d probably fawn over it. “I’m Connor Senior. We’re both so pleased to meet the young woman who finally captured our son’s heart.”
Captured our son’s heart? What happened to “slow and easy”? I glance to see Connor’s face flushing.
“Sorry to embarrass you,” Connor’s dad says, dropping a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “But it’s true.”
Connor’s thumb slides playfully against my back as anxiety pools in my stomach and creeps into my chest, stifling my ability to breathe. This is bad, bad, bad. This feels all wrong.
I put on my best smile. “Your son is a kind man. You must be proud.”