The woman gives Connor an embarrassed glance, before asking the cashier quietly, “Can you try it again?”
The cashier lets out an annoyed sigh but swipes the card again. “Declined,” he huffs. “Do you have another card you’d like to try?”
Fumbling through her wallet, quite the feat while holding a baby, she pulls out another card and hands it to the cashier. “Try this one.”
“Declined,” the cashier grumbles after he swipes it. He’s not even trying to be discreet about it which makes me want to wring his neck.
“I don’t understand. I know there’s money in the account,” the woman explains quietly. “Will you try it one more time?”
With a dramatic huff, the cashier swipes her card one more time, almost immediately handing it back to her. “Declined,” he sneers. “Ma’am, I have other customers in line.”
Her face goes bright red as she lifts the baby higher on her hip and grabs the hand of one of the children. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, shooting an apologetic look to Connor. “Come on you two,” she orders to her children. The cashier rolls his eyes and picks up a phone receiver. Over the store speaker, he gripes, “I need someone upfront to grab items that need to be put back.”
The poor woman looks mortified as she moves to rush out, but Connor stops her.
“Hold on a minute,” Connor calls. Looking to the cashier, he asks, “How much does she owe?”
“One-hundred-forty-two,” the cashier replies, annoyed. I’m in line behind Connor now, grabbing candy bars from the display. “I got this,” Connor tells the cashier, giving him a pointed look that clearly states he’s pissed.
“Oh, thank you, but no. I couldn’t let you do that,” the woman sniffles. She’s so humiliated, she’s tearing up.
“I want to,” he tells her. “I’m paying for her groceries, and I need to add forty dollars in gas on pump seven.” Then looking back at me, as I stare at him in awe while holding five candy bars, says, “And those candy bars, too.”
With everything, the total is one-hundred-eighty-six dollars. Connor tosses bills on the counter, grabs the ladies four bags of groceries, and heads for the exit.
“Sir, you gave me too much. I owe you change,” the pimply face cashier calls. When Connor turns back, his expression is one of disgust. “Keep it, man. Maybe you can buy yourself some fucking manners with it.” Then he turns and carries the groceries outside to the woman’s car. She was parked close to the pumps, and as I filled the tank, I watched as she belted her children in the car while Connor put her bags in the trunk.
“Can I have your address so I can pay you back?” she asked when he slammed the trunk closed.
“No,” he says. “No need to repay me. I’ve had a lot of kindness thrown my way lately. It was about time I paid it forward.”
He stiffens when she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. He wasn’t expecting a hug, and I giggle at the look on his face. When she pulls away, I wouldn’t quite say he’s blushing, but he looks like he’s on the verge of it. “Thank you,” she insists, one more time. With a nod, he leaves her and heads back over to me. After the tank is full, we climb back in the car and continue our trip to Jeff and Wendy’s.
“That was . . . that was really nice, Connor,” I tell him. “You’re a good guy.”
“No, I’m not. Make no mistake about that. I’m just a very lucky guy.”
Although I want to, I don’t ask him what he means. I’ve learned in life, sometimes the hardest forgiveness to earn is forgiveness from ourselves. Clearly he thinks he’s undeserving, and that luck just fell upon him. And maybe it did. Or maybe it wasn’t good luck. I don’t know why he killed a man; frankly, I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever happened, right or wrong, good luck or bad, there’s no doubt there is more to Connor Stevens than meets the eye.
And I find it very intriguing.