He smirks. “Start talking, princess, or it’s ‘orifice orifice orifice’ until the cows come home.”
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “God, why do you hate me? Seriously, what have I done to offend you so deeply that you’d burden me with this ridiculous—”
“Ahem. Heroic,” Connor interrupts.
“—egomaniacal—”
“Brilliant.”
“—delusional—”
“And yet somehow always right.”
“—insufferable, asinine, jockstrap of a man?”
After a moment, Connor says, “Jockstraps are very useful, so I’m taking that as a compliment. And I happen to know that you don’t believe in God, so cut the theatrics and answer the question.”
“I don’t believe in the traditional definition of God,” I answer. “The Biblical God who throws tantrums and demands sacrifices and basically acts like a spoiled five-year-old who needs a time-out, but I do believe in…something. Some sexless, formless, benevolent energy that watches over us and lets us flail away in ignorance until we finally get old enough or lucky enough to figure out that all we basically should be doing is being kind to each other and to every other sentient being on the planet.
“That’s all. Just be kind. Help old people. Help the weak. Don’t be an asshole. And stand up to bullies, no matter the cost.”
I count the cracks in the ceiling. There are seventeen. It seems prophetic, somehow, that number. Seventeen was the age I was when all my deepest cracks began to form.
More softly, I say, “That’s the most important thing. Stand up to bullies. Even if you accomplish nothing else with your life, standing up to a bully is enough. Bravery is an end to itself. That’s what God or the universe or the sacred sparkle pony or whatever you call it wants. For us to learn to be brave and to do the right thing. In my humble opinion, that’s the real meaning of life.”
After a moment when Connor doesn’t say anything, I add sheepishly, “Sorry. I’m always tetchy right before I get my period.”
I get a big, warm hand on the side of my face, gently pressuring me to turn. When I meet Connor’s eyes, the look in his is breathtaking.
He says quietly, “You are the most interesting, thoughtful, beautiful, weird, and perfect soul I’ve ever met, Tabitha West. It’s an honor to know you.”
My throat tightens. When I inhale, it’s with a little, hitching breath that makes it sound like I might be about to cry.
I AM NOT ABOUT TO CRY.
“Don’t try to butter me up so I’ll answer you stupid questions.” I sniffle, blinking hard.
“Just the one question,” he corrects. “And you know you’re going to answer it, so just get it over with already.”
I look at the ceiling again. Connor moves his hand to my belly, where it spreads open, warm and strangely comforting.
“Like a flesh blanket,” I say, sighing.
“Um. What?”
“Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking out loud. Disregard.”
“Uh-huh. I did include ‘weird’ in that list a second ago, right?”
“You did. And I keep telling people I’m not weird, I’m limited edition.”
Connor chuckles. “Sweetheart, they broke the mold with you.”
That makes me smile. “I know.”
He leans in and softly kisses my shoulder. He nuzzles my neck, tickling me with his beard.
“Okay. Here’s the answer to your question. Are you listening?” I ask when he starts to nibble on my earlobe.
“Mmhmm.” Nibble. Nibble.
Enjoying the feeling of his lips on my skin, I close my eyes. “My dad used to drink a lot.”
Connor abruptly stops nibbling. I feel him looking at me but don’t open my eyes.
“It wasn’t tragic, he didn’t beat us or break things in drunken rages, but he just…anesthetized himself. That’s how he dealt with stress. He’d come home from teaching and pour himself a big glass of gin and sit in front of the TV until the gin was gone, and then he’d pour himself another. And another. It made my mother really sad that he was so distant. I don’t know what the problems were in their marriage. They never fought in front of me. But I remember very clearly him drinking gin every night until he quietly passed out, and my mother being lonely and depressed. So I decided when I was six years old that I’d never drink because I’d rather feel everything, no matter how painful, than nothing at all.”
The pause that follows when I stop talking is what you’d call pregnant. Third-trimester pregnant. It makes me edgy.
“Don’t feel sorry for me!”
Connor props his head on his hand and stares down at my face. Heat begins to suffuse my cheeks.
“You’ve been alone your entire life, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Even when your parents were alive, you were alone.”
Awash in some weird half-breed emotion that’s part regret, part shame, part longing for something I’ve never had, I laugh. Even to my own ears, it’s ugly.
“That’s why it was so easy for S?ren to manipulate me. I wanted so badly—”