Page 115 of Elusion

“You let me know if you need some pie later.”

“Will do,” he says.

She winks at him, stepping to her next table. The second she leaves his line of sight, his expression dissolves back to one of misery. No longer needing to put on a performance, I guess.

We don’t talk about what happened anymore. I make him eat a few bites and drink half his shake before I agree to leave. He goes to wait outside while I pay. Our server meets me at the counter, next to the cash register. She attempts small talk, and I manage a tight-lipped smile but never reply.

As I turn to leave, she says, “Hope you both enjoy your night.”

I shake my head—not only at her use of the wordhope, but the entire statement. If only she knew where we’d been or where we were going. But then, for a split second, I catch a glimpse of Connor through the large glass windows and see him as she would. A teenage boy propped next to a Jeep, looking perfectly capable of enjoying his night. Based on her interaction with him, why would she think anything different? All signs of everything wrong in his life are easily missed or dismissed. The evidence of his pain he can make invisible to people not privy to Graham or Lauren or what happens behind closed doors. The smile, the “everything’s fine”—his entire act is flawless. Just like Callie’s.

Once I step outside though, the picture refocuses. The now-dirty bandage covers the fresh stitches across his knuckles. Experience tells me the blank expression on his face accompanies empty eyes. His shoulders slump. He hangs his head. In place of the normally sarcastic and cocky teenager waits a scared and lost little boy.

Before, I wanted to make everything better for Callie. Now, seeing Connor like this, I want to remove all the suffering for him. But I can’t, and I hate not having the power to fix things for them.

That’s why people invest so much in hope; feeling helpless hurts too damn much. It is easier to hope our problems will solve themselves, to hope our destiny makes itself known eventually. Except that would require the universe to not only give a shit about what happens to us, but also grant us a favor. Not a very promising scenario.

No, we are responsible for ourselves. Our actions, our choices, our beliefs—those things we can control in spite of everything else in our lives that we can’t. So, the more time we spend waiting, hoping, and floating, the less time we give ourselves to search for the beauty, the meaning, and the reason.

The first two, I’ve already found. Callie’s the beauty worth living for, and she makes life more meaningful to me. And as I walk toward the broken boy doing all he can to hold himself together, I gain a little insight on the last one. I mean, I wouldn’t say I come to grips with the entire reason for my existence in a parking lot, but I sure as hell discover a purpose in one.

Passed out on the floor of the waiting room, Cate snores with her hair a mess over her face. She doesn’t even stir when Connor covers her up with the blankets we brought. He settles in beside her and rests his hand on her head.

Pete’s shoulders visibly relax when I collapse in the chair next to him. I roll my head toward him. “Connor never stole your truck and tried to get us smashed to smithereens by a coal train.”

He raises an imaginary shot glass. “We never tell Cal about it.Ever.”

I nod, eyes wide. “Fucking cheers to that, brother.”

We pretend to clink and pretend to drink.

The door flies open, Trey’s eyes seeking out Connor on his way in. He rushes over and drags him off the floor, and his arms engulf him. Connor grips the back of his brown uniform shirt, knuckles white.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Trey steps back and grabs his face. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. We don’t do that shit to each other.”

Connor nods, and his head crashes down on Trey’s shoulder.

Holding on to him, Trey glances over. “Get the fuck over here, man.”

I reluctantly do as the officer said. He pulls me in with Connor and holds us both. Before long, his arm shifts enough to make room as Pete forces his way in. We are four dudes in a group hug when someone walks in. All of us scatter to different sides of the room as a doctor with a large yellow envelope warily eyes us. Trey steps toward her. I missed the stitches in the cut above his eye until he cocks his head to the side.

“Here to see me?”

“Your X-rays are back,” she says. “You were right—two ribs cracked on your right side.”

“Told you I know my body.” His mouth turns up.

Good God. He needs to find a better time to pick up women.

“You did.” She flirts back. “I also have the report written up.”

He fishes around in his wallet and hands her a business card. “District Attorney’s information is on there. Send everything you’ve got.”

“Do you need the pictures of your injuries sent separately from hers?”

“No, but can I get physical copies of everything? Scans, injury reports, intake photos?”

---