Page 26 of Connor

I kept still. They hadn’t seen me yet. They were too caught up in their own conversation, their presence folding into the background noise of the diner.

I told myself I could sit here. That I could stay unnoticed. That I could sip my hot chocolate and let them pass right by me, that it wouldn’t matter, that it wouldn’t mean anything.

But my body had other plans.

The nausea surged without warning.

One second, I was fine—well, as fine as I had been for the past few days. The next, my stomach twisted sharply, the rich scent of chocolate suddenly unbearable, cloying, suffocating.

No. Not now.

I barely made it inside before I collapsed in front of the toilet.

The nausea ripped through me, violent and unrelenting. My fingers dug into the cool porcelain as my body tried to rid itself of something that wasn’t even there. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the worst to pass, waiting to feel like I wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

But then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Stopping just outside the bathroom door. Then a voice. Low. Familiar. North. And a quieter voice. Quinn.

“Summer?” she murmured, knocking on the door.

I froze.Shit.

Chapter 7

Connor

The suitcase by the door was the first thing I saw. A red Louis Vuitton suitcase with a tear on the side from overuse. It was one I was more than familiar with and my steps faltered.

It was packed. Zipped up. Positioned perfectly upright like someone had set it down, ready to grab and walk out without a second thought. My fingers twitched at my sides, something sharp and sour curling in my gut.

The house was too quiet. That kind of loaded silence that stretched through the air, pressing in from all sides.

I found her in the kitchen.

Mom stood by the counter, fingers curled too tightly around a coffee mug, her gaze locked onto the surface like it held answers she couldn’t find. She looked so much smaller right then. Smaller than she should have been.

I didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the doorway, my arms crossing over my chest as my eyes flicked back to the suitcase. I could still see it, and everytime I looked, I felt like a kid again—just waiting for my mother to tell me she’d be back in a few weeks.

"Where are you going?"

She didn’t look at me. “Not now, Connor.”

I scoffed, pushing off the doorframe. "Not now? You’ve got your shit packed by the door, and you’re just—what? Sipping coffee before you disappear? Or are you just making sure to say goodbye this time?"

Her jaw ticked, but she still didn’t look up.

It pissed me off.

The suitcase sat there like a goddamn monument to every bad decision she kept making, and she wouldn’t even look at me?

I dragged a hand through my hair, my breath sharp as I stepped fully into the kitchen. "Let me guess," I said, voice lower now, rougher. "He called you. Said all the right things. Told you he missed you. Promised he’s changed."

That’s when she finally moved. Not much. But it was enough for me to notice. Then, in a quiet, voice, she said, "He didn’t call me."

I stilled. A slow, humorless pulled at my lips. "Bullshit."

Her gaze flicked to mine, just for a second. "I’m serious, Connor."

Something hot curled under my ribs, something sharp, something mean. I let out a breath of laughter, shaking my head. "Right. So you just woke up and thought,hmm, maybe I should pack my bags and go back to the man who beats the shit out of me for fun?"

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