Page 41 of Connor

I grabbed my purse with unsteady fingers, exhaling as I followed him out.

Lunch was going to be hell.

***

The car ride was mostly quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between us. Victor didn’t push, but I could feel it—the tension, the way he kept glancing at me like he was waiting for me to say something.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Instead, I stared out the window, arms wrapped tightly around myself as the world blurred past in streaks of muted color. My stomach was still unsettled, a constant knot that refused to loosen. I should have eaten something before we left. Maybe then the nausea wouldn’t feel like it was sitting at the back of my throat, waiting for the right moment to choke me.

Victor eventually turned on the radio, filling the space with soft rock. I recognized the song. One of his favorites. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat, like it was second nature. Like we’d done this a million times before.

We had.

But everything was different now.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot of the diner, my nerves were frayed, my heart pounding so hard it made my hands tremble. I shoved them into the front pocket of my hoodie, as I stepped out of the car.

We slid into our usual booth near the window. The waitress, an older woman with kind eyes, gave us a warm smile as she approached. We’d come here enough times that she recognized us, and I tried to smile back but it fell flat. "Hey, sweethearts. The usual?"

Victor nodded. "Yeah, thanks, Maggie."

I hesitated, then cleared my throat. "Just a tea for me."

Victor’s brow lifted, but he didn’t comment. Not until Maggie walked away.

"Tea?" He rested his arms on the table, lacing his fingers together as he studied me. "Since when do you drink tea?"

I forced a shrug. "Just not really hungry today."

That was half-true. The other half was that the thought of greasy diner food made my stomach twist into knots. Victor was quiet for a moment, his gaze flicking over my face. Searching. Again. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired. Classes have been a lot."

He didn’t say anything right away, and I knew he was weighing whether or not to push. I held my breath. Finally, he just nodded. "I get that."

Relief uncurled in my chest, but it was short-lived. Because lunchwashard. The conversation was stiff, broken up by long stretches of silence. Victor talked about work, about how one of his clients was being a pain in the ass, about how he was thinking of visiting one of our old spots over the weekend.

I tried to respond when I was supposed to, tried to laugh in the right places, tried to pretend I wasn’t falling apart right in front of him.

But I could feel his eyes on me.

Noticing the way I picked at my napkin instead of eating. The way my fingers curled and uncurled against the edge of the table. The way my voice was just a little too flat, a little too wrong.

When the check came, I reached for it, but Victor got there first, sliding his card into the holder without a second thought.

"Got it," he said.

I swallowed. "I could’ve paid."

He smirked. "Yeah, but we both know you weren’t going to."

I rolled my eyes, but it was weak. Forced. Victor didn’t say anything as we walked back to the car, but I could feel it. That undercurrent of concern. The weight of it pressing against my back like a physical thing.

He knew something was off.

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