Page 73 of Suits and Spark Plugs

Liv Phelps

I thought signing my last name added a little flourish to the statement. Like telling him without actually saying it, that we could go back to being virtual strangers.

I folded the note and wrote his name on the front. Then I dug into my purse and pulled out the shop key, setting it on top of the paper. Hopefully he’d find it on his desk. Before I stood up I looked around the small space. I was unprepared for the nostalgic feelings that came. It had been a study space when I needed it, an escape at times, and I’d even had a few laughs here and there. I let the feeling wash over me for a quick heartbeat and then tamped it back down when I stood. The last few months had been an interesting experience, nothing more.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The ringing of my cell phone the next morning pulled me awake in a flash. My sleep had been fitful, with images of flame-like hair, brown freckles, and mocking honey eyes. I sat up straight, still in my bed, heart pounding as I reached for my phone. It had to be Connor. He’d gotten my note and he had something to say about it. Of course he did. Connor was one of the only men in my life who I expected to end up arguing with.

But it wasn’t him. It was a telemarketer. I hung up and looked up at the ceiling, taking a few deep breaths. My mind caught in a vortex of thought as I stood and walked over to my paintings.

Glancing at the clock, I saw that I had some free time. I found my bib apron and tied it on. Then I began unconsciously grabbing colors and pencils from my stash and moving them to where I had propped a new, empty canvas. I picked up the pencils and sketched in an almost trance-like state. I didn’t want to think too much about what I was doing. I preferred to let my mind transfer its thoughts out through my fingers. This worked for me in times of stress, as a way of sussing out what I was really struggling with.

A shape took place. It was a face. Square jaw line, strong cheekbones, heavy brow line. Next the eyes. Not big and round, but more teardrop-shaped, slanting down on the outer corners. The mouth was full and relaxed in a sort of half-smile. I knew before I set down my pencil that the paint colors would be warm: browns, oranges, reds, yellows, even a little black woven in here and there. I tried to pretend I wasn’t sketching Connor. I tried to ignore the rush I felt as I thought of hugging him in the aisle at the hardware store or laughing with him at the tubing hill. I didn’t want to think about how much I’d grown to enjoy our sparring conversations, how he seemed perfectly capable of keeping up with anything I said or did, and giving it right back.

My hands began to shake as I put down the pencil and mixed the colors for his hair. I’d been studying it for months, and I knew exactly what colors it would require. I took a few deep breaths to settle my heartbeat as I positioned the brush where the first sweeping strokes of his hair would go. With the first swipe, I felt the tears come.

Why did I have to feel this way about Connor? Why did I have to like him so much? It was a huge mistake, one I’d done my very best to avoid for the entire decade that I’d known him. Once or twice I’d privately wondered why I was so against Connor and his antics, why when others laughed and rolled their eyes had I always been angry and disgusted. Why couldn’t I just laugh too? His actions had no effect on my life.

Another sweeping curve, and more tears helped me to understand that it had been self-protection. I’d felt a pull to Connor that I’d resisted for years. I still remembered the heavy thunking of my heart when he had walked into my life at age fourteen. I’d never found another guy who’d made my heart crawl into my throat, or shivers crawl up my back the way he had. In fact, once I’d sworn off Connor and buried those reactions under a layer of self-righteousness, it had been easy to swear off all relationships as pointless. In that respect, he was also the only guy to ever break my heart.

Now, I’d allowed myself to get close and all the things I’d worried about were coming true. I thought of him constantly. I looked for him around town. I secretly loved the thrill of not having to hate him anymore, of him finally knowing who I was, and of becoming his friend. I’d covertly delighted in discovering his quick wit and easy-going personality. I found that I just flat out liked being around him, and that he still made my heart feel heavy in my chest.

These feelings, while finally acknowledged, weren’t going to do me any good. Connor wasn’t interested in me, which was what I’d known would happen all along, even as a young girl. I wasn’t his type, and for every reason in the world, I couldn’t risk letting him be mine.

On the canvas I moved on to his eyes, mixing in light browns and honey yellows. More tears fell as I painted them with their typical expression of amusement. This was what it felt like to want someone and know they didn’t want you. It was the worst. Each freckle I painted was little a needle in my heart. I hated myself for crawling out from behind my careful wall of certitude and letting him get under my skin.

I painted in mindless abandon, allowing all the emotions to splotch down my face and be added onto the canvas. I let every feeling touch down, pushing none of them away, accepting that this was a one-sided breakup and I had no idea how I’d face him around town ever again.

* * * * *

For three days I lived like a hermit, going only to work and then straight back to my bedroom. Before and during each shift my stomach had been in knots, my eyes flying to the door every time the bell jingled. At home every time my phone rang my heart would speed up until I could check the caller ID. Connor never called or came into the diner on my shift. It was like he’d floated away, a figment of my imagination.

The silence from him had been longer than I could have imagined it would be, confirming that he’d been angry enough to cut me out. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I stayed awake all hours. I pulled the painting I’d done of Blaine and set it next to the new one of Connor. They stared back at me, stark reminders that I shouldn’t be trusted with matters of the heart.

I was sitting on my bed in pajama pants and a tank top, studying on the afternoon of the fifth day after the Levi incident. I didn’t have to work, and the knowledge that I could stay at home and hide away had made me grateful.

Mom knocked on my door mid-day. She had a food tray and a smile as she entered my room. I was surprised to see her in the middle of the day and raised my eyebrows at her.

“Lunch break,” she answered my unvoiced question. “Care to tell me what’s going on with you my little hermit crab?”

She put the tray down on the bed next to me and carefully sat next to it. It had a turkey sandwich, some carrots, and a big icy cola. My stomach growled more out of habit than actual hunger. My appetite had deserted me too.

“I’m going through second puberty?” I said with a half-grin.

She smiled at my attempt to be funny and looked around my room. Her eyes came to rest on the two portraits I’d been obsessing over. A quiet “oh” left her lips, and when her eyes returned to me they were a little sad and a lot sympathetic.

“It’s bad, huh?” she said.

I nodded and shut the textbook I’d been reading. “Yeah.”

“You know, I’ve known Connor Hunt since he was in grade school.” Her eyes traveled back to the portraits. “He was a really good kid, actually. That all changed when his mom left.”

“She left? I thought she’d died.”

“Well, in some ways she did, I guess, and it was probably easier for Connor to let people think that. Ken and Connor never heard from her again. Suddenly this little red-headed boy who had been so happy became a problem child.”

“I know. Kelly and I used to watch him in high school. We always swore we’d have nothing to do with him. So...I’m not sure what happened.”

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