Page 34 of Under Pink Skies

Chapter 11

Abbie

Ididn’tknowwhaton God’s green earth had possessed me to touch Connor’s face. To make matters worse, I didn’t just touched it, I practicallystrokedit.

My cheeks flushed again as Connor jogged to catch up to me. I didn’t realize how much space I’d put between us until I’d remembered to look back. He’d still been standing outside the Roadhouse, retreating into himself in that familiar way. His eyes had glazed over, his chest rapidly rising and falling with the rising panic I recognized all too easily.

I couldn’t stand seeing him hurt when we were younger, and apparently, I still couldn’t.

I had no right to touch him like that, but I couldn’t resist the instinct to reach out and comfort him, to pull him back to the present moment even though I had nothing to offer him.

I wanted to smack myself in the face. I was an idiot. I’d always been a bumbling idiot around Connor. I was bold to assume that awkwardness would fade over time. Evidently, neither time nor space could make me get that part of my shit together.

Connor and I walked the two blocks of Main Street to Watley’s in silence. We opened the door, and I mentally and emotionally braced myself for whatever—and whoever—lay beyond the threshold.

Connor’s sudden return to Watford had brought up more than a few questioning stares from the townsfolk. No one, save for Imogen, had dared to ask me how I was feeling directly, or if I knew anything about Connor’s return. I took my silver linings wherever I could find them these days.

We sat down in a corner booth, and a red-haired waitress came up to us shortly after, welcoming us to the diner and taking our drink orders.

“I’ll have water and a cup of coffee, please Stacey, thank you,” I said, taking the menu from the waitress.

“Just a cup of coffee for me, please,” Connor replied. Stacey nodded and scampered off back to the kitchen.

While Connor looked over the menu, I looked around the diner. Watley’s had been in operation for as long as Watford and had remained unchanged. It was the epitome of a 1950s diner, right down to the stereotypical red and white theme and a jukebox in the corner. The booths hadn’t changed, and neither had the many,manypictures of Marilyn Monroe hung equidistantly between booths on the far wall. The waffle iron and milkshake machine lined the back wall behind the checkout counter.

Stacey returned with our drinks. I ordered chicken and waffles, while Connor ordered chocolate chip pancakes with an extra side of bacon. I smiled as I took a sip of my coffee. Some things really stayed the same.

“So,” Connor said as he set his coffee down on the table, unable to find another, less awkward, way to break the tension.

“So,” I replied, a coy smile playing on my lips. “Let’s talk about the festival.”

“Kameron was sad not to be here in person, but something came up at the last minute. I’m sure you know about Winding Road’s mission?”

To my surprise, a small blush crept into my cheeks.

“I’m not going to lie, Connor. I have about as much guidance about this festival as you three probably do. That said, I know little about Winding Road other than that it’s a nonprofit.”

“Winding Road is a recovery program and regenerative farm, about an hour and a half east of here. We raise cattle and other livestock, and we grow a small variety of crops as part of the for-profit side, but the nonprofit program of Winding Road is where our mission really shines through. Winding Road is a place where veterans and first responders can come to receive true support for processing their traumas—including those they might have endured before their service.”

Connor took a small sip of his coffee. His chest heaved with the effort of taking a single, controlled breath. Something about the motion had my heart squeezing painfully.

“I was part of Winding Road’s first recovery cohort, and it changed my life. The work that Kameron does is nothing short of life changing. The men and women that come through each cohort show up at the farm hopelessly lost, many of them struggling with alcoholism or drug addiction, and they leave with new tools to cope with the stresses of life. More importantly, they reconnect with the world around them, with their spouses, kids, friends. It’s incredible to see. A large majority of Winding Road’s graduates transfer directly to addiction recovery programs willingly and stay there for the duration of the entire program.”

I stared into Connor’s eyes while the full impact of his words sunk into me.

“You were part of the first . . . wait,” I said, blinking several times. Connor’s expression was painful, but to his credit, he didn’t pull away from my gaze. “Connor, you went into the military?”

Connor swallowed thickly.

“I joined the Marine Corps. When I left Watford, it was on a bus to Camp Pendleton for boot camp.”

The world tilted on its axis. I fixed my gaze on the foam bubbles forming around the rim of my coffee cup. My brain was jumping from thought to thought, unable to make the connections it needed to understand.

“You joined the military,” I repeated. I felt drunk in the worst way. A swarm of emotions crashed through me at once. Admiration for his sacrifice. Anger at his inability to leave a note or a voicemail. A bone-deep hurt that he’d kept this from me when I’d sworn that I would follow him anywhere.

More alarmingly, I felt grief for the life we might have had together, if he’d only taken me with him.

I stopped the selfish train of thoughts that threatened to derail my grip on reality. Since he left me behind, there had to be a reason. Despite everything that had happened between us, I still believed Connor was an honest man. A broken, beautiful, honest man.

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