Page 48 of Finding Forgiveness
I’m messed up inside, and I know I have a huge choice to make. I’m at a crossroads. It feels like my mother is forcing my hand. The last thing she’d want is for me to unburden myself of our secret, but if she’s going to try and destroy Connor’s life, I have to get in first and take her down. It’s the only option I have … my only way out of this mess.
I open the front door and the first thing I hear is the television, so I know Connor is still up. Will he think I’m rude if I just give him a quick hello and head to my room?
When I enter, I don’t find him on the sofa. He’s standing beside the dining table, and it looks like he’s setting it for a meal.
“Hey,” he says from across the room.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“Yes, you.” He pulls a box of matches out of his pocket and lights the candle that’s sitting in the middle of the table. “I’ve made us dinner.”
I place my flattened palm on my chest. “You have?”
“Yes, it’s nothing flash, but I thought you might be hungry.”
God, this man is the sweetest. “I’m starved.”So much for the quick hello.I place my bag down, and as I approach the table, he pulls out a chair for me. “Thank you.”
We’ve been experimenting at home with certain dishes we’ve made in cooking class; it’s been hit and miss, but heaps of fun. It’s a lot harder without a teacher in the room giving you step-by-step instructions, but I’ve grown to love our one-on-one time together.
He’s changed out of his suit and is casually dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. His dark hair is still wet from his shower, and that witchery shampoo of his is working its magic as his delicious scent invades all my senses. He smells so good I could gobble him up.
Connor reaches for the bottle of white wine that’s chilling in a bucket of ice, effortlessly removes the lid, and pours a huge amount into the glass. He obviously thinks I need it, and he’d be right.
“Relax, Princess,” he says, passing it to me. “The food is almost ready.”
“What are you cooking?” I ask before taking a sip of my wine.
“Lasagne.”
That is not something we’ve learnt in class, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s taken to this cooking gig much better than I have. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of all the things I’ve made, but he’s killing it.
There is not much this man can’t do; he seems to excel at everything. He was not only the best-looking boy at our school, he was also the smartest. He shone outside of the classroom as well … in any kind of sport. He’s what you might call an all-rounder.
“You are making lasagne? Are you using your mum’s recipe?”
“No, I found this one online. I even went to the store on my own and bought all the ingredients. Granted, I got the premade lasagne sheets … I’m not that advanced yet, but it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. If you like it, we can make it together another time.”
His thoughtfulness has tears stinging the back of my eyes. He’s going to make some lucky woman very happy one day. “Sounds delicious, I can’t wait to taste it.”
He leaves the room and comes back a few minutes later with a beer in one hand and a salad bowl in the other, placing it down in the centre of the table. His chest kind of puffs out when he stands to full height. He’s proud of himself, and so he should be.
I lean forward in my chair, peering inside. All the vegetables are cut uniformly. It has a smile tugging at my lips. My knife skills are still lacking, but it all goes down the same way, right?
“I made the same dressing we did in class last week.”
“Yum,” I say. “It looks good.”
He heads back into the kitchen, and I take a large gulp of wine. Once I place the glass down beside my plate, I take in the table setting. It looks very …romantic. That should please me, but instead, it has my stomach recoiling.
The lasagne smells amazing when he places it down beside the salad. “Ignore that little burnt bit in the corner,” he says, and I grin up at him. “There must be a hot spot in the oven. I’ll know better for next time.”
He cuts me off a piece—from the non-burnt side—and serves it to me. You can clearly see the defining layers and I’m impressed. He places down the spatula and after a quick toss, he uses the salad tongs to scoop some onto my plate. This feels very domesticated yet intimate. Living with him has given me a glimpse of how wonderful our lives would be if we were a couple. I’ve always known he was the best thing to ever happen to me, so this moment only amplifies my loss.
“Thank you,” I say as I pick up my knife and fork. “It looks so good, Con.”
“You’re welcome, and thank you,” he says, beaming. He looks so happy … so proud. But seeing him like this has bile rising to the back of my throat, because the things I need to tell him are life altering.
He takes his seat opposite me, and I cut off a small piece of lasagne, bringing it to my mouth. “Yum.”
