Page 7 of Connor

“What did you do for employment? Before you lost your job.”

“Oh, I taught high school.”

“Is that true?”

I nodded and he gave me the surprised look I always got when I told people that. “As in past tense?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s what I meant—yes, Sir.”

“What subject?”

“English.”

“Why did you stop?”

I opened my mouth to tell him some version of the truth, but he held up a hand to stop me. “No never mind. You’re just going to lie again.”

I grinned at him. “How did you know?”

“I’m getting a feel for it now.”

“I need to get another job, but I haven’t been able to find one. I’m hoping that after the holidays, things will open up again.”

“What do you do every day now?”

“Nothing, really. I watch a lot of TV. I’m not really an outdoors type, or an adventurous type. Or athletic type either. In fact, Kyle used to say I didn't have a type, and that when I died, I should leave my brain to science to see if someone could figure out exactly what I wanted in life, because he'd sure as hell couldn’t figure it out.”

“That’s a little harsh.”

“Yes, that’s how I’d describe him. He wasn’t—well, he wasn’t always nice to me.”

His voice suddenly got tight. “Was he abusive?”

“No,” I admitted, unable to meet his eyes. “He never hurt me—physically, anyway. He told me how stupid I was a lot, though. And cheated on me, almost the whole time we were together. Then he left and I kept the apartment. Only I couldn’t find another job right away, except in fast food. I tried that, but I wasn’t too good at it. I spilled water on a lady's shoes and got fired, by the manager, not the lady. I couldn’t find another job soon enough to pay the rent and keep a roof over my head and pay the utilities too. I got an unemployment check, but I got farther and farther behind on the bills. The good news is that I don’t have to worry about that anymore, right? You know, because I’ll be living out of my car soon. I can’t pay next month’s rent.”

There was a long, elastic silence that stretched out between us. Finally, he asked me, “How old are you, Connor?”

“Twenty-three.” I was nervous about my answer the minute it left my mouth. Was that too young? Too old? I was aching to blurt out something stupid, like, is that okay? Instead, I asked, “And you?”

He gave me another sharp glance and didn’t reply for a moment. I thought he was angry, but finally he replied. “Much older.” His mouth was very stern, and I could tell he didn’t like to be questioned by the likes of me. Okay, but he couldn’t have been that much older. He was so good-looking, and he didn’t have any wrinkles or lines, even around his eyes. I figured him for maybe thirty or mid-thirties at the outside.

We just sat there for a while, heading downtown, with my knee jiggling up and down nervously, until he placed a big, warm, very well-manicured hand on it. “Settle down,” he said softly. “You’re only going to stay the night in my guest room, and maybe have a meal or two. You look like you could use some. Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not…I mean, of course. I really appreciate it, but…”

“But what?”

“You could be like a serial killer or a human trafficker or whatever. Some of them may have nice cars like this too, I bet. It’s possible. I probably should have asked somebody before I got in the car.” I felt my face getting warm, and he didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

“Who would you have asked?”

“Um, your driver?”

“He’d probably be my henchman, so he might be an unreliable witness.”

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