Page 25 of Our Secret Moments

CONNOR

She ate my cupcakes.

Catherine Fables, a real-life walking human ate my fucking cupcakes, and she didn’t spit them out. Either she’s just a really nice person, or she’s madly in love with me. Unfortunately for me, there’s no in-between.

I know how bad they taste. I ate one before just in case and added the wrapper for extra effect. I’ve known it for years but God, I really like this girl.Way more than I should.

I wait in the living room as she collects herself from the very stupid thing I just did. A huge part of me was hoping I’d get to do that, but I would’ve kissed it off her face. I don’t know if I’m making up the chemistry between us in my head, but there is no way she’s not affected by me the same way I’m affected by her.

I sigh as I fall between the cushions on the couch. “So, how is this thing going to work?”

She makes her way over to me, shaking her head as she mumbles something to herself. I tripped her up. I finally did something to throw her off and I’d be lying if I said doing it once didn’t make me want to do it again.

“Well, as you can see from my very busy office here, I’ve been prepping your questions,” she says.

I take a look at hervery busy officeand realise it’s a lot worse than I thought it would be. Blankets and pillows scatter the floor despite the chair she’s sitting in looking like it’s made entirely of blankets. A particularly ominous episode ofDesperate Housewivesplays in the background as she has various dips laid out and a bowl of apple slices next to her notebook and computer.

“I have a question,” I say sincerely. Her eyes meet mine, full of curiosity and wonder. “Do all journalists watch Desperate Housewives while prepping, or is that just a personal choice?”

She gives me a sarcastic fake smile. “A personal choice and a necessity,” she replies, and I nod. “Okay, are you ready to start?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, picking up the other cupcake.

It’s a nervous tick I don’t know how to get rid of. I always need something in my hands. Whether it be a football or a cupcake that is most likely going to make me lose years off my life. I take a bite of the monstrosity, grimacing as I put it back. When my eyes lock with hers she smiles shyly as I catch her staring at me. I can’t help but watch as she pushes her hair out of her face, her long curls falling down her shoulder.

She’s so fucking pretty.

Have I said that before?

I hope she can’t feel how obviously I’m staring at her, but it’s a crime not to. Every time I see her, I feel like my whole world is restarting. As much as she can have a quick joke to relay, she’s also got that sweet sensitive side which I want to see more often. The side that lets me into her dorm when it’s a mess. The side that eats my terrible cupcakesjust because. The side that spends the whole day writing up questions to help me just because I asked.

Everything about her is beautiful – inside and out.

“First question,” she announces, opening her notebook in front of her. “What do you do for fun?”

“Uh, football and work out,” I answer truthfully. There’s nothing that makes me happier than being out on a pitch or reaching a certain goal at the gym. Setting myself weekly targets is what helps keep my head in the game, knowing I’m working towards something.

“Okay,” she draws out, scribbling my shitty answer down. For some reason I feel like I didn’t hit the nail on the head with that one. Catherine can try to hide her emotions all she wants, but I read her like she’s my favourite book. I’ve always liked that about her. “How about what makes you happy?”

“Football.” The answer sounds salty on my tongue. Foreign, almost. Itdoesmake me happy. Itdoesmake me want to workhard at it and get better, but there’s something that’s missing from me. A part of me that is supposed to make me stand out in some way that I can’t find.

“Connor,” she says gently, her eyes filled with silent sympathy. The way she says my name doesn’t sound condescending like the way Coach says it after a bad pass or the way my mom says it when I told her I haven’t been out again. She says it like she really cares and understands. Like she really wants to help me.

“I know,” I say, sighing, “I’m trying, Cat.”

“It’s okay,” she replies immediately, no sign given that she was about to talk me down or make fun of me. “Should I give you some model answers? You can ask me the questions instead.”

That sounds a lot less daunting. I nod and she slides over the notebook to me. I pick it up, reading over the questions in front of me that a baby could probably answer. Her handwriting is so fucking neat and tidy — everything is underlined neatly, her purple colour scheme is perfect. Fuck. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things that I like about her at this rate.

“When did you fall in love with football?” I read it again and shake my head as she snickers. “Wait, no. Sorry.” I clear my throat, my cheeks instantly getting hot. Maybe I should ask to crack a window. I try the question again. “When did you fall in love with… journalism, right?”

“Yeah, you got it,” she replies, still giggling. If I could hear that sound before I go to heaven, I know I would die a happy man because fuck. It does something warm and fuzzy to my chest. Like a warm hug. I settle in the seat, watching as the memory takes over her whole body. “So, as a kid, whenever something bad or strange happened, I’d almost subconsciously give it a headline. It was usually something stupid. But one of the things I remember is this one time I was in the car with my parents, and we were road tripping around the US. We stoppedin the middle of nowhere and they were playfully arguing over getting a new car, but my mom didn’t want one because she had that beat up Vauxhall for years. The whole time, my mom was basically arguing with herself while my dad watched her, smiling, knowing he was only playing and doing it just to rile her up. I pulled up the notebook I bought at the gas station and wrote, ‘She was transfixed by their love, but surely it was a fable.’”

I’m suddenly taken aback by her words. I don’t think she’s ever spoken to me that much in one sitting. I love hearing her talk. I love hearing what she talks about. She has this incredible, almost innate ability to be able to make anything sound interesting. It’s a skill I wish I had.

“Andshewas you?” I ask. Her eyes meet mine and she nods, pulling in the side of her cheek. “So, you’ve always been a cynic?”

“A realist,” she corrects, shifting underneath her blanket. She drops her gaze from mine, settling somewhere in the mess of the dorm. “Their love was too picture-perfect. It was natural to think it was some sort of story unfolding in front of me. Not the fairytale kind with happily ever after, but one I had to learn from.”

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