A Year With Connor Haynes

chapter two

        

        It was twelve o'clock. Then it was three o'clock. And then it was five o'clock. The hours passed in cups of hot tea and crossword puzzles, a vague hobby in which I held close since my early childhood years. People thought it was weird, but my mother did not. She thought it was a spectacular hobby to have at the age of seven — but my mother encouraged me to do what I thought was okay, not what others thought was "in style" or "cool". And I think that's why my dad fell in love with mom; she was just a whole bunch of happiness. She always had advice and tips and never ever went about the day without a smile on her face.

        About two years, before the accident, she used to always tell me about boys and heartbreak. I thought it was stupid; I was sixteen with no boyfriend and a best friend who dropped off the face of the Earth, and there was just no way that I was going to experience that. I hadn't ever imagined myself getting married; walking down the isle in long, white gowns of satin and silk, pretty flowers, pleasant smiles, rings, men, children of my own someday. I'd always tried to live in the now.

        

        I wished that I had known Connor's phone number. Did he have a phone? If he did, he must not bring it with him. But I still hoped, deep down, that he had a phone. I wanted to call him. Or text him. I needed something more than myself.

        So I walked down the street around seven, trailing my feet across the asphalt. Connor's house was a mere thirty seconds from mine, but I insisted on being as slow as possible as I walked there.

        The lawn was trashed with rusty bikes and old beer bottles, and some were even broken and leaking something awful (She found this out when she got close enough). There was old baby toys and a broken-down Cadillac in the garage; half-open, with a orange hue coming from the inside.

        I pushed on the door bell in a hurry, immediately pulling my hand back to my hip. I almost decided to walk back down the porch, when a little kid answered the door. He was half the size she was, a dirty-blond, with highlighted freckles on his cheeks. He was pretty cute, for a seven year old. I assumed that this was Connor's brother, Micheal.

        "Hi Micheal," I said, smiling. His face held something indescribable.

        "How do you know my name?" He asked, looking up at me.

        "I'm — friends — with your brother, Connor."

        "Connor? Are you here to see Connor?"

        I nodded.

        Micheal leaned his head back, saying, "Connor! Your girlfriend's here to see you!"

        I felt myself blush wildly.

        Connor came running to the door, his footsteps weighing heavily on the floor inside. He shoved Micheal away, his face twisted up in annoyance.

        Sorry about him," Connor muttered.

        "It's okay," I smiled a little, "I'm just here to see if you mind hanging out?"

        "Hanging out?" His voice sounded how I imagined Steve Garrigan speaking. "Yeah, I guess I can hang out."

        "Really?" I felt so relieved that I almost had a stroke right there on his porch.

        "Yeah," He closed the door behind him, standing in front of me, "we could do cool stuff."

        "I don't know how to do cool stuff," I replied with a stifled laugh, "but you're definitely welcome to teach me anytime."