One Summer Isn't Enough (Summer, #4)

chapter 23

BELLY

It's been a week since we got the news of Jere's hospital visit. That night, Conrad insisted that I go home early and get some sleep for the next day while he stayed back for a few more hours. When I heard him coming up the stairs that night, I feigned being fast asleep because I knew he'd get worried that I hadn't slept yet. When his side of the bed dipped as he got under the covers, though, I heard him sniffling ever so slightly, as if he had been crying. I didn't do anything, because I know that this was when he liked to be alone, undisturbed. But he put an arm around me and burrowed his face in the crook of my neck before whispering, "I love you. So much." And he fell asleep like that, his breath fanning across my neck.

The next morning, he didn't mention anything about the day before and pretty much acted normal, except for being quieter than usual. We mostly made small talk–anything interesting going on today, when should I pick you up, your shirt looks nice–until he dropped me off at work, when he gave me a small peck on the lips and then drove off.

That's been the usual for this week. And I have absolutely no idea how to crack his shell. And even worse, it kind of terrifies me that he might be pulling away from me again, and this time, I won't know how to get him back.

Right now, I'm at the dining table, texting Taylor an update on Jere–who woke up on Monday but hasn't wanted any visitors–while Conrad takes a shower upstairs. He got back from the hospital later tonight, but I made dinner and kept it ready so we'd have a chance to talk. Really talk.

After Taylor is satiated with my updates (a feat very few have accomplished) and I've doled out dinner onto two plates–grilled chicken breasts and salad, with those little croutons from Whole Foods that we both love–Conrad comes down in pajama bottoms and a heather gray t-shirt, his hair wet. He smiles at me and kisses the side of my head, quietly saying, "Thank you for making dinner. It looks great." We sit down and start eating, with him lost in thought (again) and my mind running in circles about how to initiate a can-you-please-open-up-to-me conversation.

Clearing my throat, I begin, "Connie."

He looks up from his plate and puts on a small–but ingenuine–smile. "Hm?"

I place my hand on his, and his hand twitches the slightest bit under mine. Gently, I say, "What's been bothering you? You've been so quiet." I pause before adding, "All week."

He takes his eyes off of me and focuses them on the cinnamon-scented wax melter in the middle of the table. I push on, asking, "Was it something I did? Because if it was, I'm so sor—"

Immediately, he takes my hand and turns towards me. "Hey. No. It isn't you. At all."
"Then what is it?" I plead. "Please, Con, tell me what's wrong. Don't shut me out."

He puts his fork down and takes his head in his hands. "There's just been so much shit going on lately. And usually...I can take it. But lately, between the baby and Jere and work, I feel like I'm...like, standing on the edge of a cliff balancing all of these heavy things, and one wrong move could send me tumbling down."

I open my mouth to speak, but he sees that and says, "And you're being so, so impossibly good with this. With me being...me. But Belly, I promised Mom," he says, his voice wavering. "I promised Mom I would take care of him. And I didn't. And now he's in the hospital because he couldn't take the news. And he isn't talking to me at all. I don't know what to do."

I had thought this would be why. And because of that, I already have a solution in my mind. "Why don't we call him? He doesn't want visitors, but we can at least try calling."

Conrad shakes his head. "I've called him at least fifty times since last week. All straight to voicemail."

"Why don't we try my phone?" I suggest, pulling it out of my pocket. "Maybe he'll answer."

The smallest spark of hope enters his eyes, but he shakes his head again. "He'll see right through it. I know him."

I'm already pulling his contact up on my phone, and I hold it up with my eyebrows raised, seeking confirmation from Con. He nods and I press the phone icon, putting it on speaker and setting it on the table between us.

It rings once. Twice. Thrice. On the fourth ring I've almost given up hope, when miraculously, the call connects.