Running Parallel

Part 10 - Connor

The memory of him Friday night, of his hands on me, of his voice whispering in my ear. He'd taken control, moved me how he wanted me, and I'd liked it. Liked how it felt when he called me baby, liked when he praised me, liked when he told me I was being so good for him. I wanted to be good for Luke.

I want Luke to like me.

Instead, he'll only hate me if he finds out.

"Am I a horrible person?" I whisper, afraid of the answer to the question that's been bugging me since I locked myself in the bathroom that night.

Dyllan hesitates before asking, "Did you know he thought you were Caleb?"

I shake my head, staring down at the steering wheel. "Not until after."

"Okay." She slowly nods. "Did he come onto you or did you come onto him?"

A memory of lying in bed, trying to sleep despite the noise coming from downstairs, flashes before my eyes. The creak of the door, the light from the hallway flooding the room before vanishing just as quickly. A hand touching my foot.

"It's just me," a whisper in the dark.

"I was trying to sleep when he came in," I recall, staring at nothing. "He came onto me. Because he thought I was Caleb."

"But you didn't know . . ."

"No. I didn't know until after." I love you, Caleb, he'd whispered.

The urge to hurt is nearly blinding. I want to forget, and pain always helps with that. It always helps make me feel better. But I can't do that in front of Dyllan. She wouldn't understand.

"Did you know he'd been drinking?" she asks.

The smell of beer on his breath, the slightly sour taste on his tongue.

"I smelled it on him." Glancing at Dyllan, I ask, "Do you think I took advantage of him?"

Sad eyes, a strained and trembling smile on her lips. "Honestly, Connor, it almost sounds like he took advantage of you."

I freeze. "But he was drunk? And he didn't even know it was me . . ."

"True," she agrees. "But you were in your room, sleeping, when he came in and climbed into your bed. It was he who came onto you. And you said yourself, you didn't know he thought you were someone else."

"But I knew he'd been drinking." I couldn't have known that he believed I was my brother, but I knew Luke was drunk. I should have told him no.

She sighs. "We can argue this all day, but it won't change anything. There's always gonna be others, Connor. Don't get broken up over one guy and a bad night. I know it hurts, but you'll see, you'll find someone else, someone who will like you back."

I nod. Staring at my hands, I tell her, "There's more."

Beside me, Dyllan sits back. "Oh?"

I lick my bottom lip before admitting, "I fixed his car."

Silence. The fans blow warm air over my legs, the windows fogging.

"You fixed his car," she repeats slowly.

I nod.

"When? Why?"

Tapping my fingers on my thigh, I explain, "His car broke down the other day and I . . . offered to fix it."

"Why the fuck would you do that after— No, Connor," she says, realizing she answered her own question. She shakes her head, glaring at me. "You can't do that. You have nothing to feel guilty over. You didn't know."

"But I know now," I remind her. "I know, and he doesn't, and I can never tell him the truth."

"Connor . . ."

Reaching into my back pocket, I dig out my phone. Navigating to my texts, I open the draft I wrote to Luke. All it says is "Hi" and I'm still not sure about that.

"I'm supposed to text him," I tell Dyllan, showing her the blank text thread. "To let him know to come pick up his car. What do I say?"

"How about 'hey dickface, come get your car'," she mutters darkly, crossing her arms. She glares out the windshield.

I stare at her ear.

After a moment, she gives up. Sighing, she waves a hand through the air. "Try 'Hey, it's Connor, I'm all done working on your car, let me know when you're gonna swing by to pick it up' then you make sure you tell him the cost and get him to pay up."

The textbox sits ominously, Luke's phone number daring me to text him. It's been two days since I drove his car to our house. I spent most of yesterday afternoon replacing the ball joint after picking up the new parts. Holding my breath, my chest tight, I type out the message word for word. My thumb hovers over the little paper airplane icon. Stomach churning, I press send before I can chicken out.

"Sent," I inform Dyllan, letting out the breath I was holding. My hand shakes as dread fills me. What if he thinks my message was stupid? What if he got impatient and went to Caleb? What if he ignores me?

Well, technically, that was Dyllan's message, not mine, and he can't get the car from Caleb because I still have the keys.

God, I don't know what I'll do if he ignores me.

"Oh shit," Dyllan hisses, lunging for the door handle. "My break's over, I gotta go. You should text me sometime so we can hang out. I have you in my phone as Connie, by the way, so Brent doesn't get upset, but text me, okay? See ya."

I barely get the words, "See ya," out before she's closing the door and sprinting off toward the front of the store.

Sighing, I deflate into my seat. Although it was nice talking about my problems with someone who seems to care, regret still fills me as I replay everything that was said. I never used Luke's name, but Dyllan is friends with Caleb, too. She's not stupid. If she really thought about it, it wouldn't be hard to assume I was talking about Luke.

I toss my phone into the cupholder and the screen flares to life. The text icon shows on my lock screen. All I can do is stare at it until my screen goes dark again.

It's probably just Caleb, I tell myself, trying not to get my hopes up.

I reach for the phone and awaken the screen. It's definitely a text message.

Maybe it's from one of those stores that get you to sign up for text in exchange for a discount?

Except, I've only done that like twice in my life.

Lifting my phone from the cupholder, my vision swims as my pulse pounds in my ears. I blow out a breath and tap on the icon, then use my thumb to unlock it.

Sweet! I'm off around 7, if that's not too late?

I need to hire Dyllan as my secretary. This was so much easier with her here telling me what to write.

I type and erase, type and erase. Then it hits me: it's a chat message, not text. He can see every time I type by the little dots that dance on his end.

Face burning, skin prickling with sweat, I force myself to type a message and send it before I can second-guess myself again.

Sounds good.

Could I have sent anything plainer? If he doesn't think I'm slow, he's gonna think I'm as boring as watching paint dry.

Should've made Caleb tell him.