Page 29 of Coming Clean

Connor

I stepped out of the car and tugged at my tie.

I hadn’t had to wear one since the last time I’d worn my dress uniform.

The sport coat and tie I’d bought were technically more comfortable than my uniform, softer and more relaxed, but I felt out of place in a way I never did as a well-turned-out Marine.

Butterflies did aerial tricks in my stomach as I thought about mingling with the educated elite.

They’d be discussing poems and books that would leave me scratching my head.

What would I say if someone asked me what I’d read lately?

The latest issue of Guns & Ammo ? The Small Business Owner’s Guide to Marketing Success ?

—at least that sounded a little better. Other questions they might ask were even worse: Where did you go to school?

What’s your degree in? Where do you work?

I considered sliding back behind the wheel and telling Jeremy I’d pick him up when he was done.

Before I could, Jeremy circled the car and held out his hand.

I took it, and his warm, soft grasp eased my tension.

Jeremy wanted me there. I wasn’t going to disappoint him, even if I felt as out-of-place as I had on the first day of boot camp.

Jeremy

I glanced at Connor as we stepped through the door. The awards gathering wasn’t overly large. There were fewer than a hundred people in attendance: faculty and their partners and occasionally extended family members, along with the representatives from the governing board and the awards foundation.

Most faculty gatherings were deadly dull, but at least this one had food, and—thank you God—wine. Maybe there’d be beer for Connor too.

Connor kept gently squeezing and releasing my hand.

I figured it was a nervous gesture. His tension hung in the air like a dense cloud.

He held himself with that military bearing of his, scanning the room like he was looking for danger and preparing for how to handle it.

The guests were most likely not armed, and none of them were a match for his fighting skills, but there were plenty of dangerous characters here: slick-tongued devils whose egos grew enormous to hide their insecurities.

They loved making their colleagues—or anyone else—look like idiots.

If they sensed his unease, they’d swarm like a school of sharks.

I prayed he’d make it through the evening without anyone being particularly asinine.

“You want a drink?” I asked him.

He gave a sharp nod. “I need something to do with my hands.”

“Come on, then.”

The bar wasn’t stocked with beer, so Connor took a glass of red wine. He might not want to drink it, but at least it gave him something to fiddle with.

I spotted a few friends I wanted to introduce him to, but before we could make our way across the room, Dr. Buxton, my department chair, flagged me down.

“I need you,” Buxton said. Not “how are you?”, no introduction to Connor, just a summons. Some people, including David, thought I sucked at party etiquette, but at least I wasn’t not that bad.

I glanced at Connor. “Sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He looked pained, but simply said, “I understand.”

I followed Professor Social Skills. “Did you need to speak with me?”

“The board wants to see everyone who is receiving an award. Mrs. Renquist is going to run through the procedure.”

I sighed. How complicated could it be? Someone would call my name, I’d walk up and get the award, and maybe I’d say a word or two of thanks. That was it. This wasn’t the Oscars.

Buxton led me to the far end of the ballroom where a stage had been set up along with several rows of chairs. A small group of men and women were gathered to one side of the stage, listening intently to an older woman in a royal blue pantsuit. I assumed she was Mrs. Renquist.

Angela, a professor from the sociology department, waved to me.

I hadn’t realized she was receiving an award.

She was one of my favorite coworkers—smart, sophisticated, sarcastic, all the things I admired in a fellow professor.

I moved to stand beside her, and Buxton hurried off to harass someone else.

Mrs. Renquist was going over the order of events.

I tried to listen but eventually my thoughts drifted, and her voice became a faraway buzz.

Why did we all need to know who was going to be called first?

Couldn’t we just listen for our award to be announced?

Why hadn’t they simply printed a program and listed the order?

I could imagine the answer: “We’re aiming to be a Zero Waste institution and there will be no unnecessary printing.

” I doubted the board really cared about wasting paper.

What they did care about was money. They were a bunch of cheapskates, except when it came to having a board meeting catered.

“Dr. Parks?”

I looked up and had the distinct feeling I’d been called more than once. “Yes.”

“Are you unwell?” Mrs. Renquist asked.

“No ma’am. Just… um… nervous. It’s such an honor to be here.”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “We’d like you to read something of yours. I’m assuming you’ve committed at least some of your poems to memory.”

“Poems?”

“Yes, you do write poetry, don’t you?” she asked in a severe tone.

“I teach poetry, and I study it. I don’t write it professionally.”

She frowned. “Surely you have a piece you can share.”

There was no way I was reading one of the raw, heart-wrenching poems I’d written recently. “I can share one of my favorite poems from my recent research.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Fine, fine.”

I had just enough social acumen not to yell at her, stomp off, or even roll my eyes.

Who was she anyway, and why was she giving commands?

I’d probably been told at some meeting or via email–I tend to skim correspondence from Buxton these days.

A few moments later, Mrs. Renquist released us.

I had started to worry she might teach us all a dance routine or musical finale, but apparently we were just going to walk up on stage in the usual manner.

From my vantage point on the steps leading to the stage, I scanned the room for Connor. Sadly, before I could spot him, I was waylaid by Thornton Ash, the most arrogant man in the School of Humanities—and that was saying a lot.

“You won the Alston prize this year? Good for you.” Translation: The committee is made up of imbeciles. He clapped me on the back, nearly making me fall down the steps. “I am a bit surprised they chose someone who’s going to be leaving us, though.”

I frowned at him. “I haven’t left. I’m on sabbatical.” I most likely would be leaving—this gathering certainly wasn’t doing anything to endear Wentworth to me—but I hadn’t shared my future plans with my colleagues.

Ash raised a brow. “You’re wealthy now. What need have you for all this?” He swept his hand around like he was indicating the whole Wentworth experience rather than just a room full of socially awkward people forced to dress up and mingle.

“I’m hardly rich. I received a small inheritance.” It wasn’t precisely small, but my finances weren’t any of Ash’s business. “As of right now, I’m planning to return to Wentworth in January.”

Ash grinned like a Cheshire cat. “That’s not what I heard.”

Fuck. Had Buxton said something?

“I heard you’d been offered a position at Campton.” The son of a bitch was so smug about having inside information.

I’d had to ask Buxton for a reference for the position, and he’d asked if I’d heard anything. I told him about the offer—and told him to keep it quiet. “As I said, my plans are unclear.”

“You’d be a fool not to take the position, but of course…” Ash’s words trailed off, his jealousy crackling in the air like lightning.

I needed to get out of there before Connor came looking for me.

“Look, Ash, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.”

“You got an offer?” Angela asked, clearly having overheard as she walked up.

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to say anything until I’d decided what to do.”

“You aren’t thinking of turning it down, are you?” she asked.

“Well… probably not but…”

The back of my neck prickled. Connor was there. I was sure of it. I was going to turn around and he’d be standing there, and he would know. Please let me be wrong. I glanced to the side without turning. Fuck. There he was, holding his wine so tightly I expected the glass to shatter.

“I have to go.” I walked away before Angela and Ash could say anything else. “Connor!” I called, but he was already walking toward the door.

“At least talk to me,” I said when I caught up to him.

Connor turned to face me, his expression flat and cold. He set his wine down on an empty table by the door. “Congratulations on your award. It sounds like you have a bright future. Best of luck with it.” He turned and left before I could say anything.

I longed to run after him, but I couldn’t leave before the ceremony.

“May I have your attention?” Mrs. Renquist was at the podium now. I glanced back and forth between the formidable elderly woman and the door Connor had just blown through. What should I do?

Angela caught my eye and waved me toward a seat next to her. After a final glance toward the exit, I gave up and joined her. I’d find Connor as soon as the awards portion of the night was over. Maybe it was a good idea to let him calm down first.

Or maybe you should go after him. You don’t want to be here, you want to be with him.

I also don’t want to make a fool of myself, even if I’m not returning in the fall.

Even if it’s for Connor?

I ran a hand through my hair.

“Are you okay?” Angela asked.

“Yes. No. Physically I’m fine, if that’s what you mean.”

She nodded like she actually understood my convoluted answer. “Trouble with your new boyfriend?”

“Wow. Gossip gets around here even faster than I thought.”

Angela looked taken aback. I realized how sharp my tone was.

“I’m sorry. No one was supposed to know about the job offer.

I had to get a recommendation letter from Buxton.

As a courtesy, I told him I’d received an offer.

He was supposed to keep quiet but obviously he told Ash, and now Connor overheard and…

” I didn’t know what else to say. I might have lost Connor for good.

“Connor didn’t know?” Angela asked. Thank God there wasn’t any judgment in her tone.

Someone in the front row turned around and glared.

Angela grinned at me. “Looks like we’re the troublemakers today.”

“If they don’t hurry this up, I’m really going to make some trouble. I need to go find Connor.”

Angela patted my arm. “I hope you work things out. He seems like a great guy, and he’s also fucking hot.”

I was glad I didn’t have a drink at the moment. I might have spewed it all over both of us.

“What?” she said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve… noticed.” I realized Angela hadn’t said how she knew about Connor. “Did you talk to Connor?”

“Yes, I introduced myself. He’d been accosted by Ash and his posse and looked like he needed saving.”

Shit! There was no telling what they said to him. He was probably already angry before he heard about the Campton position.

“Did he tell you he was my boyfriend?” That was the last thing I would’ve expected.

Angela smiled. “Yes, though he was adorably shy about it.”

Ms. Front Row turned around again. “Please show some respect.”

Angela made a face that said, “uh oh, we’re in trouble,” and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

I leaned closer, speaking right into her ear. “He’s been in the closet until really recently. So, I didn’t think…”

She nodded and squeezed my hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

What seemed like an eternity later, I had my award in hand and was ready to make my exit.

It was a terrible breach of etiquette not to stay for the post-awards dinner and thank the donors and Mrs. Renquist again.

I’d seen a photographer milling about. I was probably expected to take some photos with the other winners, but I didn’t care.

I was more concerned about setting things right with Connor.

“If anyone asks, tell them I’ve taken ill,” I told Angela.

She smiled. “Shall I say you’ve retreated to your chaise? Do you need smelling salts?”

“I might if this goes as badly as it could.”

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” Angela said.

I slipped out a side door and headed for the parking lot. When I pulled out my keys and unlocked my car, it hit me that I’d driven Connor. How had he gotten home—or wherever he’d gone?

I pulled out my phone. Still no messages. I called him, but the phone went to voicemail. I doubted there was any point in leaving a message.

Fuck. I started the car and backed out. Hopefully, he was home.

Once I was on the highway, I called Sabrina.

“Hello.”

“It’s Jeremy. Have you um… heard from Connor?”

“Yes, I gave him a ride,” her tone was clipped but she didn’t sound truly angry.

“Ah, shit. I’m surprised you even took my call.”

She sighed. “I’m assuming there are two sides to this story, like most.”

I wished I could justify my behavior. “There are, but this time Connor’s in the right.”

“Then go tell him that.”

Thank God she wasn’t warning me off. “Is he at home?”

“I assume so. That’s where I took him.”

Then that was where I’d go. “Thanks.”

“Don’t hurt him,” she warned.

“I already have, but I’m going to do everything I can to make things better.”

“Good, because if you don’t, you’ll be hearing from me, and I promise you I’m way scarier than Connor. He plays by the rules. I don’t.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said before ending the call. I had no doubt she could make my life hell if she thought I deserved it.