Page 9 of Connor (Total Sinners #2)

Connor

The suitcase by the door was the first thing I saw. A red Louis Vuitton suitcase with a tear on the side from overuse. It was one I was more than familiar with and my steps faltered.

It was packed. Zipped up. Positioned perfectly upright like someone had set it down, ready to grab and walk out without a second thought. My fingers twitched at my sides, something sharp and sour curling in my gut.

The house was too quiet. That kind of loaded silence that stretched through the air, pressing in from all sides.

I found her in the kitchen.

Mom stood by the counter, fingers curled too tightly around a coffee mug, her gaze locked onto the surface like it held answers she couldn’t find. She looked so much smaller right then. Smaller than she should have been.

I didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the doorway, my arms crossing over my chest as my eyes flicked back to the suitcase. I could still see it, and everytime I looked, I felt like a kid again—just waiting for my mother to tell me she’d be back in a few weeks.

"Where are you going?"

She didn’t look at me. “Not now, Connor.”

I scoffed, pushing off the doorframe. "Not now? You’ve got your shit packed by the door, and you’re just—what? Sipping coffee before you disappear? Or are you just making sure to say goodbye this time?"

Her jaw ticked, but she still didn’t look up.

It pissed me off.

The suitcase sat there like a goddamn monument to every bad decision she kept making, and she wouldn’t even look at me?

I dragged a hand through my hair, my breath sharp as I stepped fully into the kitchen. "Let me guess," I said, voice lower now, rougher. "He called you. Said all the right things. Told you he missed you. Promised he’s changed."

That’s when she finally moved. Not much. But it was enough for me to notice. Then, in a quiet, voice, she said, "He didn’t call me."

I stilled. A slow, humorless pulled at my lips. "Bullshit."

Her gaze flicked to mine, just for a second. "I’m serious, Connor."

Something hot curled under my ribs, something sharp, something mean. I let out a breath of laughter, shaking my head. "Right. So you just woke up and thought, hmm, maybe I should pack my bags and go back to the man who beats the shit out of me for fun ?"

She flinched. Just barely and I felt like shit for even slightly raising my voice at her. Like father used to—like he still did.

Then she stiffened and her eyes hardened. "I am not doing this with you."

"Yeah?" I took a step closer, voice dropping. "Then what are you doing, Mom? Explain it to me. Make it make fucking sense."

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "I’m going back because I have to ."

I scoffed. "Oh, yeah? And why’s that?"

She hesitated. I saw it right there—the second she debated telling me the truth. The second she considered lying. Then, finally, she set her mug down with a sharp clink and looked at me fully.

"Because this is the only way you can get your job back," she said. "And I won’t sit here and watch you destroy yourself because of me."

Silence. For a second, I just stared at her, my pulse a slow, dull thud-thud-thud in my ears. Then I laughed. Low, bitter, cold.

"You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me."

Her posture squared. "I’m not."

I dragged a hand over my mouth, trying to breathe past the rage spiking up in my throat. " Why the hell would you do that? "

"You’ve been spiraling ever since your father cut you off, Connor," she snapped, her voice cracking slightly. "Drinking. Sleeping around. You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t seen how bad it’s gotten?"

My jaw locked.

She kept going. "You used to be strong. You used to fight for what you wanted. And now? Now you’re just burning through your life like you’re waiting to hit rock bottom."

"Jesus Christ."

"Tell me I’m wrong," she challenged. "Tell me you’re happy, Connor, because you’re not acting like you are!"

I closed my eyes in desperation for a second. Because she was right. And I fucking hated her for it. I took a step back, my vision tunneling, my skin crawling. The suitcase sat there, waiting, watching, taunting.

I wasn’t happy. But how the fuck was her leaving going to help?

My voice was tight, sharp, and dangerous. "You really think crawling back to him is gonna make me better ?"

She swallowed. "It’s my job as your mother to make sure you’re living your life to the fullest."

Something inside me snapped.

I turned on my heel, grabbed the suitcase by the handle, and yanked it away from the door.

"Connor," she started, voice sharper now.

I ignored her.I kept walking.

"If you leave this by the door, then you’re saying it’s an option," I muttered. "And I’m not letting you walk back into that house just because of me."

“It isn’t because of you, it’s for you.” Her voice rose. "And I am going back."

I stopped.

My pulse pounded against my skull. Of course, she was. Because she always did. What if I was wrong? Was she just using me as an excuse?

Slowly, I turned, locking eyes with her across the room. My mother—this woman I had spent my whole damn life trying to understand, trying to protect—stood there, ready to let herself get swallowed whole.

I wanted to break something. I wanted to shake her. " Why? " My voice wasn’t loud, but it hit hard.

"Because this family has been broken for far too long, Connor, and I should’ve done something about it sooner. Because when my baby comes home smelling like random women, I want him to be able to tell me why he’s acting like his heart’s broken."

My heart stopped. Heart broken? As fucking if.

I barked out a laugh, opening my mouth to speak—but I couldn’t. What was there to say?. "How does going home fix that?" How long would it take her to realize that it only ever got worse when she went back?

Summer was silent. I let go of the suitcase handle, and it hit the floor with a hollow thud. I didn’t move for a second. Didn’t speak. But something inside me cracked. I was done.

“Stay,” I warned Mom before turning toward the door, already reaching in my pocket for my cell phone.

“Connor,” she sighed, but I was already shaking my head.

“No. Just stay, I’ll fix this.”

I had to.

My hands were shaking as I scrolled through my contacts to find Aiden’s name and number. My pulse hammered against my skull, my mind spinning, searching, scrambling for something—anything—to fix this.

I needed Aiden. I needed him here. Now. He was older than me. He was better at this. The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Pick up, damnnit.

Three times.

"Come on, Aiden," I muttered under my breath, pacing near the curb.

Voicemail.

"Fuck!"

I ended the call and immediately dialed again. Ringing. Again. No answer. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, in my skull, in the backs of my eyes. The reality of it hit hard. She was really gonna go. She was really gonna walk out that door, willingly, just to fix my mess.

My own mother thought I was too far gone to help myself. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing through the anger, the helplessness, the suffocating fucking guilt. No. I could fix this. I had to.

Maybe if I—

Maybe if I just—

Think, Connor.

If I could convince Aiden to come home, maybe she’d stay. Maybe she’d believe we could be a family again. Because that’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? She thought she had nothing left here. She thought I was incapable of making responsible decisions..

Jesus.

I swallowed hard, staring at my phone like it might suddenly give me the answers I didn’t have.

She wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. The drinking. The women. The self-destruction. It wasn’t just a bad phase. It was me, running myself into the fucking ground, and for what? To spite my father? To forget about Summer?

I sucked in a slow breath. My fingers hovered over my contacts again, scrolling to Aiden’s name. One more time. The phone rang. Twice. Then—finally—he picked up.

"Connor?" His voice was sharp, alert. "What’s wrong?"

"Where are you?"

A pause. Too long. Then, "Connor—"

"Don’t fucking ‘Connor’ me," I snapped, my voice edged with something too raw, too desperate. "Just answer the goddamn question."

Another beat of silence. Then a quiet sigh.

"I’m still at the clinic."

My stomach clenched. Right.

His therapy sessions. The ones I never asked about. Because Aiden was doing what I wasn’t. He was fixing himself. While I was out here, digging myself deeper.

I clenched my jaw. "I need you to come home."

Silence. Then, "What happened?"

"Mom’s leaving."

Aiden cursed under his breath. "You’re sure?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I saw the suitcase, Aiden. She’s already decided."

Another pause, then Aiden’s voice softened. "And you think me being there is gonna change her mind?"

I didn’t know. But I needed to try something. I needed to try everything.

"Just—come home, man." My voice cracked slightly, and I fucking hated it. "Please."

Silence. Then, carefully, "Connor, I think she’s more worried about you than about herself."

I stiffened. "That’s not what this is about."

Aiden sighed. "Isn’t it?"

I could hear it in his voice. The concern. The exhaustion. The fucking disappointment. He thought I was gone, too. Just like her. My throat went tight.

"I’m fine," I muttered, but it sounded like a lie even to me.

Aiden didn’t respond right away. Then, quietly, "I know you don’t want to hear this, but—maybe Mom’s not wrong."

"About what?" I forced the words out, even though I already knew.

"You," he said. No hesitation. No softness this time. "You’re not okay, Connor. And we can’t keep pretending you are."

I hated how fast the words cut through me. Like a knife straight through the ribs. "You think I don’t fucking know that?" I snapped.

"Then do something about it," Aiden shot back.

Silence hung thick between us. I couldn’t breathe.

I felt exposed. Raw. Cornered. And for the first time in months, I realized—I was fucking terrified.

I was so goddamn lost I couldn’t even see the way back.

But before I could say anything—before I could even process it—my phone buzzed with an incoming call.

Another name flashed across the screen. North. I let out a breath, pressing my fingers against my temple, my pulse racing.

What the hell did he want? My chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left to rot.

"You used to be strong." Mom’s voice rattled in my skull, looping over and over. "You used to fight for what you wanted."

What had I wanted? My job? No. My mother to stay?

No. I wanted to stop feeling like a ghost of myself.

I wanted to stop waking up next to women who weren’t her.

I wanted to stop hearing Summer’s voice in my head every time I drank too much, every time I let myself fall apart, every time I fucked someone who meant nothing.

I wanted to stop remembering the way she whispered my name that last night, like it was something precious—like I was something worth keeping.

But she left. And I let her. And now I didn’t know how to be anything other than this.

The phone buzzed in my hand. Sharp. Suddenly.

Incoming Call: North.

My stomach twisted. I almost didn’t answer. Not now. Not when I was—

I swiped the screen. "What?" My voice was raw, strained.

North’s voice was clipped, sharp, cutting through the static in my head like a blade.

"Connor, you need to get here. Now."

The air was still. "What? Why?"

What was so important that he needed me there right now?

"It’s Summer."