Page 69 of Forever Then

Chapter Fifty-Three

YOU STARTED IT

Gretchen

“‘Since U Been Gone,’” Connor and I whisper-shout in unison across the table at Drew.

It’s my last night in Illinois before my dad, Connor and I drive the small U-haul to New Jersey tomorrow. Drew and Reagan invited us out for a double-date to celebrate and, lucky for them, we walked right into a Pitch Perfect themed trivia night at the bar.

“You guys are freaking me out,” my brother says as he jots our response on the team answer sheet.

“For a man who’s seen the movie, it’s shocking how little you know about it,” I counter.

“Next question,” the announcer says from the stage. “Finish this line: ‘I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna finish him…’”

Connor and I simultaneously cover the corners of our mouths, lean toward Drew and whisper, “Like a cheesecake.”

He guffaws, but writes the answer down. You’re welcome . “Goddamn, you guys are made for each other.”

“I know,” Reagan croons. “It’s nauseatingly cute. ”

“Or just nauseating,” my brother says, a smile tucked behind that amused scowl.

Connor grabs me by the face and kisses me, all show and no real action. But if the goal is to nauseate his best friend, mission accomplished.

He’s tried very hard to keep public displays of affection around my brother to a minimum—out of respect, he says.

Maybe it was Drew witnessing firsthand how genuine our feelings are, or maybe it’s the time and space Connor’s given him to accept and process everything, but things between them are on the mend.

When we told my brother of our plans to move in together, for a moment, we thought he stopped breathing.

The next day he called me to talk about it and I braced myself for an argument.

Instead, he said, “I just want you to be happy, Gretch.” Then, he spiraled into a diatribe about how it’s better that I won’t be living alone.

I couldn’t take the big brother out of that man if I tried.

Case in point: “Get your fucking tongue out of my sister’s throat, Vining.”

I tear my lips from Connor’s, clutching my pearls as I whirl toward Drew. “Andrew Augustus Fisher! Language, young sir.”

If a time-stopping record scratch happened in real life, this is the moment.

Drew swivels his head, eyes wide and homicidal. Reagan presses a closed fist against her lips as her gaze bounces back and forth between me and her husband. Connor opens his mouth in the most frat-boy oh shit look I’ve ever seen.

“Did you just middle name me?” Drew asks, words low and slow.

“Dude,” Connor laughs. “Your middle name is Augustus? Fifteen years of friendship, how did I not know this?”

“Maybe,” Drew says, glowering at me, “it’s because I don’t like it.”

“Sorry, man. That’s rough.”

Drew turns his prickly attitude on Connor, who is not the least bit sorry. Reagan is Switzerland on my right: give the woman some popcorn and a free pass to bow out of the conflict and she’ll sit back and enjoy the show.

“It’s a family name,” my brother defends, like that makes it any cooler.

Connor tips his beer bottle. “It’s also the name of the chubby mouse in Cinderella.”

“Awww, Gus Gus,” I coo.

Drew blinks.

Connor takes a long swig, another insult locked and loaded behind those eyes. “And the kid who falls in the chocolate river at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.”

I slap a hand over my mouth.

“Don’t worry, bro.” Connor claps Drew on the shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Reagan finally cuts in. “We’re gonna need another round.”

We win trivia night thanks to Connor’s and my clutch efforts in the tie-breaking lightning round.

After the middle-name debacle, Drew drowned his sorrows in one too many drinks. We didn’t let him cross the line into full inebriation, but tipsy Drew is a fun time.

On our way home, the four of us stop outside Drew and Reagan’s building first.

“Sisssster,” my brother slurs as he pulls me in for a bear hug. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, brother.”

We step back and I keep my hands at his waist to steady his swaying feet. “I’m sssorry I wasajerk before.”

“I’m sorry I middle named you.”

He grins. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

“But, no,” he pinches his brows like he’s fighting a headache, “Msorry I was a jerk bout Connor. I actually think he’s the besss…t. I love tha guy.”

I flick my eyes to Connor over Drew’s shoulder. The boyish grin on his face tells me he’s heard every word.

“I love you, big brother. ”

“I love you more.”

Three days later, on a sweltering New Jersey Sunday morning, Connor and I say goodbye to my dad who begins the long drive back to Illinois with the U-haul.

The storage trailer was about the smallest one you can reserve.

I only needed enough space for a few boxes, clothes and the handful of furniture items from Connor’s place that will take up permanent residence here.

Things like his couch, coffee table, entertainment cabinet, living room television and dining room table, which we’ve developed a deep sentimental attachment to—for eating… food, obviously.

I’ll spend these next few months while he’s back in Chicago, turning this place into a home. Our home.

Tomorrow is my first day at work and Connor catches an early flight back to Chicago for his first day as the marketing and media team leader on the Governor of Illinois’ re-election campaign.

We spend the day tying up loose ends. I put my clothes away while Connor unloads all the groceries we ordered. I unpack the bathroom while he puts away the split amount of his dishes and cookware he brought from his place—he left some behind in Chicago to survive on until he’s here permanently.

“I feel bad you’ll be living in a nearly empty apartment,” I say as I flap out the fitted sheet over our new mattress that was delivered yesterday along with a new bed from a local furniture store.

Last night, we were so exhausted from the drive followed by dozens of trips up and down the elevator unloading the trailer, we threw an old blanket on top of the bare mattress and called it a night while my dad crashed on the couch.

Connor catches the fabric and secures the corners on the other side. “I don’t. I’m gonna be at the office so much, I’ll barely notice.” He reaches for the flat sheet still in its packaging and tosses it at me.

Our only concrete plans to see each other in the coming months is when he makes the trip to Arizona over Labor Day weekend— over a month away.

Cheyenne and Mom have been in constant communication these past few weeks, making arrangements for our families to come together over the holiday.

I’ll fly out of New York and meet my parents in Flagstaff.

Connor will fly out a day later for a quick twenty-four hour visit before he has to get back to Chicago.

Beyond that, we’ll squeeze in visits when, and if, we can. But flight costs add up and I’m focused on paying off my credit card before the end of the year while he’s got rent for his Chicago apartment and half of this one to worry about for the next four months. Money will be tight for both of us.

I am today years old when I learned that you can miss someone before they’ve even left.

He smooths out the flat sheet on his side of the bed. “I got all of my streaming accounts connected on the television, by the way.”

“Thanks,” I say, voice absent. The pillowcase package in my hands is locked down tighter than Fort Knox—I yank and tug to no avail.

Quiet footsteps come around the foot of the bed, but I don’t look up.

Unbidden tears cloud my vision and I try so hard to suppress the ache in my chest, to mask it with my futile efforts to open this stupid pillowcase.

Overwhelmed and emotional, I toss everything to the ground in frustration. “Dammit!”

Connor’s gentle arms ease me into his chest and I clutch his shirt in my fists. “I’m gonna miss you, too,” he whispers.

Moments later, when he takes my face in his hands and kisses me, I taste the saltiness of shed tears—mostly mine, but some feel like his. We both know tomorrow isn’t a goodbye, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The need to touch, to feel, to taste, takes over and as we tumble into bed atop the fresh linens, he begs me not to cry.

I sniffle. “You started it,” I say as I peel his shirt off.

“I most certainly did not.” He drags my shorts down my legs.

Sitting up, I push his shorts and boxers down his thighs. Voice breathless, I say, “This is all your fault.”

“How do you figure?” he muses as he grabs the hem of my tank top and yanks it over my head .

“Six years ago”—he unclasps my bra—“your obsession with me started.” He snickers. “Then you had to go and make me fall in love with you.”

“You messaged me first, Fish.” He shucks his shorts and boxers off the rest of the way, an arrogant tilt angling his head.

Desire pools between my thighs as he sweeps my panties down and off. “Yeah, because I missed you.”

After rolling on a condom, he crawls up the bed until I’m caged beneath him, although he holds a space between our bodies that is not conducive to touching, feeling or tasting. “Is that all?”

“No.” I reach for him but he grabs my wrist and pins it above my head. Smiling, I try with the other hand and he does the same.

His knees spread my thighs wide. “No?”

Now only inches above me, his hardest part hovers so close, yet so far from where I need to feel him. I bite my lip. “I thought you were hot,” I confess.

“Hmmm. So, you could say that your obsession with me started six years ago.” He lowers his hips just enough to tease me and I hum at the contact.

I squirm, rapidly moving into needy territory as I sputter, “It was mutual, old man.”

“I’m not sorry,” he breathes against my lips.

“Me neither.”

He makes love to me, one hand clasped tightly to mine the whole time. Whispered promises of tomorrow and forever land on wet mouths and feverish skin and in tangles of hair. He tells me I’m beautiful, that he’s the luckiest man in the world, that he’ll miss me…so much.

He tells me he loves me.

I tell him I love him, too.

And when he commutes with me to work the next morning, rolling suitcase in tow, he stands outside Saks and wraps me in his arms one last time, promising me, “Four months is gonna fly by so fast.”

With another kiss that he guarantees won’t be our last, he hails a cab and heads to the airport.