This song hits me emotionally. My lip quivers, but after a few hard blinks, I push the tears back and bite down on my lip to prevent any more emotion from leaking out.
The door opens when the song ends.
“Hey, sorry that it took a little longer than usual. You didn’t tell me what flavour drink you wanted, so…” He looks away when he hands me a tray filled with six cups. “There’s cola, orange, lemonade, lemon, orange juice, and a bottle of water. Pick which one you want, and I will take the rest.”
“Conner, I can’t…” I choke on my words.
He shuffles into the driver’s seat with a bag of food in his lap. He closes the door while saying, “Relax. My little brother and sister will take the rest off your hands. It’s not a big deal.”
I reluctantly take the orange soda. Conner then grabs the tray, reaches behind him, and settles it into the back seat. Afterwards, he digs into the bag and hands me a ten-pack of nuggets and a large bag of chips.
“Um…” I reach into my wallet and pick out the silver coins, counting to ensure I give him the right amount.
“Noya, it’s fine.”
“No. It’s not.” I fist the money in the palm of my hand and extend my arm out to him. “Take it.”
Conner ignores the money and eats the chips. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“Conner,” I snap.
He looks at me, and there’s a softness in his eyes from the lightning of the McDonald’s sign. It must be the desperate, pathetic, likely pleading look I’m giving him.
“Please.” Conner sighs and opens his hand. I place the note and coins in the palm of his hand while murmuring, “Thank you.”
He places the coins in the compartment holder and then digs into the bag once more. “I also didn’t know what sauce you wanted for your nuggets, so I got them all.”
I smile and say, “Sweet and sour sauce.”
We eat in silence while listening to music. It’s calm. Not an awkward, weird silence. And when there’s a hint of noise, it is Conner singing with his mouth full of food.
He’s a messy eater, which eases my nerves about eating in his car.
By the time we finish, it’s 10:01 p.m. Before we leave, Conner grabs the rubbish and puts it in the bin by the car. When he returns, I ask, “Wouldn’t your parents wonder why you aren’t home yet?”
“I sent my dad a message earlier and told him I was with a friend and won’t be home until late.”
“And he didn’t care?”
Conner reaches for his phone on the dashboard. The light illuminates his face, and there’s a shimmer in his hazel eyes. He holds up his phone and reveals his text messages to his dad.
“Here, look.”
Me: I’m with a friend. I won’t be home till late. Keep the front light on for me.
Dad: Enjoy your night. There’s leftover meatloaf in the fridge if you get hungry.
My throat tightens, and a sickening pit of sadness swirls inside my stomach, forming cramps of desire.
I imagine being Conner for a day, with caring parents, and being able to go home without someone yelling at him. Or maybe not have a mum cowering in the corner, another bruise swelling on her body.
There would be food in the fridge made by caring hands, and I would get messages like this and not the ones demanding me to get another six-pack of beer after?—
Shit!