Before she could respond, Connor brushed a quick kiss on her cheek and darted back outside.
The three-hour drive into Chicago was a little bit awkward and a little bit fun with a dash of interesting thrown in for good measure. While he’d worked on some expensive cars, Connor had never ridden in such a nice one before. The leather upholstery was soft, supple, and pristine. There were no crumbs in the seams, no sticky spots from when someone spilled their juice, no gum matted into the carpet. Even in the backseat, Connor had room to stretch out without knocking his elbow into a sibling or a car seat.
Mr. and Mrs. Parker kept up a lively conversation with Connor as the focus. Having so much attention centered on him unnerved him. They asked about his parents, his siblings, and his interests. By the time they made a quick bathroom stop about two hours into the trip, Connor’s tongue was dry from talking so much, and he was dying of thirst.
They stopped at a gas station, and Connor and Graham headed inside to grab drinks and use the restroom while Mr. Parker filled the tank. “I can tell them to back off if they’re making you uncomfortable,” Graham said while they paused in front of a cooler.
“It’s okay.” Connor withdrew a couple of bottles of water and handed one to Graham. “I’m not used to it—I sort of grew up in front of all my other friends’ parents. They already know everything there is to know about me. I can’t imagine that your parents are finding me particularly interesting.”
“They like you.”
“You can’t possibly know that. Besides, they’ve only just met me.”
“If they didn’t like you, or weren’t sure about you, they wouldn’t say anything more than absolutely necessary. Believe me, they can do icy civility better than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“They seem pretty cool. I can’t imagine any of the parents I know inviting a strange boy on a mini family vacation.”
“No?”
“Well, not someone they didn’t know. Sure, Marc’s parents have taken me places with them, and my family’s hauled Marc around a few times, but we grew up together. I think I spent as much time at Marc’s house as he did at ours.”
They reached the counter at the same time as Mr. Parker. “Pump one plus the waters,” he said, indicating the bottles in Connor’s and Graham’s hands.
“Oh, I can get mine,” Connor began, but Mr. Parker waved it aside.
“Nonsense. This is our treat.”
It was stupid to hesitate over a bottle of water. His parents would have done the same thing. But Connor didn’t want Mr. Parker to think he had to do it. After all, Connor was staying in a hotel room that they were paying for and attending a Major League Baseball game with tickets they’d purchased. He didn’t want to be seen as some kind of charity case. “Thank you,” he said finally, tucking his wallet back into his pocket.
Eyeing Graham, Connor cracked open his bottle of water and took a sip as they walked back to the vehicle. “I notice you’re sporting a more subdued look today.”
Graham ran a hand through his unstyled hair. “My dad’s pretty cool about my look, but since this is a work-sponsored thing and there will be a couple of his clients in attendance, he asked that I tone it down a bit. It was kind of funny actually. He had this whole ‘I’m not trying to limit your personal expression, but…’ spiel. Since I know that he’s not embarrassed by me or anything, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to do as he asked. I did make him go through the whole uncomfortable request, though. I’m evil that way.” His lips quirked.
“So they don’t give you a hard time about the eyeliner and edgy hair?”
“Nope. I think I lucked out there. Maybe it would be different if I was some kind of badass or troublemaker. They do sometimes mutter about the T-shirts, though.”
“I’ve never asked,” Connor said as they settled back into the Escalade. He gestured to his eyes. “Why?”
“Adam Lambert.”
Connor choked on his water. “What? Really?”
“Yeah. Here’s this guy, fantastically talented and very hot, who made eyeliner an art form. Sure, there were other guys who did it, but, seriously, Adam Lambert made it hot. And,” he said with a grin, “I make it look good too.”
Something flipped in his stomach. Yes, you do. Connor smiled and shook his head.
“Here’s the agenda for the rest of the day,” Mr. Parker said when they were back on the road. “First we’ll stop at the hotel and get checked in, followed by lunch. What do you think, Chicago-style pizza or Portillo’s? Connor?”
“Ah, I don’t really have a preference. I’m pretty easy when it comes to food.”
“You’re our guest. Besides, you can’t come to Chicago without trying one of the local favorites.”
Connor shot a glance at Graham, arching his brows in question.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I don’t have a preference either.”
“Portillo’s, then?” Once again his voice was doing that question thing he found so annoying. But seriously, he hated making decisions that affected other people.
“Excellent.” Mr. Parker grinned at him from the rearview mirror. “There’s nothing like a Chicago-style hot dog. Unless it’s the Italian beef.”
The green fields Connor was used to phased into a more urban landscape as they made their way north. Excitement filled him as they approached Chicago and then traveled along Lake Shore Drive. There was so much to see and so many people doing so many things. There was something right about watching people jog along Lake Michigan, or the people walking through Millennium Park. So many buildings, so many cars. It should have made him claustrophobic, but instead it was energizing. This was where he belonged. He’d never been surer of anything. Maybe not Chicago specifically, but definitely a major city.
His excitement dimmed when they pulled up at the hotel. It wasn’t huge, no bigger than the buildings on either side, but it stood out. The Hillshire had a pristine brick façade with glimmering bronze accents. The last thing Connor wanted to do was haul his battered duffel bag into the undoubtedly fancy lobby, especially when the Parkers all pulled out fancy matching luggage. He was so totally outclassed here.
A bellhop met them at the valet entrance with a cart. Greasy tendrils of shame snaked through Connor’s guts when the bellhop loaded his beat-up duffel bag on the cart alongside the Parkers’ bags. Shit, does that really say Gucci?
The lobby was full of polished marble, shining copper, and cushy leather chairs. A fire burned softly in an alcove and a fountain tinkled in the center of the atrium-style room. Connor stood in front of a copper-covered column, doing his best to blend into the scenery while Mr. and Mrs. Parker went to check in.
Graham stepped over and leaned against the column too, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He leaned over. “What’s up?”
Connor was confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re practically hiding behind this pillar.”
“Just trying to stay out of the way.”
Graham examined the nearly empty lobby. He nodded, his face grave. “It’s a good thing too. With all of these people, you might get run over.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “Smartass.”
“Seriously, Connor. What’s up?”
He hesitated, debating whether or not to answer honestly. Finally he gave in. “This place isn’t exactly the motor lodge out on highway twelve. I feel a little bit out of place.”
Graham looked around. “Well, the good news is we won’t be here long before heading out. Besides—” he nudged Connor with his shoulder, “—you don’t look any different than the rest of us.”
Mr. and Mrs. Parker came over, and Mr. Parker handed a little envelope to Graham. “You two are in 403. We’re next door in 405.”
The elevator that led to the fourth floor was an old-fashioned contraption with a metal gate that slid closed on the outside. Connor watched the floor numbers light up as the elevator made its way up. The fourth floor only had six rooms, or suites as the floor guid
es said. The plush maroon carpet muffled the sound of their feet as they walked to their rooms. According to the little envelope, room 403 was a “Junior Suite,” which, Graham explained, meant it was bigger than a regular room, but not as big as the deluxe suites that made up most of the rest of the floor.
The Junior Suite, as it turned out, was pretty swanky. Two queen-size beds sat in the middle of the room, with five or six feet between them. A small sitting area filled an alcove that gradually merged into a small patio overlooking a landscaped park along the back of the hotel. The room even had a kitchenette, complete with microwave and refrigerator. It wasn’t sterile or utilitarian, like he’d seen in other hotels. This room was designed to feel like a very elegant, comfortable home away from home.
Connor immediately felt like a fraud, quickly followed by a desire to shower. Graham walked in, not even glancing around the upscale room. He tossed his bag at the foot of one of the beds and stretched his back. “I’m not used to sitting in one place for so long,” he admitted, twisting until several vertebrae popped.
“This place is over the top, you know that, right?” Connor sat his duffel bag next to one of the beds and opened the polished wooden doors of an armoire-type thing. A huge flat screen television lay behind the doors. Another set of cabinets revealed a well-stocked minifridge, complete with a dozen beverages and fresh fruit.
“Oh yeah,” Graham agreed. “Dad’s on the board of directors for this company, so we get majorly upgraded when we stay in one of the hotels. Believe me, we don’t generally stay in places like this. But it’s fun every now and then, just to say you did.” He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside stand between the beds. “We’d better get downstairs so we can go to lunch.”
Connor took a quick look in the mirror to make sure his hair was okay. Completely ridiculous, he thought. He was going to put on a hat. Something about the expensive room—or the obviously wealthy Parkers—had him superconscious of the impression he made.
Portillo’s, thankfully, was a completely different environment than the Hillshire. It was busy and boisterous, and the most amazing scents of roasting beef and tangy marinara filled the dining room. Connor felt much more at home among the regular folks eating their sandwiches and crinkle-cut fries than he did at the hotel. He ordered a Chicago-style hot dog and a soda and laughed when the order taker repeated the order into a staticky, echoey speaker. The words came out in a weird hollow jumble that didn’t sound like anything he’d ever heard before. He shoved his money at the cashier before Graham or his father could offer to pay.
Graham raised an eyebrow at the move, but otherwise ignored it. “Ten bucks says you get the pasta with Italian sausage. The people in the kitchen can’t possibly understand what’s actually being ordered.”
When the cashier announced his number and he picked up his tray, he was relieved to see, despite Graham’s prediction, it held the correct meal. Connor and the Parkers sat at a small square table wedged in a cramped row of other square tables.
“I love this.” Mr. Parker took a big bite of his hot dog. “You can’t find this anywhere else.”
“When they say it has everything on it, they’re not kidding, are they?” Graham poked at his own hot dog. “I’m pretty sure there’s a kitchen sink buried in here somewhere.”
Connor took a bite and let the combination of flavors burst in his mouth. He’d definitely never seen so many random ingredients—including a neon-green relish, chopped onions, celery salt, a pickle spear, sport peppers, and mustard, oh, and the hot dog, of course—jammed into a poppy seed bun. “This is great,” he said around a second mouthful.
Watching the Parkers dig into paper-lined baskets of hot dogs and fries was as weird as seeing himself in the fancy hotel suite. It didn’t quite fit. At the same time, they seemed perfectly comfortable in the casual environment. He’d figured they’d be more comfortable with linen napkins and gleaming silver utensils than with paper napkins and plastic forks. He couldn’t see anything suggesting they noticed one way or the other.
“A true Chicago staple.” Mr. Parker hummed in pleasure. “Did you know that there are more hot dog restaurants in Chicago than there are of the top three fast-food chain restaurants combined?”
“We do now. Dad, you’re such a trivia nerd.” Graham snuck a crinkle-cut fry from Connor’s pile and popped it into his mouth.
Connor slapped at his hand. “Keep your paws off my fries. You shouldn’t have ordered the onion rings.”
Graham looked from his box of rings to Connor’s box of fries and back again. “Want to split them?”
The onion rings really did look good. “Sure.”
They divvied the fries and onion rings. “Excellent,” Graham said. “The best of both worlds.”
Connor took a drink of his soda to hide the way Graham’s smile made him feel. He set down his drink and faced Graham’s parents. “Did Graham tell you about the scout at the Terre Haute tournament?”
“Scout?” Mr. Parker wiped his hands with a napkin.
Graham shrugged. “I forgot.”
Connor shifted on the vinyl booth, his knee hitting Graham’s. “You forgot? How could you forget something like that? You should tell them. It’s awesome.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Tell us, already.” Mr. Parker leaned forward. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Connor looked at Graham, who waved him on. “It’s your story.”
“I sat next to this guy at the match a couple weeks ago. They were playing”—he turned to Graham—“who was the red team again?”
“Bedford Cougars.” Graham licked a bit of neon-green relish from his thumb.
Connor swallowed hard and went back to his story. “Yeah. The Cougars. Anyway, I was sitting next to this older guy.”
“Do you go to a lot of the soccer games?” Mrs. Parker’s voice was light, but held an edge Connor couldn’t identify.
“First time,” he said. “My friend Marc and I had the afternoon off and decided to check it out. I had no idea what was going on. This old guy had to explain the rules to me. When the match was over, he dropped some papers. One of the sheets had a picture and a bunch of notes about Graham.”
Mr. Parker grinned. “Yeah? Did he say anything?”
“I didn’t ask him about it. Wasn’t sure if it was acceptable or not. He knew I was from Green Valley, and we’d talked about Graham some, so he knew we were friends. Before the papers thing, he’d said some pretty great things about Green Valley’s goalkeeper.”
Graham touched the back of Connor’s hand. “You didn’t tell me that.” Mrs. Parker watched the movement with cool eyes. Connor pulled his hand away, picking his hot dog back up.
Mr. Parker leaned back, the model of the proud papa. “That’s so exciting. We miss one tournament, and a scout shows up. No idea where he was from?”
“Nope. I wish I could have gotten a better look, but it happened too fast.”
Mr. Parker nodded. “Sure. Still, very exciting.”
Connor rocked to the side, nudging Graham’s shoulder with his own. “Yep. I bet we’ll have a reason to celebrate one day soon.” Mrs. Parker looked up from her salad and speared Connor with sharp eyes the same icy hue as her son’s. “So, Connor, do you have a girlfriend?”
The question was so off topic it took a minute for Connor to process. He sat there with a fry halfway to his mouth. A blob of ketchup dripped from the end before he fully recognized what she’d asked him.
“Oh, ah, yeah. Her name’s Allyson.”
“What’s she like?”
Graham stared at his mother like he’d never seen her before.
“Um, she’s great. Smart, funny.” Heat crept up his neck.
“Pretty?”
“Yeah.” Connor kept his answers short. He didn’t understand her sudden intensity and interest in Allyson.
“Been seeing her long?”
“About five months or so. Since Homecoming.”
&nb
sp; “So, it’s pretty serious, then.” She stared intently at Graham, whose expression suddenly took on a rigid cast.
Connor looked between Graham and his mother, not getting the nonverbal byplay. “Yeah, I guess.”
“We’d better go,” Mr. Parker interrupted before his wife could ask another question. “We’ll want to get settled into our seats before the game gets underway.”
Grateful for the reprieve, Connor stood with his tray and dumped the empty wrappers into the trashcan.
Chapter 15
GRAHAM SAT fuming as they covered the short distance to the baseball stadium. It had taken him a minute to catch on to what his mom was doing. She didn’t care whether or not Connor was seeing someone, at least not personally. She was reminding Graham of the fact that Connor was dating a girl. It wasn’t like he could forget. Connor and Allyson were the junior class’s golden couple. Attractive, popular, smart. Most likely to be named prom king and queen. A regular matched set.
He couldn’t believe she’d acted that way. And to be so obvious about it. That really wasn’t her style. His mom had swum the shark-infested waters of event planning, fundraising, and social prominence with the best of them. She could be tactful and diplomatic, even when cutting someone to shreds with her razor-sharp tongue. Maybe the move to Indiana had knocked her off her game. She’d been acting strangely—more maternal—lately. Not that she’d ever been a distant or cold mother, but she’d never been clingy or smothering. Her behavior over the last few months had started creeping in on both.
Graham tried to shake off the tension that settled in his shoulders. He’d been secretly thrilled about this trip. For one thing, it had been a long time since he’d done anything with a friend. For another, it was nice to be with Connor without the smell of mold and sweaty socks. The more time he spent with Connor, the more he liked him. He was pretty sure he’d accepted that they would never be more than friends, no matter how much he wanted to cross that line. Okay, fine. He had a crush. A stupid, childish crush. Get over it, Graham, he told himself.
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