Archive of Our Own ^beta

Conrad remembers exactly how it began. 

It was a few months after he and Belly got back together, when everything was still new and nerve-wracking between them. In some ways, it felt like one long sigh of relief, at least for him. Or maybe it was more like taking in a full chest of breath after spending too long underwater. Either way, there was a learning curve to it all. 

It took some time to remember how to breathe. 

Every date, every movie night, every late-night text conversation — they all held the weight of the past, and the future, and the slick new shape of the present. They had to juggle it all at the same time. Conrad knew he wasn’t the only one overthinking every moment. 

Susannah helped — the memory of her. If they wanted to watch a movie, they watched one that Susannah loved. When they went out to eat, it was to the sort of restaurant Susannah might have taken them to. On these dates, there was no self-consciousness or self-doubt — Will you hate it? Will I be able to pretend I don’t? None of that. When it was for Susannah, they could both commit to the bit, and everything became easy. 

In those first months, Connie felt his mother so close, so present, closer even than she’d been when she was still alive. The knowledge of her was like a heavy hand pressing down on his skull. It became so intense that he asked his psychiatrist if he could try a new med, and after the switch, the feeling gradually eased until it disappeared. Sometimes he feels guilty about it, like he cut her out of his head by force — scalpel, drill, skull. But he knows he can’t live like that. It’s hard enough to get through every day as it is. He’s not strong enough to carry the dead. 

It was a long time before Belly and Conrad had sex again. They were both nervous. Connie was nervous. He wanted it to be perfect. He wanted every detail to go just right, but he wanted it to be spontaneous, too. He wanted it to be easy. He wanted it to be smooth and comfortable and mind-blowingly hot and wild and safe. In the end, he failed her. 

He was too quiet. He was too overwhelmed to speak, and the awareness of this — of his own emotional over-investment in every moment — only drove him deeper inwards. Belly got insecure. He watched it happen. He could pick out the precise moment when she started to doubt everything all over again, to doubt whether anything had really changed. But by then it was too late. 

After that night, Belly pulled away from him and put some distance between them. For a week, they only talked through stilted text exchanges until one night, three beers deep and feeling more desperate than he’d ever willfully admit, Conrad texted her: please, can I come over. i really want to see you. 

Belly said yes. 

He started to understand then how important the words were to her. How often she needed to hear them. I want to see you. I want to be with you. I want to fuck you. 

“It’s just because I want you so much,” he told her, after taking an Uber cross-town to her apartment. They were both in Philadelphia now. A new city for Connie. A fresh start. 

“That’s all it means,” he said. “I wish I could do something to make you understand.” 

“I understand,” Belly told him, like it was a secret. “I understand better than you think.” 

The tension of the moment eased. They dug up the awkwardness of their last encounter and buried it again. They said that this time would be different, or maybe they both just wanted to fuck so much that it didn’t matter. 

After all of this was decided, Conrad told Belly: “I want you to be top.” 

It was so hard to say it. It was so easy to doubt every word as it left his mouth. But he saw how she liked it — how her skin flushed down the planes of her chest and her eyes went bright and focused. 

“Okay,” she said, and climbed on top of him. She was completely naked — they both were. He can still remember that first sight of her from below. He loved the softness of her body, the feeling of her skin against his hands. He guided her up and down until she took control of the rhythm herself. Softness and strength. That’s what Belly carried with her wherever she went. 

The sex was cathartic. They both came very quickly and afterward, as they lay cooling side by side, Belly said, “I like hearing what you want.”

Conrad turned to face her and fiddled with a piece of hair near her ear. 

“I think I wanna know what you want, all the time.” She was staring at him with that hard, blazing look.

Conrad swallowed. “Oh.” 

“I just like to know what you’re thinking. It makes me feel — it makes me feel safe.” She brought the words out carefully, like they were pieces of spun glass prone to breaking. It was just as hard for her to say the true thing sometimes. He had learned that. 

“I don’t know, Belly. I don’t want you to feel like you need to do something, just because I want it.” 

“I know,” she insisted, and pressed her face close to his chest. “I won’t, I promise. I just wanna know. I just want…” 

“You just want to hear me say it.” 

Conrad lifted the lock of hair and it behind her ear, and Belly looked at him, half-embarrassed, half-defiant. He didn’t need any more convincing. He’d already consented to her terms. There was nothing he wouldn’t do — nothing he wouldn’t say — to stop himself from fucking this up again. 

“Why do we have to go to this thing again?” Conrad asks. It’s some alumni gathering for Steven’s Princeton friends, so he’ll probably be trapped in endless conversation with a bunch of 24-year-old “Corporate Consultants” already failing at their first marriages. He’d rather stay at home with Belly. He’d rather do anything else, honestly. 

“Because Steven’s excited about it. It’s his first real gathering at his new house.” She laughs and gives him a conspiratorial look. “And I think he wants to show you off.” 

“Show me off? Doesn’t he know I’m terrible at parties?”

“Only when you’re trying to be.” 

“That’s not true,” Connie says, and he must admit, he’s a little wounded. Sometimes it comes up like this — old hurts sneak their way sidelong into conversation. They haven’t managed to talk their way around them all, not yet. But they have time. He likes to remind himself of that. 

Conrad smiles at her. “Are you sure you’re not the one who wants to show me off?” 

“Me?” She snorts. “Who do I have to show off for?” 

“I don’t know, Steven’s tall and mysterious college friend who, um, broke your heart? Or something?” 

“Oh, shut up.” Belly checks him with her body and it catches him off guard. She’s strong. She knows how to use her weight. It’s instinct for Conrad to engage with her back, and they grapple for a moment, pressed against the edge of the countertop. 

“Belly,” he says, when she’s stopped laughing and goes still in his arms. 

“I know. You don’t want to go to the party.” 

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Oh?” She looks up at him, tucking her lips like she’s trying not to smile. “Do enlighten me.” 

Conrad sighs and rests his head against the side of her face. 

It’s still hard for him to say it. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell her. He knows how much she likes it, and there’s nothing he wants more than to make her happy. But it’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing how often he has to say it, how constantly he has to admit the desperation of his need. 

But those are the rules. 

“I really want you right now,” he whispers, even though there’s no one around to overhear them. 

Belly makes a sound and stirs against his body. “We don’t have time.” 

“I know.” Conrad leans back. “I know, I’m sorry.” This is what he means — it’s embarrassing to let her see how low his mind likes to go. How often. 

“Don’t be sorry.” She draws his hands close and guides them around her waist, leaning into his chest until he can feel her flush against him once more. “I just — I have to get ready. And you know traffic will be hell on 95.” 

Then she pulls away, leaving Conrad to catch himself on the counter. He’s not sure he can name the expression on her face. 

Conrad knows he’s not good at kink. 

He’ll never forget the partner who told him he was too vanilla when ending things after a few months of mutually unsatisfying hook-ups. Her exact words had been: “Only a serial killer could pretend to be so blandly free of fetish.” It was probably just the Applied Psychology seminar talking, but still, Conrad spent a lot of time unpacking that one. 

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy pushing the boundaries sometimes. Full on role-play will never be his thing, but he’s engaged in the occasional mild power game. Light bondage, furry handcuffs, that sort of stuff — always with him placed in the dominant position, as if by default. The standard, college-level heterosexual kink. He thinks he performed his role adequately enough, but there was always something awkward and forced about it, like wearing a loose suit he couldn’t quite fill. 

He sees it like this: if the emotional connection is there, that should be more than enough. Everything else is just extra. But maybe that’s the problem. He’s only ever really felt that with Belly. 

It’s different with Belly — this thing they’ve been doing, this game. It’s not like following a script. It’s not like trying to play out a bad romance novel. It’s something organic, grown from the space between them. It holds their shared history. That makes it more comfortable and more terrifying. 

He’s watching her now from across Steven’s under-furnished dining room. In a room full of greyscale Ikea furniture and greyscale Ikea people, she’s the only thing that shines. She’s the only thing that glows. Her hair is half up, pulled back from her temples in neat little spirals. He loves her hair like this, loves the way it hides none of her face. It leaves all the space for her eyes and her smile. She wears a peach-colored sundress that falls long and loose to her knees. He loves her so much he thinks he might cry. 

She talking to some guy: handsome, ginger beard and hair. His face is so freckled it’s almost just a tan. He speaks with his hands, and he’s telling a story that apparently involves tennis (or is it ping-pong?), drinking, and possibly a high-speed chase? Conrad can’t tell. But Belly’s entertained. She laughs with her whole body. Her arms are crossed loosely over her chest, and they slide against each other as she straightens and takes a breath. Conrad can’t stop himself from watching her. 

And then she moves her face a quarter turn and gives him a little smile, like she knows he’s watching. Like it’s really all for him. 

God, he’s such an animal. 

Does she know that? Does she know he gets a little jealous, watching some Princeton idiot make her laugh? Does she like it? Conrad doesn’t like it. He’s always worn his jealousy with an equal measure of shame. He knows how pathetic it makes him in the end. But if she liked it, he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind being a little pathetic for her. 

“Anyway,” the man to Conrad’s right is still speaking. “I just got real with them and told them I wasn’t about to move to the ass-crack of Texas, and you know what? They let me walk away from the Austin merger, stay in Secaucus, and guess what, guess what?” He taps the front of Conrad’s shirt with an aggressive degree of intimacy. Conrad can’t even remember his name — Kaiden? Brandon? 

“I got the bonus anyway. BOOM.” He snaps his fingers and laughs. 

“Amazing.” Conrad takes a long swig of his beer. “That’s. Wow.” 

“Right?!”

One of the future leaders of American IT, right here in the flesh. Or was it something to do with portfolio management? Christ…

“Anyway, what do you do, man?” says the guy whose name might be Braydon. 

“Uhhh, I’m in med school at UPenn. But I’m actually on a bit of a break right now. Doing a research year.” 

“Oh, nice, nice. No worries, man, you’ll be raking it in soon.” 

Conrad laughs, trying to imitate his brash manner. “Yeah, no, totally, I definitely decided to pursue pediatric surgery for the raking potential.” 

Braydon laughs too, as if unsure whether he’s missed the joke. 

In reality, Conrad doesn’t know if he’s pursuing pediatric surgery. He doesn’t know what specialty he wants to choose. For a brief window, he thought it might be oncology, but he quickly realized that was a terrible idea. Belly tells him he has the experience to be empathetic, to make a difference for people facing the worst. But he knows he can’t do it. At the very least, he’s always been realistic about his own failings. 

That’s part of the reason he’s stepping back, even though he knows it’ll look bad on his residency applications. It doesn’t make sense to him to keep hurtling towards a future he still can’t fully envision. When he looks into his future, the only thing he can see is Belly. That’s the other reason he’s stepping back. 

Now that they’re together, he doesn’t want to be up to his ears staying on top of his workload, grasping stolen moments wherever he can fit them in. He wants to be with her. To really be with her. He thinks he’s waited long enough. Everything else can stay on hold for a little while. 

But that would never sit right with Belly, which is why he hasn’t told her. 

Which means he’s breaking the rules. 

She’s walking towards him now, and the relief in his chest is palpable. She’ll save him from this interminable conversation, and more than that, she’ll be within reach of him again. She’ll put her hands on him — casually, intimately, without even thinking about it. Conrad thinks he’ll never get tired of that. 

He was right: she greets him with touch. She winds her arm around his back and leans into his body. He sighs into her hair for a fraction of a second. 

“Hi, I’m Isabel,” she says, greeting their unwelcome voyeur. “I’m Steve’s sister.” 

“Ooooh, yeah, oh Stevie! Oh man, Stevie’s my boy,” he says, and then launches into a story about getting locked inside a computer lab at three in the morning.  

Conrad can’t do this anymore, he really can’t. He can’t listen to Braydon grill Belly for her professional credentials, can’t listen to Belly laugh awkwardly and say “I’m still figuring it out, to be honest,” like she should be ashamed that she’s still only twenty fucking three, like she should be ashamed she doesn’t already have a 401k. 

Conrad fucking hates these people. 

“Oh, that actually reminds me!” he says to Belly, interrupting the conversation. “I needed to ask you about the — the thing.” He nods vaguely towards the living room. “About Steven’s thing.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yea, um. It was really nice to meet you….?” 

He turns hopefully to Braydon, who says, “Ah, it’s Tommy. Nice to meet you too, man.”

It isn’t always about sex. I want to see you. I want to take you somewhere nice. I want to cook you dinner. 

Sometimes he tries to get creative with the ways he can express his wanting. I want to tell you something ridiculous I learned. I want to dance with you in a public place where no one can see us. I want to hold you for an hour straight. I want to kiss you till I can’t breathe. I want to be inside of you. I want to fuck you slowly. I want to fuck you right now. Sometimes it’s definitely about sex. 

Sometimes it’s specific. I want to make you come while you’re sitting on my lap. I want to feel your mouth on me. I want you on my mouth. She doesn’t always do what he wants — it’s not like that. He’s not the boss. It’s a different sort of thing. Sometimes, she’ll go quiet, and he knows she wants him to say it again, and again. Sometimes it becomes a sort of plea. Only then will she relent and give him something — maybe not what he asked for, but always more than enough. 

Belly used to think he was the one in control, but they both know better now. She’s always been the one dancing lead. 

“I want to come inside of you.” 

The first time Conrad said that, he was already inside of her. They were using a condom like they always did, and he didn’t mean anything by it, not really. It was just wanting. But it was obvious how much it excited her. Her breathing quickened to a high pitch. She held his hand tight against her breast and within seconds, she was coming, her body tensing and flooding around him. It was too much. She was his, she was his, and hadn’t she always been, anyway? He thought he could die from the feeling of it. 

A week later, they met in Manayunk for lunch - Korean barbecue that Belly had declared “decent enough.” Belly told him things about her life. Newly emerging evidence of her roommate’s passive-aggressive tendencies, which she hated. Progress on her comparative research into grad programs, which she found ultimately uninspiring. Updates on Laurel’s new book deal, which Conrad had already heard but was pleased to go over again with Belly. 

“I have an appointment at Planned Parenthood next week,” she said, when they were almost done eating. Like it was something inconsequential she’d only just remembered. “For an IUD. I thought maybe you could drive me?” 

“Oh!” Conrad wiped his hands in an awkward rush and dropped his napkin. "Yeah, of course, yeah. I’d love that.” 

She squinted at him deprecatingly. “You’d love that? You’d love to see me all goosed up on laughing gas, more like.” 

“I don’t think they give you laughing gas for an IUD insertion, Belly.” 

She looked disappointed. “Well, they should.”

On the day of the appointment, Conrad woke up anxious. He had a cramp in his stomach and an empty appetite. He was so tense on the drive that it started to make her nervous, he could tell. She kept switching the track of her playlist after 30 seconds as if she hated every song, or thought he did. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked, finally, when the cramp had reached his throat. “I mean, you’re not just doing it for me, are you?” 

She chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe I like doing things for you.” 

“I’m serious, Belly.” He flipped the turn single and merged into the freeway’s exit lane. “I swear, I’ll turn around right now.” 

“Oh fuck off, Conrad.” 

“Wha — why should I fuck off?” 

“Cause you don’t always get to be the one who knows better, okay?”

He slowed to a 45 MPH speed. Grandpa driving, Belly called it. He couldn’t help it, sometimes he just got overwhelmed. “I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

“If I regret it, then I’ll just have it taken out. You should try being less serious about everything, Connie.” She directed the last word to her window, so he couldn’t tell if she was trying to mock him or just trying to lighten the mood. But one could lead to the other, he decided. He took her hand and held it on the console. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” 

Afterwards, Belly was sore and tired. It had hurt more than she expected and she cried a little on the drive home, “just trying to shake it off,” she said. It took all of Conrad’s self-control not to do something stupid and self-sabotaging, like yelling at an overworked Planned Parenthood employee, or worse, saying something to upset Belly. 

He stayed the night at her apartment. They smoked weed and watched a terrible 90s rom-com, and in the morning, Belly said it felt better, that the cramping was gone. Maybe she was lying. They were spooning, which was how Belly liked it in the mornings, and Conrad couldn’t help himself. He kissed her neck where it met her shoulder. He filled his hands with her body. 

“I really want you inside of me,” Belly whispered. 

Maybe it was just how bad he wanted it too, but he was strong enough to stop himself from asking, Are you sure? 

Maybe that was just a different type of weakness. 

For a brief, blissful slice of the party, Conrad has Belly all to himself. They hide in an empty corner of Steven’s living room and whisper to each other, as if anyone cares what they’re saying. Conrad slides his hand up and down her bare arm, leaning into the cool smoothness of her skin. Her lips have gotten pinker, somehow. Maybe it’s what she’s been drinking, or maybe she’s been chewing them without realizing it. 

Conrad leans in quickly and kisses her once, soft and fleeting. 

“What was that for?”

“It wasn’t for anything,” he says, laughing. “You just look really nice.” 

She points her eyes down and — yes, there it is, she’s chewing the corner of her own mouth. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“Nothing,” she says, but she’s lifting her hair off the back of her neck and pressing her hand against her spine like she’s nervous. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I’m annoying you.” 

“No, no! You’re not.” Belly takes his hands and guides them around her waist. They slide over the soft fabric of her dress. She looks up at him, blinking. 

What do you want? He wants to ask her. But that’s not the game, not really. But he’s almost too anxious now to tell her what he wants. He can’t speak without risking everything. 

“I want to know what you’re thinking,” he says, like his life depends on it. 

Her face softens. “I think — I think I need to get another drink.” 

“Ha! Yea, um, will you get me one? I think one of the bros just got back with some fresh ice.” 

“I’m on it.” She smiles, suddenly buoyed by this small, inconsequential task. She leans in and, for a second, kisses him with her whole body. Her arms lock around the back of his neck. He feels her tongue touch the inside of his mouth. He can almost believe that everything’s okay.  

When she’s gone, he stands alone for a few minutes, his hands idling awkwardly at his sides. He wonders why he didn’t follow her. Probably because he knew she didn’t want him to. Soon,  Steven fixes on him and swoops in with another Braydon or Kaiden in tow, whom Conrad tries to be pleasant towards for Steven’s sake. Maybe Belly was right, maybe Steven does want to show him off. Conrad tries to act like the sort of person who’s worth showing off, but it’s a struggle. 

“The place is really nice, man,” Conrad says, when they finally have a moment alone.

“I suppose it’s a decent starter home.” 

Steven likes to say that, as if it isn’t a full-ass house just over the river from NYC that he can somehow afford the mortgage on. He’s gonna be a millionaire by the time he’s 30, Conrad can just feel it. 

“You’ve been, uh, thinking about the decor at all?” Conrad points to the far wall, where a single black floor lamp illuminates a single black floating shelf. A peace lily flounders in one of those blocky, concrete planters. 

“You’re just not seeing it right,” says Steven. “It’s all about the minimalist look these days.” 

Conrad nods, trying not to spoil the neutrality of his expression. “Sure, yeah. I get that.” 

He doesn’t want to press the issue. For almost a year, Steven shared an apartment in the city with Taylor, a surprisingly roomy one-bedroom that had been interior-designed to within an inch of its life. Every time Conrad visited, the space seemed to have changed texture and shape. Maybe this is just Steven's response to that. An inevitable pushback after an inevitable end. 

“You’ve been seeing anyone lately?” Conrad asks, and it sounds a little more forced than he intended.

“Nah, man.” Steven shakes his head. “Dry. Dry dry dry.” He shrugs, and gives a vague smile. “I don’t have much time, you know?”

“I thought you were hitting the nightlife sometimes with Jere,” Conrad asks, careful to modulate his tone. Hitting the nightlife. Is that the right phrase? 

“Sure, yeah, when he’s around. But you know how it is with him.” 

Conrad does know. Jeremiah has become fully ensnared at their father’s firm. He’s a rising star. He’s already traveling for work as much as their dad did when they both were young. He’s in New York half the time, but otherwise it’s London or Seattle. That’s where he is now. That’s why he’s not at Steven’s party, which is probably convenient for everyone. Once, Jere got to fly to Singapore for a week to participate in some high-level meeting. Adam bragged about it as if he was actually proud. Conrad wonders sometimes what that experience was like for Jere, what he might have learned from stepping so far outside his comfort zone, but he hasn’t mustered up the will to ask. 

They see each other, of course. Family gatherings. Fourth of July. Christmas. It seems the Fisher men have all tacitly decided to sacrifice Thanksgiving, and Conrad’s not complaining. He’d rather spend it with the Conklins anyway. Twice a year is more than enough. 

Conrad and Jeremiah have gotten good at pretending — they perform family time to a perfectly adequate degree. Sometimes, Conrad reaches back into his memory and tries to find a time when they weren’t performing for each other, when there might have been something real and true between them. He can’t find it. Just stories stacked on top of ideas stacked on top of stories. Here’s who I want to be. Here’s who I want you to be. Here’s who I need you to be so I can be who I want to be. 

Being around his brother is like looking in a funhouse mirror. They’re too close in age, too dissimilar in everything else. They both lose their true shape when they’re together. 

The moment with Steven has gotten awkward. Conrad thinks he’s probably gone too quiet or made Steven feel bad for talking about Jeremiah, even though he was the one who brought him up. 

“It’s gonna happen for you, man,” Conrad says. “I can feel it.” He puts one arm around Steven’s shoulder and squeezes him close for a second. Touch helps, Connie knows. When he’s getting cold or too deep in his head, touch makes people feel loved. 

“Sure, sure, whatever.” Steven brushes him off, but Conrad can see the little smile underpinning his expression. 

Belly’s back, and her presence warms the space around him. She holds two plastic cups fizzing over with spiked limeade and hands one to Conrad. 

“What, none for me?” says Steven, while Conrad thanks her silently. 

“You can get your own drink,” Belly says and takes a long sip. “I think we did enough by coming here early and helping prep all the apps.” 

“It’s not my fault those caterers were basement-tier and bailed on me last minute.”

“I’m just saying; a house full of Princeton men without chicken satay or pigs in blankets to keep them satisfied?” Belly shakes her head slowly and lets out a low whistle. “I’d give them three hours before they resorted to cannibalism.” 

They all laugh, Steven more begrudgingly than Conrad and Belly. Some of Belly’s drink sloshes over the rim of her translucent blue cup, and she laughs even harder and licks it off her fingers. 

“That reminds me, Steven,” Conrad says. “Did you not have any…female friends at Princeton?” He looks disparagingly around the room. One of the Princeton lads brought a girlfriend, who promptly abandoned him and laid claim to a corner of the couch, where she’s been scrolling non-stop ever since. Conrad’s tried to make eye contact with her three times, with no success.  

Steven rolls his eyes. “Of course I did. They just…”

“Were too cool to come to this?” Belly says, scrunching up her face. 

Conrad snorts into his fist, then feels a little pang of delayed guilt. “I’m sorry, it’s just —”

“No, it’s cool, it’s cool,” Steven says, pretending to be aloof. “I know I should express my gratitude to you both for deigning to lower yourself to my level.” And he makes a scraping little bow, which warrants a hearty shoulder check from Conrad. 

Belly ignores them. She’s starting to get a little drunk, Connie can tell. Her eyes are bright and wandering around the room. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she says, “but I kinda wish Mom was here.” 

“Yeah, well, Laurel has an excuse,” says Steven. 

“Why, because she’s having her gay awakening, or ‘cause she’s on tour?” 

Steven shrugs and palms the back of his neck. “I don’t know, both?” 

Laurel’s latest novel, Red Winter, is about a middle-aged professor entering a same-sex relationship for the first time in her life, with a younger, mysterious fire warden. It’s been on the bestseller list for six weeks, and now all of Laurel’s previous books are getting traction on TikTok, which Conrad knows she hates. The New York Times praised the novel as “breathtakingly of-the-moment, yet simultaneously transcending the bounds of any one place or time.” He thinks that’s a perfect description. The Inquirer described Laurel as a “queer Cheryl Strayed,” which is perhaps less on-the-nose, but if it sells hardcovers…

Anyway, Conrad misses her too. But Belly already knows that. 

Laurel still lives in the suburbs, but she comes into the city often. “I’m glad I have so many excuses,” she likes to say. 

Like that time in April, when Conrad went with her to an upscale home goods store in Chestnut Hill. Belly was working, but Conrad had the day to himself, and so he met Laurel alone and walked the showroom floor with her, offering what suggestions he could. “That’s a good price on solid oak,” and “I hate to say it, but a lifetime warranty might be worth the extra cost.” He tried to imagine what Susannah would suggest, what observations she might offer. He was proud of Laurel for treating herself, for finally replacing the old bedroom set that she’d probably had since before Belly was born. 

After she’d chosen something simple and classy — a minimalist frame in ebonized cherry and two bleached oak bedside tables — Conrad loaded the bed frame into his car and they caravanned back to Laurel’s house. She kept saying she could pay to get it delivered, but he pretended not to hear her. 

She insisted on feeding him lunch before she’d let him lug the furniture up the stairs, and he decided this was an acceptable compromise. It was leftover cole slaw and fresh BLTs. It reminded him of the beach house, and they talked about Cousins for a little while, about their plans for the summer. Laurel was going to be swamped with the book release, but she promised to come for as long as she could. At least a week. Conrad was grateful she could even promise that. 

“To be honest,” she said. “I’m surprised you’ll have any time to go to Cousins. Haven’t you reached that point where you’ll just be working for the rest of your life?” She was trying to be wry, but Conrad could see the concern in her eyes. 

He picked a piece of bacon out of his sandwich and ate it plain. “Actually, I think I might take a year off. A research year. I’ve been looking into a few different opportunities, but most don’t really get started until the fall.” 

“Oh.” Laurel’s back was to him. She was pouring grease from the pan into a little plastic cup. “Why?” 

Conrad opened and closed his mouth. Because I feel like a table with a broken leg. I don’t trust myself to bear the weight. He couldn’t say that. 

“Um, I think it would be good to get some more research credits. Good for residency applications.” This was mostly a lie, but it sounded almost right. “And — well, unrelated, but — I’ve been thinking about asking Belly if she wants to move in together?” 

Laurel gave him a very level look. “Are you asking for my blessing?” 

“Is that weird? That’s weird, isn’t it?” 

“No, I think it’s kind of sweet.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel and leaned against the kitchen island. “But won’t that make everything harder?” 

“Living with Belly?” 

“No, taking a year off. It’s just… you’ve worked so hard for this, Connie. I don’t want to see you lose heart on it now.”

“I’m not, I won’t. I —” Conrad stared down at his plate. “My dad was always the one who pushed me. And when I stopped listening to him, I think I just started doing the pushing instead. But my mom was the one who listened to me. She listened to what I wanted. I think I need to figure out how to do that for myself, too.” 

He chanced a quick look up. Laurel was silent. Her face was distant and struck through with some unspeakable sadness. The sight of it took the wind out of him, but in the instant he looked at her, the expression was gone. Laurel buttoned it all back up. 

“Do you think she’d be disappointed?” He said in a very small voice. 

Laurel let out a long sigh. “I don’t really know, Conrad. Susannah was…opinionated and passionate. She would often get ideas into her head and run with them. She changed her mind a lot. She was full of contradictions, just like everyone else. I’m — I’m trying to spend less of my time wondering what she would think, or what she would say. Maybe it’ll feel helpful for you to try the same.”

Conrad swallowed and spent a long time thinking this over. “Do you think she might have changed her mind, about Belly and me? I know —” Conrad reached out a hand, feeling embarrassed. “I know you just said I shouldn’t think about that, but —”

“One second,” Laurel said, and her manner had such a brusque quality that it silenced Conrad’s words immediately. She disappeared into the adjoining room and he heard her open a squeaky desk drawer. When she returned, she had an envelope in her hand: long and cream-colored, with a slight sheen. 

Conrad had a visceral reaction at the sight of it. 

“This is for you.” Laurel looked nervous and resolute at the same time. “I’m supposed to give them to you all when you get married. At least, that’s what Susannah intended. But Susannah’s not here anymore. You are. Maybe it’s what you need right now.” 

She held it out to him, and Conrad had to stop himself from recoiling. “No. No, I’ll wait. I — I don’t think I want to read it yet.” He spoke without thinking, like a panicked little kid. 

I don’t want to know what she wanted for me. 

I don’t want to know how I’ve let her down. 

“Are you sure?” Laurel was saying. 

“Yeah.” Conrad broke his gaze away from the envelope, so he might pretend it wasn’t right there in front of him. He could act like it wasn’t still his choice. “I’m sure.”

Laurel placed the envelope carefully on the counter. “I know I probably shouldn’t be saying this to you, under the circumstances. But — at the end of the day, Connie, you can’t live your life for Susannah. You can’t even live it for Belly.”

She gave him a smile full of kindness and pity, and maybe that was the hardest thing. No one reminded him of Susannah more than Laurel. 

She said: “You have to live it for you.” 

The laundry room has no windows. It’s dark and mostly empty. Only the electrical hum of the appliances and the faint smell of detergent itch at Connie's senses. 

He leans back against the dryer and takes several long breaths. He doesn’t get panic attacks anymore, not really — the meds are very effective. But it’s also because he’s learned how to map his own limits. He can tell when he’s getting close to that terrible edge, where suddenly everything’s more than he can bear. It’s not Steven’s fault, or Belly’s, or even the Princeton bros. It’s just him — his own bullshit, his own weakness. At least he knows how to manage it now. 

Conrad takes out his phone and scrolls for a bit, barely registering the tweets on his feed. It’s calming to see it all glide by — all the outrage and fear. He laughs at a few shitty memes and then sends one to Belly before he can overthink it. She’s out there somewhere in the glow of the party, laughing and chatting and enjoying her life. She’s probably even a little drunker now than she was before. He knows he should go check on her, but his presence feels oppressive, even here. His scrolling becomes more manic. He thumbs the screen aggressively and accidentally likes something he didn’t even read. 

He clicks off the display and sets the phone face-down on the dryer, and in almost the next moment, it dings. The screen glow seeps out from under its edges. Conrad retrieves it and finds a message from Belly. Where r u??? Another one comes through almost immediately. Did u leave without me??? 

He feels a panicked rush of guilt and relief and want, all mingled together. No! he types, his fingers moving so fast he has to restart several times. I’m in the laundry room. He thinks of re-entering the party to find her. It’s probably what he should do. But he stands and waits, watching Belly’s gray dots bounce and then disappear. He counts his own breaths again. 

The door opens and she’s there, silhouetted in the light. “I was looking for you,” she says. She closes the door behind her and leans heavily against it, as if she’s suddenly exhausted. “You abandoned me out there.” 

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” 

She fiddles with the door again for a moment and Conrad realizes she’s turned the knob lock. He feels a laugh forming in his chest. “What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She gives him a deadpan look and lifts herself up onto the dryer. 

“Are you drunk?” 

“I never get drunk,” Belly says, and then smiles at him beatifically. Conrad can’t help but warm and ease and melt into her. It’s as easy as breathing. She hooks one leg around his hip and pulls him close. She threads her hands under the hem of his button-up and noses his face until he kisses her. When he does, she lets him in immediately and sucks on his tongue. 

He lets out a little moan. “Fuck.” 

“What?” She says, wide-eyed. 

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” He laughs. “This is — this is really hot.” 

She laughs too. “Oh, is that why you were hiding in here?” 

“Hmmm.” It’s not, really. He was trying to force the desire down, to starve it of oxygen until it floundered and fizzled out. But now she’s here, proving how deeply he failed at that too. All the wanting comes back like a punch to his gut. 

He slides his hand down the front of her dress, cleaving the fabric from her skin with the tips of his fingers. His holds her breast and it fills his hand with heat. His other arm winds around her lower back and anchors her tight against his hips.  

“I think that’s why you’re in here,” Conrad says. 

She tries to pull a face, but it’s obvious she’s struggling to be wry. His palm is making a steady rhythm on her breast, tightening and releasing. 

“Belly,” he says, feeling a little smug that he can still manage to play coy. “Why did you lock the door?”

Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back to allow him access to her neck. “You know why,” she says. 

He’s feeling very wicked all of a sudden. It’s almost shocking how deeply the feeling has gripped him. “No. You have to say it.” 

“I wanted you.”

His next words don’t sound very wicked at all. “So have me then.” 

They fumble for a few moments. Belly has to hike up her dress, then shimmy out of her underwear. There’s no central air vent in the laundry room, and they’ve gotten warm, and everything clings to itself with a slight sheen of sweat. 

She spreads her legs. Her thighs are so full and soft. Conrad touches them, then touches the center of her, which is running with wetness. He loses focus and gets down on his knees and kisses the inside of her leg. 

She lets out a breathy laugh. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” 

She moans when his mouth touches her. She says “Conrad!” like she’s trying to chastise him. 

He pulls away, panting. “Oh, did you want me to stop?” 

She bites her bottom lip, swallowing a grin. “You don’t have to look smug. I just don’t understand why you get so into it, that’s all.” She’s shrugging up her shoulders, like she’s feeling self-conscious, but she’s still touching him. She combs her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t want to lose her. He doesn’t want to let this moment slip away or get trampled on. It feels so piercingly perfect. 

“Well, you see, when I do this —” he slides his tongue over her and shapes his mouth to the shape of her. “You usually start breathing really heavy, and sometimes I can feel your heart beating, like — like I can feel you flowing right into me.”

He blinks and worries for a moment that he’s lost her. But she stares down at him, her eyes shining, her mouth wet, just like his. 

“And when I do this —” He touches the tip of his tongue to her clitoris, very lightly. He retreats and returns, increasing the pressure until she cries out and pulls his head in tight, her grip rough in his hair. He takes a breath and laughs, gleeful. “Yep, exactly. That’s exactly what you do. I really like it when you do that.”

He can tell she’s on the edge of something. She rakes her hands through his hair again and angles his head backward so she can look him in the eye. “I can’t believe you’re mansplaining oral sex to me right now.” 

“I—” Conrad stops and laughs at himself, and at her — at the silliness of her mood. “Have you ever done it before?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You know I haven’t.” 

“So…I think I might be the expert here. Also, it’s not mansplaining if you asked.” 

She strikes his shoulder roughly with one of her knees. “I can’t believe I put up with you.” 

Conrad grabs her leg and slides his palm up her calf until he reaches the crease of her knee. He nudges her legs further apart. “Neither can I.”  

He returns to his task, and Belly’s urgency increases. She wrestles her legs around his face so he has to pin her with one hand tight on her hip. There’s such a warm feeling where they meet. It feels like he’s trying to swallow the sun. Belly rocks against his face, and she’s getting closer, he can hear it — that high note behind her breathing. He slides his fingers inside of her and twists them up towards her core. 

“Fuck —” she cries out, and then she’s pushing him away. Conrad surfaces in confusion, still chasing the taste of her, and the warm easy feeling on his fingers. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Belly says. “I just —” She laughs, but he knows it’s all self-consciousness. Her chest is red with embarrassment. “There are just so many people here, aren’t there?” 

“Yeah,” he says. He stands and wipes his mouth with the ribbed collar of his undershirt. “Yeah, no, you’re right. There’s a lot going on.” 

“I don’t want you to — I just —” She stops and starts. She gives him a look like, don’t you know what I mean? And he doesn’t, but he’s trying so hard. He doesn’t want to fuck it up. 

He wants to understand her on the first try.

“No, you’re right,” Conrad says. “This was really stupid. I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” 

Belly looks right at him and nods. Her chin is pointed, her mouth small and thoughtful, and Conrad thinks suddenly Oh no, oh no, I got it wrong. And then there’s this moment: he’s looking at her, and her hair’s gone all messy and her dress is askew, and it’s like she’s sixteen again. The feeling thickens around him until it’s almost real, until he could believe that Susannah was in the house with them, that he might hear her sing-song voice calling from the kitchen. Where did everyone disappear to anyway?

She’d laugh at them, wouldn’t she? If she found them like this. She’d be wearing an outfit all made of bright colors, her hair would swing loose to her chin. She’d look at them and laugh, and then she’d pretend to be stern, and maybe there’d be a little part of her that meant it. Steven’s gonna be bummed you disappeared, he wants to spend time with you! She’d say something about Jeremiah, too — of course she would — but here is where the illusion breaks apart and dissolves into nothing, because Conrad knows that Jeremiah isn’t here. He’s certain of that. And neither is Susannah. 

Connie grips a rail of the metal laundry rack. “Steven’s probably looking for us,” he says. The words sound stuttered. 

“Right,” says Belly, hard and flat. “Steven.” 

“What — what do you want me to do, Belly?” 

“I don’t know.” She lifts herself off the dryer. She flattens her hands down the fabric of her dress until it's all smooth again, like he was never there. “I don’t know what I expected you to do.” 

Conrad’s still half-gripped by the vision — of Susannah, and the house, and the ghosts that live trapped inside of them, the ghosts of themselves — so it’s exactly what he expects to hear and exactly what he expects to see. The same as it ever was. 

Belly walks away. 

The day has soured. A little before seven, Conrad tells Steven that he and Belly are about to hit the road. 

“What do you mean? You can’t leave,” Steven says. The party has moved into the long, fenced backyard, where several party guests have made an activity of warming up the chrome barbecue. “You’re supposed to be the grill master.” 

Conrad forces a smile. “I’m sure most of your friends are just as equipped as I am to, uh, don the grill-master hat. Or whatever.”

“It’s not the same,” says Steven, shaking his head. “I thought you guys might stay over, you know? I promise the guest room is entirely sound-proofed. For my own peace of mind.” 

Steven’s trying to tease him, but it hits all the wrong spots. Conrad’s chest curls inwards on itself. His hands are jammed deep into his pockets and it takes some effort to unearth one from the tight nest of denim. He points his thumb at a vague nothingness behind him. 

“Belly’s not feeling great. She wants to get started on the drive.” 

Conrad thinks Steven is about to try another joke, probably something about Belly’s alcohol tolerance, but then he reaches out and touches Conrad’s chest with an open palm. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know.” Steven drops his hand from Conrad’s chest but takes his shoulder with a firm grip. “You just had a funny look about you, I guess. You’re not getting panic attacks again, are you?”

“No, no.” Conrad waves a hand. “It’s just, it’s Belly, that’s all.” It’s the only explanation he can give. 

“What did she do?” 

It takes Conrad a moment to make sense of what Steven has said. It seems like such an odd thing for him to say. “She didn’t do anything. I think I — I bummed her out. I want to get her home.” 

Steven is nodding. He’s wearing that distant, judging expression of his, and Conrad feels the full force of his disappointment. He’s ruined another precious thing, left another mess. 

“Hey, can I tell you something my therapist told me?” 

Everything Steven says is more surprising than the last. “You go to therapy?”

“Are you kidding me, dude? What self-respecting man isn’t going to therapy, like, that’s literally just the bare minimum, you know?”  

“Right, yeah, no. You’re right, sorry.” 

Steven blows the air out of his cheeks and gives Conrad a pitying look. “Listen, she told me: sometimes, blaming yourself for everything is just as self-centered as blaming everyone else.” 

“Oh. Um —” 

“I know that sounds harsh. What I’m trying to say is, like: Belly is Belly. Belly being Belly isn’t always your fault, man. Honestly, I thought you’d have learned that by now, but I guess you’ve always been a little —” he wiggles his palm in a see-saw motion — “when it comes to her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know. You’re just a little…?” Steven shrugs. 

“Unstable?”

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” 

Conrad laughs weakly. It’s nice that Steven isn’t mad. 

“Look.” Steven points to the cluster that’s gathered around the grill. “Dogs are on. Guess we won’t be having another Franklin expedition scenario tonight .”

Conrad stares at him. 

“Cannibalism.” Steven says. 

“Oh, yeah, right. Good!”

Steven laughs and pulls Conrad close. “You should go home, man. It’ll all be fine, I promise.” 

Conrad hugs him for a long time. When they break apart, Steven claps him a few times on the shoulder. “Don’t forget, dude,” he says. “Belly is Belly.” 

Belly is Belly. Conrad thinks he can remember that. 

Traffic isn’t bad, but there are plenty of cars on the road. The glowing beams of over-bright headlights swirl around them. Conrad keeps his eyes fixed ahead on the checkered lines delineating the slow lane.

They exchange a few polite observations. It’s starting to get cool, isn’t it? It feels like fall. Belly loves fall, and Conrad tells her they should go to that orchard in Lancaster, the one that used to be a Conklin family tradition. Maybe Laurel will come too. Belly gives a small smile and says, “Yeah, maybe,” but Conrad can’t tell if the maybe is for Laurel or for the whole plan. 

When they reach the Turnpike, Belly scrolls through her phone and puts on Sour, which Conrad interprets as a bad sign. They’re almost to Trenton before he musters the courage to speak. 

“I had a good time at the party today,” he says.  

Belly takes a long moment to respond. “Did you? It seemed like you were pretty miserable to me.” 

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t, Belly.” 

“Then why did we leave?” 

Conrad opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. “I thought we left because you wanted to. After I…after the laundry room.” 

Belly speaks slowly and carefully, and Conrad has the sense that she’s trying to hold herself back. He imagines the long diatribe she is clipping short, the angry speeches she’s been rehearsing, which she must now edit into something she thinks he can bear. “You were the one who went cold in the laundry room. I —” She turns her face to the window, and Conrad can see a faint reflection of her from the corner of his eye — a wide, pale shape swimming against the glassy darkness. “I wanted to keep going.” 

“How was I supposed to know that?” 

“I don't know, the same way you know everything?” She says it like she really is unsure. 

“No,” Conrad says, and he’s almost laughing. He’s laughing because he’s so desperate, and so desperately relieved, to speak something true. Something that might be useful. 

“It doesn't work like that,” he says. “It doesn't work if I’m the only one who says it. You have to tell me what you want, too.” 

“I do tell you what I want.” 

“Sometimes! But sometimes you just — I don’t know.”

“What?”

Conrad’s eyes flick off the road a few more times, trying to gauge some insight from the side of her face. He takes a shaky breath.“I wanted you — all day, Belly. I don’t know how else I can tell you that. The more I tell you what I want, the more I get the feeling that you don’t want to know at all.”

She tilts her head and fidgets in the seat. “How can you say that?” 

“I feel like — there’s a part of you that never really wanted me to love you back.” The words feel violent leaving his throat. He feels like he’s a needle, or a knife, like he’s just punctured the entire moment, like he’s killed something that used to be alive. 

But Belly falls silent. She doesn’t speak, and the tension just grows and grows, and he realizes the moment is still there. It’s still stretching taut between them. He could reach out and touch it, but he doesn’t think he could puncture it, even if he tried. It’s in Belly’s hands now. 

“There’s a rest stop next right,” she says. She has to clear her throat as she says it. Her voice is a little hoarse. 

“I still have three-quarters of a tank.” 

“Take the exit, Conrad.” 

Conrad’s hand flicks up and engages the turn single. It’s another several hundred yards before the lane cuts to the right. A reflective blue road sign advertises gas, restrooms, Starbucks, Auntie Ann’s. He can see a group of tractor-trailers parked at the far end of the gas pumps, lined up in a row like giant white-backed beetles. 

“There,” Belly points as he navigates his way through the car lane. She wants him to park past the edge of the last truck, where even the ubiquitous fluorescent lighting starts to run thin. 

“Do you need to pee?” Conrad asks. 

Belly says nothing. She’s sliding one hand up and down the length of her seatbelt, making a high-pitched, repetitive noise. 

There’s a panic starting in Conrad’s chest. He pulls into Belly’s chosen spot and shifts the car into park. “Belly?” 

“You really want me to say what I want?” 

“Yes.”

He can only imagine the worst sort of things, but still. It’s better to get it over with. She’s giving him a resolute look, but he can tell she’s chewing the inside of her lip.

She flicks her eyes towards the back seat of the station wagon, then stares hotly into his face. 

“What?” He asks. 

She pulls a face. “Conrad.” 

“Please just tell me.” 

Belly tilts up her chin. “You know,” she says, half pleading. 

“I don’t. I don’t know. You have to say it.” 

For a moment, he thinks she won’t. She’ll cringe her way through the situation or give up. She’ll pull out. He understands. That’s exactly what he wants to do, every time.

But then she straightens her spine and squares her body at him. She fixes him with a dark look. 

“I want you in the back seat. Now.” 

Conrad’s body flushes with heat. For a moment he sits stiff and unresponsive, but then he catches up with his own mind and grabs for the door handle. 

“No,” Belly says. “Don’t go out that way. Then everyone will know what we’re doing.” 

“Right, yeah.” Conrad unbuckles his seatbelt — he’d forgotten that before — and for a dazed, foolish moment, tries to smile at her while also wrangling all of his limbs over the center console. Belly snorts at the sight and turns away, covering her mouth with her palm. 

“It’ll be your turn next,” he warns her. He stretches his body out on the back seat to receive her. 

“Who says I’m coming back there with you?” 

“Oh.” There’s another rush of heat, filling him with want. It’s the way she’s talking, that hard look in her eye, the fearlessness in her manner. 

But no, Conrad realizes, that’s not quite it. She is afraid, but she’s doing it anyway. She’s doing it because she wants to.  

“Have you really been wanting it all day?” Belly asks him. 

“Yes.” 

“How much?” 

“So much, Belly.” It’s easier with the seat between them. The shadows of the car, backlit with gas station fluorescence, cast everything in a surreal sort of light. The darkness brings a pleasant intimacy to every word. “I wanted you so much.” 

There’s a long pause, and Conrad busies himself fidgeting on the seat. He’s aware of every inch of his body. He knows he can’t think about it too much, or else he’ll just get needy and desperate, or shut down. He wants to be ready. He wants to give her whatever she wants. 

She breaks the silence. “Will you show me how much?” 

“Fuck —” Conrad fumbles with his belt clasp. His hands feel like they’ve become noodles, and the belt, too, is slippery and unwieldy. He pushes down the waist of his boxers and takes himself into his hand. He can hear Belly’s breath coming in and out, high and quick. He can imagine her bright eyes, her mouth half open as she watches him. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“Belly…”

“You know I used to imagine this,” she says. Her voice is quiet. “I used to imagine you, thinking about me.” 

“Fuck, Belly, please.” He doesn’t stop touching himself, but he reaches his other hand over the seat and grabs for her. His fingers brush something — her face? Her shoulder? He fails to fix her in his grasp. 

“Did you?” She asks. “Ever?” 

“Yes! Fuck — are you kidding me? Of course I did!” He makes a sound in his throat. “Belly, I swear to god if you don’t get back here right now…” 

“What?” 

Conrad closes his eyes. “I’m going to come before you get the chance.” 

He hears her moving then, limb over soft limb, and he stops touching himself, because he wasn’t lying. Maybe it’s just all the tension of the day, but his whole body feels close to breaching. 

She joins him in the back seat and he opens his arms to fix her tight against himself. For a little while, they just kiss. They’re both greedy about it. Belly’s leg is slung high on his thigh. The fabric of her dress rides up and pools around her waist. She rocks her hips, and he can feel the smooth wetness of her sliding against him. 

“You’re not wearing anything,” he says.

“I never put my underwear back on, after the laundry room.” 

Conrad lets out a long breath from his nose in the approximation of a laugh. “Are you trying to take advantage of my vulnerable state right now?” 

“Actually, I am. Yea.” 

They laugh together. Conrad twists his hips and Belly changes the angle of her body, and it’s as easy as that. They’re sinking into each other. It’s painfully good. It sears at the edges of his brain. 

“Did you really want me that whole time?” Belly says, moving in a small, steady rhythm. The friction burns up Conrad’s spine. 

“Are you talking about today, or—?” 

“Does it change your answer either way?”

“No,” he says. He lifts her hips, then lets her drop back onto him, and it pulls a cry from both of them. His voice is going hoarse. “No, it’s the same answer.” 

He wants to go slow but he can’t, and neither can she. They’re both chasing it, chasing each other. Trying to reach some new unbreached depth. 

“I want your hands on me, Conrad,” Belly says. The straps of her dress have fallen down over her shoulders, and she’s spilling out of it, into his hands, his mouth. 

He can’t believe he gets to see her like this. He can’t believe he gets to have her. It’s too much. It’s always been too much, loving her. Too much for him to carry, too much for him to hold without it overflowing and staining everything around him. 

But this is all he has left. So he wants to make it count.

Conrad pushes himself up into a seated posture, wrestling against gravity. The weird plastic shape of the back door digs into his spine. He doesn’t care. He peels the rest of Belly’s dress down and it falls to her waist. He slides his arms around her back and kisses the smooth skin below her jaw. 

“Conrad?” Belly says. Her motion has slowed. She curls her head down, brushing her nose against his cheek in the dark. “Will you tell me you love me? Will you tell me —” she pauses and restarts. “Will you just say it?”

Of course he loves her. Hasn’t he said it out loud? He’s said it today, he knows he has. Hasn’t he? The words are like a constant rush inside his head, but now he can’t remember how many of them he’s actually spoken. 

“I love you,” He touches the side of her face with his hand. Her lower lip is soft and full and he brushes it with the tip of his thumb. “I really love you, Belly. You’re so — you’re so good to me.” She didn’t ask for that last part, but as soon as he says it, she closes her eyes and lets out a long-held breath, almost a whimper.

“You don’t mean that,” she says. 

“I do. Of course I do.” He can feel the weight of her body resting on top of him, like he’s the only thing holding her up.

“But I’m not good to you.” 

“You are.” 

He moves inside of her, so she can remember how good she makes him feel. She accepts this. She meets his motion, they move together. His hand is still brushing her mouth, and she opens her lips and lets her tongue curl around his thumb. Conrad feels so full with her, like they could crawl inside each other and live there. 

“Fuck,” he says. Belly’s mouth is pulling him in and pulling him out of himself. Everything’s gotten a little rough around the edges. His other hand tangles in her hair, and then Conrad is coming. The feeling whites out his vision like a blow to the head, and that’s a cliché, isn’t it? But it’s true. 

It takes Belly another few moments. Then she’s collapsing against him and shaking and pressing herself as close as she can. They hold each other so tight that Conrad can’t breathe. He strokes the silk of her body, naked in the warm air, and it’s better than breathing anyway. It’s better than anything.

Afterwards, Belly says “I love you, too,” and it's almost too quiet to hear.

Connie thinks about his dead mother. 

He thinks about his father, retreating slowly from his life like a forgotten god. He thinks about Jeremiah, who may never speak to him with the love of a brother again.

It was worth it, he decides — for her. It was worth it for this. 

Even though he’s lost everything else.