Page 47 of Backward Motion

His mom stood, shaking her head with a smile. “Connor Finnegan,” she marveled.

Connor dropped his gaze and reached for the dripping serving bowl on the rack. “Just when you tell Dad, try not to make it this huge thing. And he doesn’t have to come—I know it’s not really his crowd.”

She dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her rubber glove. “He’ll be there. Don’t you worry about that.”

That was the problem, though. When it came to his dad, Connor couldn’t help but worry.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sam sat at his mom’s craft desk and flipped through the pages of the old screenplay Brian had given him. It was equal parts ridiculous and endearing, like peering through a portal into the past. He cringed as he read the halting dialogue with its clunky undertones written by a pair of kids who thought they were being provocative. The story was derivative, an homage to the movies he and Brian were into at the time. But it also reminded Sam of another version of himself—freer, imaginative, less concerned about what people thought. Maybe Brian was onto something.

On the bed, Sam’s phone began to ring. It was Connor. He picked it up. “Hey.”

“Hey, Sam, uh...” Connor sounded oddly panicked. “I have no clue what to wear tonight. I’m kind of freaking out over here.”

The week had flown by, and while Connor seemed blasé about the impending awards ceremony, Sam had a feeling he was more nervous than he let on. Admittedly, Sam had been a little pushy putting him forward like that, but he thought it would be good for Connor to step out of his comfort zone. And he had. He’d even kept his word to Sam and invited his parents. That might explain the panic. Sam could understand why having his dad in the audience was more nerve-racking for Connor than the actual results.

“Thought you didn’t care about this thing,” he teased.

“Yeah, yeah,” Connor muttered. “But I don’t want to be the only guy who shows up looking like an electrician.”

“Do you want me to help pick something out?”

“Yes, please.”

Sam laughed. “It’s cute how frazzled you are. I’ll be over in fifteen, okay?”

When Sam arrived at Connor’s apartment, he found the man’s wardrobe empty and its contents strewn across the bed.

“This is what I wore to my grandfather’s funeral,” Connor said, picking up a boxy black suit from the pile. A red-and-gray-striped tie was looped around the hanger.

Sam made an idle murmur, not wanting to reject it out of turn before he’d seen the state of Connor’s remaining clothes. “It’s a start. Let’s see what else you’ve got.” He waded through T-shirts, double-kneed work pants, sportswear, and swim trunks before coming across a couple of decent-looking button-downs. “With your skin tone, you should really avoid light pastels,” Sam said absently as he flicked through the shirts. “Stick to cream, navy, warm browns.”

Connor chortled. “What is that, color theory?”

“It’s a science,” Sam huffed, but his cheeks warmed as he realized he’d let his guard down. He felt so relaxed around Connor he’d forgotten to censor his weird little quirks.

“I’m not making fun,” Connor assured him and gave Sam’s earlobe a playful tweak. “I am but your humble student. Teach me your ways.”

“The trick is, not everything has to match. They call it spezzato—a broken suit.” Sam pulled out a cream-colored shirt and paired it with the black slacks from the funeral suit. “If you have another jacket in here somewhere, we might be onto something.”

Sure enough, under a pile of record-store tees, they found a tan blazer. “Try this on.” He ushered Connor into the bathroom with the pieces they’d selected. “See if it works.”

When Connor emerged, he was grinning broadly, looking very sharp in his new ensemble. Sam stepped over to smooth the tuck of the shirt and straighten the buttons on the collar.

“I never would have put this together!” Connor turned to admire himself in the mirror on the closet door.

Sam smiled. “What color ties do you have?”

Connor looked sheepish. “Just the funeral one.”

“Let’s go for a dark blue. I’ll lend you one of mine.” Sam rummaged through his bag. He’d brought a few along with him—the only item in his wardrobe that Connor could fit. Sam looped the tie around Connor’s neck and began on the knot. He had to think carefully as he did the routine in reverse.

When he was done, Connor stood back and looked again in the mirror. He smoothed out the fabric of the jacket, unable to hide his smile. “Wow.”

Sam couldn’t get over the difference. He looked like the kind of man who would catch his eye on the streets of Austin, buoyed by blind confidence and good looks. Sam was glad Connor liked what he saw—a version of himself untethered to the weight of his responsibilities.

Connor wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and nuzzled against his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered in Sam’s ear.