Summary: Â Connor and (Y/N)'s relationship start to take a different turn as they get to know the real version of each other.
Song Inspiration: Born To Die / Lana Del Rey
Warnings: | language | drug use | mentions of suicide | mentions of self-harm | first person writing | mental illness | teenage angst |
Connor was in absolutely no shape to drive. After we got food, I let him have one of the joints I stashed in the glove compartment. And then after that, it went against my conscience to let him drive himself home.
Connor lived in a huge ass house at the end of a cul de sac. The sheer size of it left me in awe. I swear, I could fit my bedroom in their closets. "Holy shit," I muttered under my breath. A short haired, redheaded woman who I assumed was Connor's mom was out on the front lawn doing pilates. At the same time, a silver Mercedes was pulling into the driveway. Mrs. Murphy dropped everything she was doing and jogged over to my car. I rolled down the passenger seat window.
"Hi Mrs. Murphy, I'm (Y/N). Just dropping Connor off," I introduced myself.
"Oh, thank you! I'm Cynthia." She grinned painfully widely. She extended her hand through the window to shake mine. "Connor, what happened to your car?" she asked.
"He's high," a masculine voice stated. The man who I assumed was Connor's dad emerged from the Mercedes. He set down his brief case and went to shake my hand as well. "Thank you for bringing Connor back. I'm sorry if he was any trouble," said Mr. Murphy, his face painted with disgust at the sight of his son. Connor rolled his eyes and hid his anger behind a passive-aggressive smile. He slammed the car door open, not giving a shit that his dad was standing directly in front. He muttered a goodbye under his breath and stormed into the house.
"He can be like that," Cynthia nervously chuckled. "How do you know Connor, (Y/N)?"
I couldn't help but focus on Connor slamming his house door. His mom seemed sweet. His dad on the other hand was a piece of work. Judging by Mr. Murphy's formal attire and brief case, and not to mention the large house, this man made some good money.
"Oh uh, we met in support group."
"Oh!" Cynthia started, her face portraying a million emotions at once. She went from shock to excitement and then confusion, which she tried to hide with a cheesy and toothy grin. "That's wonderful! I didn't know Connor goes to support group. Did you know, Larry?" she asked turning to her husband. The same disgusted look washed over Larry Murphy’s face again, but with a hint of confusion as well.
"Oh, well I'm so happy that Connor is making friends! How about you join us for dinner tonight, (Y/N)? I'd love to hear more about how you and Connor became friends," suggested Cynthia.
I knew that dinner with the Murphy's would be a whole new level of discomfort. But like an idiot, I said yes anyways. I reached over to my night stand and grabbed my phone to text Connor.
just a heads up, your parents invited me over for dinner tonight
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I awaited a response.
y the fuck would u say yes?
His response took a lot longer than usual. I double checked my phone.
I grinned widely, then glanced up to check the time.
I pulled up to the Murphy house at around 7. Not a single light was out in the entire house. I parked the car by the curb.
My hands trembled as I went to ring the doorbell. The whole idea of sitting down with the Murphy's for dinner made my skin crawl. I decided to heed Connor's advice and wear something somewhat nice. The only thing that wasn't lying on my bedroom floor or in the hamper was a black cocktail dress that still had the tag on. I didn't expect that I would need it until now. To accompany my look, I did a natural makeup look and put on a pair of faux diamond earrings. Fake it till you make it, right?
My hand froze as I reached out to ring the bell. Just ring the fucking doorbell, I told myself. Each time my finger inched closer, I felt my heart being dragged down to the pit of my stomach. What if I just told Connor that I was feeling sick and just left. Or what if I say that my car wouldn't start? Or what if-
Before I knew it, my finger was on the button and the doorbell sound echoed in my mind. Muffled voices shouted at each other back and forth and a pair of rushing footsteps reached the door. A young girl, probably a year younger than me, opened the door. She was really pretty, I admit. She sported a vibrant floral sundress, a polar opposite from what I wore. She wore her long hair pulled back in a braid, which gave her an innocent presence.
"Hi, uh, I'm (Y/N). I'm Connor's friend," I awkwardly introduced myself and extended my hand. The girl showed the same courtesy.
"Connor doesn't have any friends," she quipped. "Zoe. Come on in. Mom's just finishing up the lasagna and Dad's in the living room."
The inside of the Murphy home was slightly different than I expected. Judging by the extravagant exterior and the white picket fence, you wouldn't have any doubts about how this family was kept together. As Zoe led me through the long hallways to the family room, I examined all of the framed pictures on the walls. There were countless pictures of 8 year old Connor in a Little League uniform. There were also a few of little Connor and little Zoe together in one of those professionally photographed scenes, the ones only people with good money could afford. The family portraits made the family look like royalty. The pictures came to a sudden halt. There weren't any more pictures that passed Connor's fourth grade year, and Zoe's third.
The shift in atmosphere pulled me out of the rabbit hole of theories in my mind.
"She's here," Zoe said to her mother. Cynthia Murphy directed her attention from her cooking to me. Her royal blue dress and beige shawl made her stand out from the monochromatic color scheme of the kitchen.
"You look wonderful, (Y/N)!" Cynthia exclaimed as she pulled me in for a hug. "Connor's just upstairs. Why don't you go see him?" she suggested, which made my cheeks heat up and flush. She pointed over to the main staircase that led to Connor's room.
I dragged my hand against the railing as I made my way up. There were three doors at the top of the staircase. One was a plain white door that had colorful foam stickers that spelled out "Zoe." The colors looked aged and faded. The other was a pair of double oak doors, which had to the Larry and Cynthia's room. The last was a black door with a gilded handle. That had to be Connor's room. Coming from behind the door was "Yesterday" by The Beatles playing on a speaker.
The door had been left open wide enough for me to shimmy my body through. I wanted to knock, but that was before I noticed that Connor wasn't wearing a shirt and his hair was tied up in a messy bun. His topless torso caught me by surprise. My eyes maintained focused on his toned chest. But more importantly, my eyes drifted over to his exposed arms. Scars, both faded and recent, littered up the inner parts of his arms. My jaw slacked and I let out a silent gasp.
I tapped my knuckles gently against the door and backed away from the opening before Connor could look over. I heard him quickly reach for a dress shirt to at least cover up his arms. The door swung backwards as he opened it.
"Hey," he said, weirdly sounding out of breath. His eyes raked over my entire outfit.
"Hey." My cheeks were embarrassingly red and hot as I couldn't get the image of him topless out of my head. I gave him a quick spin to show off my outfit. "Nice enough for you?" He let out a breathy chuckle.
“Yeah, good enough I guess,” he smirked.
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