Infatuate by Aimee Agresti Page B

conversation. Connor stood, his cola-filled stemware in hand. “Hey guys! Just wanted to say I hope everyone had a good first week despite a little bit of a rough start.” My mind set on an image of that dead man in the street on New Year’s Day. I had been trying to snuff it out all week long. “But we’re glad you’re here, and here’s to a great few months ahead! Cheers!” A chorus of ping s broke out as everyone knocked their glasses together. Sabine turned to Lance, toasting him and then saying something that made him smile. “And also,” Connor went on, “I hope y’all enjoy being treated like kings tonight because we’re going on a retreat this weekend—”
    A chorus of curious What? s and Huh? s swept the table.
    “And it’s a little rustic. More to come but—”
    “Aren’t we kind of already on a retreat? Here in New Orleans?” Brody, laughing, looked around the table for agreement. He leaned back his chair so it was balanced on its two back legs.
    “Oh, y’think this is a retreat?” Connor smiled at him, perfectly calm.
    “I mean, yeah, kinda,” Brody said with another staccato laugh.
    Still smiling, Connor kicked one of the legs of Brody’s chair in a sharp and quick movement. It slid to the floor, taking Brody with it. He looked up from the ground for a second, like he didn’t know what hit him. Sabine gasped. The whole table fell silent.
    “Are you insane?” Brody snapped at Connor, clumsily getting back up on his feet.
    “No, man,” he said, entirely affable. “I’m just bein’ me. Why don’t you take a lap around the block and come back, okay?”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Deadly,” he said. “Go on. Look, now you’ve gone and made all your friends nervous. Come back in a better mood.” I glanced over at Lance, who looked stricken. There was something so jarring, terrifying even, about seeing someone say and do harsh things with a smile. The disconnect rattled me. Without another word, Brody stormed away, letting his hand slap against the doorframe. Connor sat back down, still grinning. “More food for us, right?” he said. Then to Tom: “Can ya pass the oysters? You guys gotta try these. They’re famous here.”
    “They look great,” Dante said, trying to break the silence. “I’m gonna steal one before they disappear.” He grabbed one with a spoon just before Tom swooped up the plate. Connor started talking sports with Jimmy and slowly, the conversations began again, all of us making a group effort to act as though nothing had happened.
    Sabine and Lance were already locked in some sort of tête-à-tête, Dante and Max were equally engaged with each other, so that left me and Tom.
    “Glad that wasn’t me,” he said. He shoveled some salad into his mouth.
    “Yeah, me too,” I said quietly. “I didn’t take Connor for such a tough guy. I don’t know why; must be the accent.”
    “Yeah, I know what you mean, and he’s pretty cool all around. But he’s fierce on the court, which I also never woulda guessed. Usually I can tell just by lookin’.”
    “The court?”
    “Basketball?” He rolled his eyes like I was some kind of idiot. “I’ve played a pickup game or two with him in my time and that guy is fast and scrappy.”
    “When have you had time to play basketball?” I stopped eating to look at him. “They’ve been keeping us pretty busy.”
    “Yeah, but I mean, back home.”
    “You know Connor from home?” Now he had my interest.
    “Met him this summer. We worked out at the same place.”
    “You’re from . . .” I tried to remember. “LA?”
    “Seattle.”
    “Oh, I was thinking, you had a Lakers top on the other day.”
    Tom rolled his eyes again, frustrated with me. “First of all, it’s a jersey, not a top. Second, Seattle lost its basketball team a few years ago—it was ugly—so I changed my allegiance. Desperate times.”
    If that qualified as a desperate time in Tom’s life, then clearly we had little in common.
    “Right.