A Year With Connor Haynes

prologue

prologue

        I had always liked the idea of happy endings -- but who doesn't, right? And I knew that they never truly occurred in the real world. I had always known that. I just liked the idea, that's all. But see, the thing of it all was that I liked to believe that happy endings could occur only because the person experiencing the ending felt that it was happy too. A person like me. A person like Connor Haynes.

        I wasn't very fond of story-telling, and I rarely told them, but in the blistering summer of 2007, I stumbled upon a boy who changed my point of view. He was a best friend. But he was also a lover. I liked to think of him that way -- think of him like he meant something. Connor wasn't the type of boy you just so happen to trip over on the street corner curb with your headphones in and the music turned up so loud you can barely hear yourself think. He was the type of guy you'd want to purposely trip over to say something to. So I did. Many times. Several times in a row. I literally fell head over heels for this kid.

        But that's not the whole story. In fact, I don't much like that version of us myself. So...I guess I won't tell it that way. I'll tell it how Connor would've wanted it; short, simple, blissful. And so it's pretty unfortunate that my writing doesn't really give him any justice, don't you?

        The California weather always felt so stiff to me. It was all the time, around the clock, hot. Like, melt-a-human-alive kind of hot. The air was sticky and it weighed down on your shoulders like a huge slab of cement, and to a bony seventeen year old with little to no muscle, it was like going through an eternity of gym class.

        So I trailed my feet along the main street that leads you to one place and then to the other, which happens to be the only two places I go; my home and to the bus stop. My headphones are in my ears, and my finger constantly presses down on the volume button, and the music begins to make my headache. But don't get me wrong, I loved music. I was more into classical music, though. My phone was full of Beethoven and Mozart -- the types of records a parent might have for their infant.

        And then -- well, then I tripped. I felt my feet slip right out from under me and my eyes are glued to a pavement only a couple of inches in front of my face. The scorching cement burned my skin to a crisp, sent me into a crying fit. The fall had pulled my headphones out, and I could feel the warmth of blood rushing out from my knee caps. I recovered quickly, jumped to my feet, ignoring the burn in my legs. I dusted myself off, repeating an apology, and then I looked up, and it finally stops me from doing everything at one time.

        All I can see is the angered face of a boy, no older nor no younger than I. His eyes are this soft kind of angry -- this deep, purified shade of blue. I can tell that his skin is definitely darker than mine, even for the hat that shields his face. And I'm just stuck on his expression. I can barely even speak.

        "S-sorry," I say, and I know that I probably didn't sound like I even meant it the least bit.

        He looks up, and the anger disappears. I can clearly make out his facial features  as the sunlight catches a glimpse of his face. He's got this really smooth texture to his skin, and eyelashes that outline his dark eyes. Lips parted, he mumbles through a scratchy voice, "No, it's okay. It's my bad too. I had my leg out, which is probably why you tripped."