adjective

       • implied without being spoken; understood.  

Connor's phone rings at nine four days later, interrupting his habitual late-night meal of freshly brewed coffee and a chocolate croissant from the family bakery down the road. He licks the leftover cocoa off his fingers, wipes them on his sweatpants and reaches for the trilling technology with a curious frown. The screen reads MOM in big, capitol letters just in case he gets ahead of himself and starts thinking she's not larger than life.

"Hello?" he greets, voice routinely arching into a question despite the fact that he already knows who it is. It's a habit. Connor has both a lot of those and very few he actually sticks to.

"Connor, sweetheart," his mother's adoring voice cuts down the line. He can hear the smile in her words, the one that's always there when he asks her to call him or tells her he misses her. It makes him smile, too, so wide his face feels like it might break right in half.

"Mom," he breathes, relief coating every ounce of his tone. He feels better already, the whole ordeal with Troye that's been plaguing his mind for nearly five days now no longer seeming so bad. His mom will know what to do, what to say to make him feel better, what to say to make him understand what he's been missing here. She always does. It's just one of the infinite reasons he loves her so much.

"I would have called sooner, but your sister was busy giving us all heart attacks with her new-found interest in rock-climbing. Nothing to worry about, though. She got over it pretty quickly, thank God. Now she's applying for the school's yearbook club."

Connor laughs. It's so much like Nikki that it hurts, a dull thrum of nostalgia accompanied by the steady resonance of longing. Sometimes he feels like he's missing so much, living states away in a vibrant city that's never been as bright as the home he grew up in. "It's fine, Mom. Some things never change."

His mother hums softly in response, her voice much gentler as she replies, "And some things do. I miss you, Connor."

He sighs, combing a hand through his freshly-showered locks of thick brown hair. He picks up the plate he'd been eating off of, tossing his empty paper coffee cup in the trash and setting the dishes in the sink. "I miss you too, Mom. Tell everyone I love them for me, would you?"

"Of course. Did you want to talk for any certain reason or was it just because you missed me?" Cheryl inquires, the sound of movement before a door clicks shut flowing behind her question as the sandy shore beneath the gentle sea.

Connor hesitates, contemplating where to start and how much to divulge. His mother must sense his trepidation in that eerie way she always seems to know exactly what he's feeling because, not a moment after he sucks in a deep breath and turns to lean back against the counter, she shifts her voice to something sweeter, more affectionate.

"Connor, love. You know you can always tell me anything, right? I love you no matter what."

He lets out a nervous laugh in response, tugging at his hair again as he presses the phone harder to his face. "You make it sound like I'm about to come out or something."

"Well," his mom quips easily. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Oh my God," he groans. "No, I'm gay. We've established that already. I wanted to talk to you about a boy I met, actually."

He can practically hear the Christmas lights flickering on in his mother's expression, illuminating whatever enclosed room she's hiding out in to keep their conversation private from the three eavesdroppers in the house. She makes a noise of interest that's clearly been very restrained and he can easily picture the bright smile cracking across her happy features. "Oh? Do tell me more about this boy of yours."

He rolls his eyes, resisting a laugh as his own smile finds its way back to his face after four days of making itself scarce. "It's not like that, Mom. We're just friends. I think so, anyway. Maybe not anymore."

"Oh," she comments, her tone much less bright and excited. He can hear the frown lacing it now, concern touching at the edges of her vocal chords. He almost feels bad, before he remembers her investment in his love life is immensely frustrating.  "What makes you say that?"

"I just..." he trails off, gathering a heavy breath into his lungs and sensible thoughts into his brain. He picks at a chip in the counter behind him with one hand, blunt nails bitten to stubs as he scratches them across the smooth surface. "We got into a fight and he stormed off. I've been going down to where we usually meet, too, but he hasn't been there in the past couple days. I don't even know why he was mad, Mom."

There's a beat of considerate silence through his apartment and the phone line connecting him to a home he hasn't been to visit since Easter. Weight hangs heavy in the air, balanced on the scale Cheryl's concocting for it as she considers her next words thoughtfully, the way she usually does when something is relatively important. It's probably the reason Connor always feels this urge to go to her with all of his problems, relying on her reason and calm in any situation to make it seem less daunting. This situation, as it turns out, is no exception.

"What was the fight about?" she prods carefully.

Connor laughs. "Honestly? I'm not even sure. All I did was ask about his parents, like where he lives, you know? I was just concerned because he never talks about his family and he doesn't really have the right clothes for winter. Not to mention he isn't in school when he really should be. He totally freaked when I did, though, and accused me of thinking he couldn't take care of himself and like, I don't know. I told him I was worried. He said I didn't have any right to be."

Another silence, this time more hesitant than the last. Then, "How old is this boy?"

Connor frowns. That's not the question he's trying to seek answers for and he has no idea how it's at all relevant to the point he's actually making. Still, he trusts his mother and whatever thread she's picking apart here. "Seventeen, why?"

He can hear the breath she lets out like a siren flaring off right by his ear, jerking his hand away from the counter and pushing himself fully upright as he shifts the phone from one side to the other. He's about to ask her what's so bad about that when her voice cuts through the stable static.

"It's probably a sensitive topic, Connie," she says, like that's at all what she was thinking. He doesn't call her out on keeping her epiphanic realizations from him, but he wants to. "Everybody's got a few that set them off. I wouldn't worry too much, I'm sure everything will work itself out just fine."

Connor hums. It's not what he'd been hoping for, but somehow it's still comforting to hear. He breathes a sigh of relief and darts a glance over to his calendar, noting he's got a clear schedule after his morning classes tomorrow. He'll check the square again, hang out at their coffee shop for a bit. Just in case.

His voice is soft as he sighs, "I really like him, Mom."

"I know you do, sweetheart."

He chokes. "I think it might be as more than just a friend."

"I know, love."

He swallows. "He's just a kid."

"No, Connor," his mother replies softly. "He's really not."