Chapter 71: The Interlude

The diner in Greensboro smelled of bacon grease and burnt coffee. Steve sat in a cracked vinyl booth near the back, a half-eaten slice of pecan pie growing cold on the plate in front of him. The afternoon light slanted through the dusty windows, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily through the air.

He was exhausted.

Not the bone-deep exhaustion of a night spent tangled in the arms of his women, though there had been plenty of that too. No, this was a different kind of tired. The kind that settled behind his eyes and made the world feel slightly out of focus, like watching a movie projected through a dirty lens.

For the past six days, he had crisscrossed North Carolina like a man possessed. Raleigh had been first, then Charlotte, Asheville, Wilmington, Fayetteville, and now Greensboro. Each stop brought new faces, new voices, new stories that rattled around in his skull long after the conversations had ended.

He had met textile workers and tobacco farmers, schoolteachers and small-business owners. He had sat in living rooms that smelled of lemon polish and old books, in church basements with folding chairs and fluorescent lights, in community centers where the walls were covered with children’s finger paintings and faded photographs of O’Connor gatherings from decades past.

Some of them had greeted him with open arms, pressing homemade cookies into his hands and calling him Heather’s grandson with a warmth that felt almost familial. Others had been skeptical, their eyes narrowing as they studied him, looking for the lie beneath the surface. A few had been openly hostile, their questions sharp and probing, designed to cut through the pleasantries and expose him as a fraud.

Steve had taken it all in stride.

He had learned early in the tour that the worst thing he could do was pretend to have all the answers. The O’Connor clan had survived for over three hundred years, and its members were not impressed by empty words or political posturing. They had seen too many would-be leaders rise and fall, too many smooth talkers who promised change and delivered nothing but disappointment.

So Steve had done the one thing that seemed to surprise them most.

He had listened.

Heather sat across from him now, her silver hair pulled back in a loose chignon, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she scrolled through a tablet. Luisa was two booths away, nursing a cup of black coffee and watching the door with the kind of easy alertness that made it clear she could be across the room in a heartbeat if needed.

Margaret was beside Steve, her thigh pressed against his under the table, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his forearm as if she couldn’t bear to be separated from him even by a few inches of air. After the incredible night they had shared—the night when he had utterly destroyed any expectation she had about sex, taking her apart piece by piece until she had forgotten her own name—she seemed to crave his touch, no matter how fleeting it was. She had stayed by his side through every meeting, every handshake, every awkward silence. Her presence had become an anchor, a quiet constant in the chaos of the road.

“What’s on your mind, Steve?”

Heather’s voice cut through his reverie. She had set down the tablet and was watching him over the rims of her glasses, her green eyes sharp with concern.

Steve stirred his coffee, though it had gone cold an hour ago. “Just thinking.”

“About the council meeting?”

He let out a slow breath. “Among other things.”