Love, Panic, and Several Overdue Invoices
In “Backward Motion,” the Road to a Better Life Runs Through an Electrical Shop With Bad Bookkeeping and Surprisingly Good Emotional Management
By Demetris Papadimitropoulos | July 29th, 2026
Degrees, major clients and the right suit for a pitch meeting are meant to assure Sam Bryant that his life is rising. His hands disagree. They begin Sydney Rutherford’s “Backward Motion” trembling in a locked bathroom stall while the presentation meant to prove he can run a major account waits outside, his boss sends threats and his boyfriend calls not to help but to borrow money for drinks with an ex. Connor Finnegan’s hands, meanwhile, strip wire, steady ladders and locate faults behind walls. Sam has left Oakdale, Nebraska. Connor has kept much of it running. Neither man is doing especially well.
Everything Sam once used as proof now embarrasses him: the business degree, the Austin agency, the glossy clients, Felix, a boyfriend highly skilled at appearing desirable from across a room. Panic attacks cost Sam the job; Felix’s selfishness finishes what the office began. Back with his parents, Sam sleeps on a rollaway bed in the childhood room his mother has converted into an Etsy craft studio. She offers to buy him something permanent. He refuses. To Sam, a mattress would be a confession. Oakdale is not merely where he came from. It is the place against which he has measured every adult achievement, which makes returning feel less like geography than exposure.
Meanwhile, Connor runs Finnegan’s Electrical, where the wiring is far better ordered than the invoices. Once Oakdale’s town-certified delinquent, he now restores heat, answers emergency calls and supports the father who still treats him as an apprentice on probation. Ian’s multiple sclerosis has made Connor necessary without giving him much say. Connor carries the equipment, the family bills and most of his father’s anger. He is also closeted. “Remains” sounds almost restful. In practice, he drives elsewhere for sex, edits himself around customers and lets silence perform the introductions he cannot bear to make. Sam has made approval the condition of ambition. Connor has let duty absorb nearly every choice.
Even the office job looks to Sam like a demotion he cannot describe without lowering his voice. He has the status reflex of a man taught that difficulty becomes intelligent only after someone puts it in a deck. Then Connor takes him on service calls. Sam crawls beneath an old farmhouse in borrowed overalls and boots several sizes too large, holding a lamp he later discovers could have stood perfectly well by itself. He learns that electrical work requires diagnosis, memory, patience and the tact to enter another person’s home without behaving as if you own it. Connor watches Sam straighten out the bookings, invoices, overdue accounts and online presence. He had assumed Sam’s résumé meant Sam knew how to live. Sam had assumed an apprenticeship was what happened when college did not.
Time changes hands before affection does. Sam watches Connor trace a fault without tearing open every wall, calm anxious customers and carry technical knowledge his father treats as merely expected. Connor discovers that Sam’s marketing experience can do more than make bad ideas look expensive. Sam builds systems that spare him some evenings and protect the company from the chaos Connor has been carrying home. Connor teaches without humiliation, an almost exotic management philosophy after Sam’s Austin agency. Their courtship begins less with sparks than with accurate accounting. Each man becomes useful to the other without first being used by him, a distinction the novel understands more sharply than many romances that advertise healing as though it were a complimentary service.
Rutherford writes plainly and at a quick conversational pace, happiest when a feeling has an object to attach itself to: legal pads, booking software, pill bottles, quote forms, steel-toed boots, the photo strip Connor hides in his wallet. Connor’s dryness plays well against Sam’s nervous polish. Much of the comedy comes from the gap between how adults hope to appear and what their bodies, parents or borrowed footwear permit. The language rarely strains for display, and its modesty suits the book’s interest in service work and ordinary competence. In the sex scenes, that restraint becomes an ethic. Connor asks. Sam answers. Hesitation is noticed rather than converted into coy suspense, and Sam’s comfort matters more than the choreography.
In other scenes, Rutherford’s wish to be understood becomes repetition. Felix belittles Sam’s sexual insecurity, recasts boundaries as control and treats Sam’s money as though dating him came with a discretionary fund. We see the pattern, revisit it in memory and later hear Sam explain it back to Felix. Rutherford gives us the wound, the scan and, occasionally, the discharge notes. The clarity is useful in a novel concerned with how emotional abuse damages confidence in one’s own perception. It also means that few scenes are allowed to keep a second meaning after the narration has finished interpreting them. A gesture lands; an interior paragraph verifies the landing. The reader is trusted with feeling, but less often with uncertainty.
Perhaps the alternating viewpoints are necessary for that reason. Connor remembers Sam as the openly queer boy who endured Oakdale and escaped into accomplishment. Sam reads Connor’s standing in town as a calm Connor has never felt. Inside Connor’s chapters, fear arrives wearing sensible clothes: his father is sick, the company depends on him, everyone knows everyone, and leaving would not uncouple money from family. Sam’s chapters expose a different discipline. He has accepted stolen credit, staged humiliation and Felix’s contempt because the office, salary and boyfriend looked like evidence that he had made it. The backstory rarely overturns a first impression. It shows the years each man has spent manufacturing one.
At Finnegan’s Electrical, what they give each other can be counted. Sam gives Connor time by organizing the office and bringing overdue accounts under control. Connor gives Sam credit, both literally and in the older sense of believing him capable. The business plot keeps the novel’s middle from becoming a waiting room between kisses: bookings increase, systems improve, Connor gains breathing room, and Sam begins using the very skills he had come to associate with panic and theft. When he collects customer testimonials and nominates Connor for an Oakdale business award, he is not merely boosting the man he wants. He is writing down what Ian has refused to admit. Connor is good at this. His customers already know.
People stand at the ceremony and praise Connor’s patience, reliability and generosity. Ian responds by disparaging Sam and treating his changes to the company as trespass. Connor, attentive in bed and composed on a job site, cannot contradict his father in the room. The failure is worse because Sam has just done for Connor what Connor will not do for him. He has made private knowledge public. He has translated affection into testimony and given the town a record of Connor’s worth. Connor still expects Sam to disappear when recognition becomes personally expensive. Being loved in secret begins to resemble one more unpaid task.
After Sam resigns and ends the relationship, Connor cannot win him back by producing his father as mitigating evidence. Ian is ill. The business is old. Oakdale has excellent hearing. None of that obliges Sam to accept erasure. When Ian is hospitalized, Connor finally tells his mother and father that he is gay, frightened that death might preserve the silence he already hates. Sam comes to the hospital because Connor is in pain. He does not pretend that showing up has settled anything. That distinction matters: care does not revoke the boundary, and compassion is not treated as consent to resume the old arrangement. For a novel inclined toward explanation, these chapters wisely allow action to speak first.
During the final movement, however, trouble starts yielding with suspicious efficiency. Connor’s disclosure is less catastrophic than feared. Ian slowly relents. Their friends receive the couple without scandal. Sam returns to Austin, rejects Felix’s account of their relationship and collects his belongings. The company expands; the families mingle; Sam returns to an abandoned creative project; travel enters the plans. Romance owes no one permanent misery, but the epilogue hands out restoration so widely that homophobia, coercion, illness and financial dependence begin to resemble a backlog a competent office manager might clear by Friday. Satisfaction is part of the contract. Total administrative victory is not.
Ian gets off lightly. Earlier, he is sick, frightened, punitive and loved in the same room. He depends on Connor while keeping him small, criticizing installment plans, receivables and every decision suggesting the company might survive without his hand on it. Connor’s care is neither foolish nor pure. It is love, habit, money and fear sharing one set of keys. The later truce asks Ian to behave better but not really to face the years Connor arranged around him. Felix is thinner by design. Every appearance confirms the same manipulation. He clarifies what Connor is not, but he never changes shape, and Sam’s final refusal therefore feels necessary rather than surprising. The novel is better at showing how these men have injured Sam and Connor than at imagining what might complicate them.
More interesting is the refusal to let either Austin or Oakdale win. Like “Blueberry Boys” by Vanessa North, “Backward Motion” questions the inherited queer story in which departure equals liberation and return equals defeat, though Rutherford is less pastoral and much more interested in receivables, caregiving and the fatigue of looking successful. Austin gives Sam room to be gay and almost none to be uncertain. Oakdale gives Connor scrutiny and obligation, then a handful of people willing to know him differently. The town does not become innocent. It becomes possible. Rutherford’s point is not that home was secretly kind, only that leaving and freedom are not synonyms, any more than staying and surrender must remain so.
In both men’s minds, direction has been confused with progress. Sam believes he has gone backward because he is sleeping beside his mother’s sequins, answering phones at a local trade business and watching former colleagues inherit the work he conceived. Connor believes he has not moved because he still drives the same roads, carries the same family obligations and answers to the same father. Yet Sam’s advancement has been a treadmill with excellent branding, while Connor’s apparent stillness has required constant exertion. Sam has traveled farther. Neither has chosen much. The romance becomes meaningful when choosing, rather than merely enduring or achieving, finally enters the vocabulary of their lives.
The book’s social pressures remain close to the ground. Sam’s panic grows inside an agency that uses humiliation, stolen credit and disposability as management tools. Connor’s paralysis grows inside family care, where the dependable child can gradually lose permission to call sacrifice a choice. Rutherford is also sharp about rank. Sam does not abandon ambition when he stays in Oakdale. He uses the same abilities where he can keep the credit, exercise judgment and refuse the old terms. His recovery still includes medication and the recognition that panic will not vanish because one man is kind to him, but the narrative places its greatest faith in safer work, reciprocal love and a life no longer organized around being impressive. The problem was never that Sam wanted too much. It was that everyone around him had learned to charge admission to his own usefulness.
Rutherford’s directness, warmth and attention to practical life make “Backward Motion” easy to inhabit even when its prose leaves too little unsaid. Its best scenes understand that patience can be erotic, administration can be loving and praise can matter more when it enters the public record. Its weaker ones interpret the characters after they have already made themselves clear, then furnish a future from which nearly every hard edge has been removed. The novel earns 76/100, corresponding to 3/5 stars: substantial in feeling, conventional in language, and more intelligent about the difference between usefulness and exploitation than its tidy conclusion quite knows what to do with.
On the first page, Sam’s hands cannot carry the career he has built. Connor spends the novel repairing other people’s hidden systems while maintaining the dysfunction in his own. By the end, Finnegan’s Electrical belongs to both men, and Oakdale has become neither prison nor consolation prize. The future is cleaner than the past has earned. Still, the correction holds. Forward motion is not distance, rank or escape from witness. Sometimes it begins when two men learn which labor belongs to them, which burden never did, and which old room can finally hold a bed.