12. Twelve
Twelve
Noah
M y last class ended in the early afternoon, followed by my office hours, where I had at least three students come in to ask ridiculous questions about the assignment due next week. Unfortunately, I couldn’t bring myself to focus on anything other than seeing Lennon again. So, I found myself more irritable than usual when explaining, for the third time, what a rhetorical analysis paper consists of.
As I leave my office, the sun sits low on the horizon, bright pinks and purples streaking across the clear autumn sky. Checking my watch, I wince. I’m positive I’m going to be late for dinner with my parents.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had time, and my mother has taken to calling me three times a day for the last two days to ensure that I plan to keep my promise and show up after work. I’m not sure why she’s worried. I always show up when they invite me.
Climbing into my black Honda, I toss my leather bag into the passenger seat, put the key in the ignition, and promptly grab my phone from my pocket.
I haven’t heard from Lennon since I left the coffee shop this morning, and the anticipation is eating away at my resolve. I have to text her.
Me: You said something about the porch?
I stare at the device, waiting for a response. A solid two minutes go by before I decide I can’t risk being any later than I already am, but when the three dots pop up on the screen, indicating that she’s typing, I stay put. My willingness to negotiate my priorities feels problematic–a sort of litmus test for how the woman has slowly burrowed her way beneath my skin. My mind is now hyper-aware of her existence, and it feels as if there’s no going back.
A photo of the porch comes through.
Lennon: The railing is loose, and I’m pretty sure there’s a board that needs replaced. Might need more. Think it’s manageable?
The photo displays the wrap-around porch that I walked on the two other times I went to her house. Three times, if I count stopping by to pick up her things before she stayed over. I’m no expert, clearly, but I’m pretty sure the porch needs more than a sturdier railing and a few new pieces of wood. It would be a time commitment to learn how to fix all the issues that thing had.
Me: I can figure it out.
I leave the college, counting down the minutes from work to my parents’ house, and try to convince myself I’m not bothered by Lennon’s strange behavior earlier.
She acted so casually at the coffee shop this morning. While we are friendlier than before, you wouldn’t have been able to tell that we spent all night on my couch by the conversation we were having. You wouldn’t know that she’s one of the few people close to me who knows about Alexis aside from my family or that I am now privy to the small glimpse of her dynamic with her father.
I know how she tastes, the kinds of movies she likes, the way her breath feels on my lips–
It’s the kind of intimacy I avoid strategically, but Lennon appears unaffected. There’s no end goal there, but then why would there be an end goal?
The damage has been done. Things are complicated.
With the sun sinking lower, the light dims further, leaves floating along the wind outside the car. I clench the steering wheel harder, my knuckles turning white.
It was one hell of a kiss, and as far as I can tell, it meant absolutely nothing to her. Somehow, that is exactly the type of situation I look for, but this is Lennon .
This whole thing began because I felt I had something to prove. I wanted to prove that I was capable of more than my reputation. When I picked that fight last spring, I knew I was doing the right thing. As soon as Griffin started hanging out with Ellis, I knew things were serious. Things are serious. And Lennon comes as a package deal.
I didn’t want her to be hurt. I thought I could help and protect those in the new circle of friends I’d formed since Alexis. Deep down, I’d also wanted Lennon to like me. Especially since Lennon didn’t seem to like anyone.
And now, I’m realizing how difficult it is to earn her approval. I’m not sure why the fuck I want it so badly.
When I pull into my parents’ driveway, I throw the car into park and quickly snatch my phone from the passenger seat. Finding another text from her, I roll my shoulders in a feeble attempt to rid my body of frustration, and looking at her message does just that.
Her response feels like that approval I’d been seeking.
Lennon: You know, I could download a dating app again. I’m sure someone would be willing to fix all this shit. Then I wouldn’t bother you.
My brows furrow as I type my response.
Why the fuck would she think she’s bothering me? I’m practically begging for her attention, anyway.
Me: You’re not bothering me.
Me: Also. You’re on dating apps?
It shouldn’t come as a shock that a single woman in her mid-twenties would be using dating apps, but it makes me wonder how many dates she’s been on since last spring. She said she would have to download the app again, so she’s clearly not using it currently. Maybe she deleted it because she is dating someone.
No, that wouldn’t make sense. Lennon wouldn’t have kissed me if she were dating someone else.
Then again, there’s the chance that she’s in a casual relationship–one where they’re welcome to see other people. In which case, kissing me would be fully on the table.
I wince, my gut churning at the thought of Lennon with someone else–anyone else.
I’m not sure they’d be good enough for her.
What kind of man is she even looking for?
Her newest text comes through.
Lennon: How do you think I met your ex's little friend?
I snort.
Me: Makes sense. Do you like using dating apps?
Fuck, I sound stupid.
Lennon: Planning on getting your own account, Noah?
Lennon: Wait, do you already have one?
Me: I don’t.
I hesitate, fully aware that the message now sitting and waiting to be sent puts us in different territory. Asking seems like going too far, and still, I can’t help but wonder how she will answer.
Me: What do you usually look for on those apps, anyway?
The firm tapping sound on my car window startles me as I look up to see my dad waiting there, dragging the trash behind him.
I pocket my phone and get out of the vehicle to be met with my father’s deep scowl. The wrinkles carve themselves deeper into the center of his forehead with his disappointment, bushy eyebrows lowered in a way that reminds me of my childhood.
Equal parts kind and firm, my father had always believed in no nonsense. That is unless he donned those false Halloween teeth and a strange wig for the sheer joy of vacuuming up stink bugs while making my mother laugh. He’d always had a way of committing to the bit, calling himself an exterminator and bringing an infectious joy to what would arguably be a disgusting infestation of common midwestern pests.
Though his wrinkles are deeper, and I find myself noting all the physical changes that come with parents aging, he’s still the same dad. Especially when he’s scolding me.
“I’m just taking the garbage down, but your mom’s waiting, Son. Get off your damn phone.”
He hardly acknowledges me as he pulls the can down to the curb, and I close the door behind me, feeling somewhat like a child.
“You realize I’m over thirty, Dad.”
He makes his way back up the gently sloped driveway, a pale hand running along his graying beard. “Not around here, you’re not.” He places a hand on my shoulder, just shy of too firm, as he directs me to the door. It’s only when he squeezes a touch that the smile breaks on his face. “Missed you this week,” he says.
“Missed you guys, too.”
The front door swings open, and I’m greeted with warm air and fond memories as I hang my coat in the closet. The stairs to the right still have a long gallery of my school photos leading the way and making me wish I’d had a sibling so the whole thing would look less like a shrine.
My dad disappears down the hall, headed toward the kitchen at the back of the house as I check my phone again on impulse–eager for any scrap of attention from Lennon.
Lennon: What do I look for in guys, you mean?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
I quickly tuck my phone in my pocket again to ward off the embarrassment of the question I’m asking. Lennon comes with a brazenness that I find attractive. She’s outspoken, true to herself, loyal, and clearly devoted to whatever it is she wants to do. Alexis was the exact inverse of that. Directionless, certainly not loyal, and nowhere near as outspoken. It’s probably why there were so many secrets she was hiding from me.
With Lennon, it’s different. She’s honest to the point of being rude, but something about that relaxes me. I don’t have to worry about how she’s perceiving me. It’s like that brazenness gives me permission to reveal my true self.
Being friends with Lennon is easy.
Aside from how convoluted our friendship has gotten.
I find my family in the kitchen, my mom chopping vegetables as my dad sorts through mail by the kitchen table, presumably working towards clearing it off for our dinner.
“There’s my son,” my mom says, her eyes focused on the mutilated carrot before her. “I was beginning to think you did not exist. I thought that maybe you were a ghost.”
I chuckle, wrapping an arm around her and kissing her on the side of the head. Her warmth seeping into me despite her attitude about me missing last week’s dinner.
“It’s so good to see you too, Mom. I’m so glad I’m not like any of those other adult children that move states away from their parents and never call.”
She lets out a humph and continues working.
When my phone vibrates, I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
I grab a glass from the cabinet, using the filter on the refrigerator to fill it and take a sip as I check my newest message.
Lennon: I typically look for large penises.
I choke on my drink, my dad coming around to pat my back and ask me if I’ve ever had water before.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, setting the glass down on the counter.
Me: The most important of qualities, I’m sure. Is that your conversation starter? A request for dick pics?
Once again, her response is almost immediate. I feel as though I’ve won the lottery with the rapid reply.
Lennon: Oh, absolutely. I have to fully assess the situation before anyone is allowed any physical contact.
I can’t fight the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Me: You’ve gotten lax with your requirements. I got to kiss you without the proper vetting.
Lennon: I thought we weren’t talking about that.
Me: We aren’t.
Lennon: You brought it up.
Me: I did.
And I’m not sure why. After my long speech about regretting the kiss, I’m drawing even more attention to it. Maybe it’s because I don’t actually regret it.
That kiss has imprinted itself on my mouth and in my memory–the soft strands of her hair, the way her body melted into mine, the feel of her plump lips.
“Noah,” my mom’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Here,” she says, passing a cucumber, a small wooden cutting board, and a knife to me. “If you’re here, help. Cut this, please. Besides, it will be good for you.”
I chuckle. “Of course, Mom.”
Lennon: Would you like me to judge yours? I’m happy to rate your penis, Noah.
I can feel my heart beating like a kick drum in my chest. I stand in front of the cutting board, gripping the cucumber in my hand and snapping a photo, quickly sending it to Lennon before getting to work.
The kitchen is relatively quiet as my dad stands next to my mom, planting a kiss on her temple and looking so in love. It makes me question the last five years of my life.
I was so close to emulating that kind of relationship–or so I thought.
For the longest time, my parents' quiet and steady affection was my most formative example of love. It was something I grew to crave. So, when Alexis and I began getting serious, I jumped at the chance to create a marriage like theirs.
The only problem is my parents have lasted decades, and my relationship fell apart so quickly it was almost embarrassing.
It’s hard to believe how experiences can change your perspective on love. One bad memory can poison the concept forever.
I cut the cucumber, talking to my mom about her newest obsession with adult paint by numbers kits. June Peterson, Griffin’s mom, is a well-known local artist. She is also one of my mom’s best friends.
My mom continues cooking while speaking. “It makes me feel as if I could be as good as her, you know?”
I smile, stealing a piece of carrot from the salad she’s prepared and popping it in my mouth. “June cannot cook, Mother. You don’t have to be as good at painting. You have your own talents.”
My mom looks up, dark eyes blazing. “I’ll have whatever talents I would like to have, Noah.”
I chuckle again, and so does my dad as he wraps a hand around her waist. “Of course, sweetie. You are the most talented.”
“Go set the dining room table, Noah. We are about ready to eat,” she says, and I use the opportunity to check my phone once more.
Lennon: A ten for size, but I’m taking points off for the green coloring. An eight out of ten isn’t so bad.
Me: Does that mean I passed?
I’m smiling wider, setting plates around the kitchen table as my mom brings the food in.
Lennon: You coming to fix the porch tomorrow?
I type out one last message, promising that I’m going to soak up some time with my family.
Me: Of course, I’ll be there tomorrow. No classes until evening. I can be there in the morning.
Lennon: Nine in the morning is good.
Me: Yeah, okay. Nine is good.