2. Two
Two
Noah
I f there’s anything I know about Lennon, it’s that I know absolutely nothing about her at all.
My job requires that I be the one who knows everything, so my inability to figure her out remains a constant issue. It’s bordering on obsession, and for some fucking reason, she seems to be everywhere since Griffin and Ellis got together.
Nothing about her makes sense. For starters, she’s the one who struck up the conversation to begin with, so having her dismiss me the way she did seems like I was set up to be humiliated.
I’m not usually this unlikable. Why the fuck does she find me so unlikable?
I feel like one of those people trying to reach her about her car’s extended warranty, but Griffin refuses to give me her number. I’m pretty sure he’s afraid of her, which is completely understandable.
Lennon is confident, assertive, and borderline abusive.
It’s kind of hot.
But mostly off-limits.
The glass slams behind me as I find my way onto the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. Warm autumn air fills my lungs as I look up to see shades of red, gold, and orange decorating the surrounding trees. Fall’s peak hasn’t quite reached Ohio yet, but the colors promise it will be soon. Even if the temperature is just a shade too warm. After that, we enter the utter despair that is stick season–mud, empty branches, and gloomy gray skies.
I check my watch, realizing I’ll most likely be late for my own office hours. Sitting in my small office at the college and waiting for students begging for my help is not my favorite part of the whole English Professor thing, but it’s a necessary evil.
I wince, knowing exactly how many emails will fill up my inbox before I arrive.
I’m not positive physical letters won’t also start flying from beneath my door like an ignored acceptance letter to Hogwarts.
Finding my way to the car, I pull out my keys, unlock the door, and slide in. After placing my coffee in the cup holder, I grab my phone out of my pocket. For what feels like the millionth time since last spring, I look at the read and unacknowledged Facebook message I sent–the one I had to get shitfaced to even think about passing along. To make matters worse, Alexis didn’t even have the dignity to respond.
I don’t blame her, though.
She probably thought I was lying in some last-ditch effort to ruin her marriage and get her back. Again, something that wouldn’t make sense to begin with because I was the one to break off our engagement, and it’s been five years. The ship has sailed.
Maybe that’s why I felt the need to send her the message after I saw her husband show up at the art show with Lennon four months ago. It could have been the guilt of leaving her, or maybe a small part of me felt like karma was finally finding her. Either way, the message sits untouched–my explanation to Lennon still pending.
I close out of the app and call Griffin. He picks up on the second ring.
“Noah?”
“I need Lennon’s number.” I push the key into the ignition, turning it until the car rumbles to life.
“Dude, when are you going to stop asking?” I can hear the thread of laughter in his voice. “Ellis said Lennon doesn’t want you to have it, and I’m not going to go behind her back. Lennon’s her friend, not mine.”
Ellis and Griffin started dating almost nine months ago. It was just a few months before Griffin quit his job working at the college where I teach and go on tour with his audio engineering abilities. Somehow, his traveling hasn’t stopped them from moving forward at full speed.
Griffin was never one for casual relationships. I’m positive he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle choices in that department, either. Casual happens to be my defining characteristic. It’s far easier to keep a careful distance in relationships, though I’m not sure relationships would be the right word. I fuck. I have straight forward conversations about expectations and tread carefully so as to not create or experience feelings of disappointment.
I’m good at casual. Very good.
Griffin, on the other hand, reeks of devotion and commitment. And in this one particular instance, it’s pissing me off.
“It’s important,” I say, flicking on my left turn signal.
“You can’t sleep with Lennon, Noah.”
I blink that idea away before turning on the speakerphone and setting my device in the one free cupholder next to my coffee. I really need to figure out the Bluetooth situation, but I’ve been too busy to bother. And somehow, I always seem to forget when I’m not actually in my car.
“Is that what you think?” I finally answer, somewhat offended, not really surprised. “I’m trying to apologize about last spring. Trust me, sleeping with Lennon is the furthest thing from my mind.”
Mostly .
I can’t say I haven’t considered it. We’ve spent enough time in each other’s orbit that it’s crossed my mind. There’s no denying Lennon is attractive, but something tells me the woman doesn’t do casual. For as biting as her temperament can be, I’ve seen her loyalty, too.
She’s fiercely loyal to her friends. Sex is probably no different, and I can’t afford to get tangled in that kind of web. Too many mutual connections. Too complicated.
“Just apologize in person the next time we all hang out. Simple, and not sure why you haven’t already.”
I huff out a breath. “Not simple. It’s more complicated than that.”
“How so?”
I don’t know how to tell him I confronted her date on the patio at the art show while she was off somewhere else. There are too many moving pieces. Explaining that I had once been engaged to a woman named Alexis, had been cheated on, broke off the engagement, watched on social media as she got married to some stranger who had slept in our bed, and then saw said stranger show up with Lennon on his arm seems like too much. It’s one giant confession, and I still haven’t even figured out how to explain it all to Lennon. I’m not even sure I want to. I guess I’m banking on “he’s a mutual friend of mine, and he’s married.”
“It’s–” I pause, my mind cycling through all the details. “Complicated.”
“Sure is. Look, I got to go. But the answer is still no. Maybe find another way if it’s so important?”
Of course.
After hanging up the phone, I focus on the drive and try not to spiral. I find my way to my office, sit my ass down, and wait for the next student with enough balls to beg for a better grade.
I would obviously give them a better grade. I’m not some scary monster, and taking initiative is a trait that deserves reward.
Sipping my coffee, I scroll through my email and note that I was, in fact, correct. I have at least four saying they had waited past the start of office hours but never saw me.
Perfect.
The day rolls on, and somewhere between my visits, I find myself with some downtime I shamefully spend scrolling through Instagram. I’m thoroughly distracted, and Lennon must have me blocked. I know she has the app, but I can never find her. I’m also certain that I’m not so old I couldn’t figure it out.
I’m just clicking around when I find an interesting account that follows Ellis—somewhat suspicious. It says something about inn adventures in the bio, and the profile picture looks a lot like Lennon.
Upon further investigation, I ascertain that this account most definitely belongs to Lennon. I’d recognize the red hair and freckles anywhere. Her little bed-and-breakfast dream has been years in the making because the page reads like a blog, detailing her time saving up to open her own inn and showing pictures of the ones she’s visited. There, at the top and according to the caption, is the picture of her new house.
Every post boasts of rich stories and the enjoyment of people . It’s so contrary to the Lennon I know, the person who pointedly hates humans. Or maybe she just hates me.
Quick-witted and devoted to details, every post points out architectural details from various time periods. She seems to enjoy keeping the integrity of a space and honoring the lives of the people who previously occupied the homes.
My brows raise, and I take another sip of coffee, now cold, before clicking on the message icon. I tap out an explanation, knowing for damn sure I’m about to end up in the message requests section, along with every fake account ever.
But beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m tired of the whole charade. I can’t spend the rest of my life worried and obsessing over the girl who strikes up a conversation just to call me an acquaintance in front of her realtor.
A soft, feminine voice sounds from the door to my office, dragging my attention away from my computer. “Excuse me, but I’m actually looking for room 112, and I can’t seem to find it.”
I look up, trying to reorient myself after nearly five pages of what might be the worst rhetorical analysis essay I’ve ever read. Honestly, the paper acts as either a cry for help or a student’s confession of a long night binge drinking at some college party.
Auburn hair, full red lips, and a black skirt that hugs every curve.
Fuck me.
I’m in for a pleasant distraction.
“Dr. Neilson,” I greet, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.
Her wide smile sends a buzz through me, and I close my laptop. I haven’t seen Julia Neilson since last semester, something she does twice a year to speak in Dr. Anna Martin’s class. I’ve never listened to the presentation, nor have I asked about it. Anna and Julia are friends, and Julia and I–
Well, we’re familiar.
“Sure seems like you’ve found the right place,” I say, allowing my gaze to linger briefly on those lips before checking my watch. They’re the same lips that, just last spring, had been wrapped around my–
Shit.
5:45, and I have a class in fifteen minutes.
Julia’s eyes narrow, but a small smile remains. “Thought I’d set up early,” she says, arching a brow. “Figured I’d stop in to say hello. I haven’t talked to you since last spring.”
“Right.” I push the sleeves of my sweater up to my elbows, stretching out in the office chair and placing my hands on the back of my head. The room feels ten degrees hotter, my memories playing like a movie as I take in her every curve.
Just something casual , she’d said, and that’s the exact definition of our relationship.
Casual. Uncomplicated. Unattached.
Julia hums, her eyes flicking over the bookshelf in the corner, and I stiffen.
Textbooks and some of my favorite works of literary fiction decorate the shelves–completely disorganized. It’s a direct contrast to the rest of my orderly office. Most of the books on that shelf mean something to me. I’m more attached.
I find disorganization provides a better representation of my life. Polished on the outside, but internally, I’m a mess.
The fear of being perceived suddenly makes my chest hurt, and I desperately wish she’d stop looking at the shelves. I’ve slept with Julia enough times to be cautious. Our entanglements need to be categorized in a very specific way–nothing too vulnerable.
“Got any plans tonight?” I ask, knowing full well she will understand what I’m implying. It’s a routine now. I know nothing about the woman aside from how she looks naked, and by the way she looks away from the shelves, I’m reminded that she feels the same.
It’s the perfect arrangement.
“I was actually hoping to make some plans for after my presentation.”
Her cheeks blush, and the shade of pink blends in with the freckles on her nose. Something about the freckles–the way she tilts her head to the side in consideration. It’s right, but feels so wrong.
Earlier today, I could have sworn I saw Lennon’s cheeks flush while she kept her eyes trained on her laptop. For the briefest moment, I thought maybe she’d been embarrassed, but her biting remarks following proved that to be incorrect.
Julia, in contrast, is softer–giving. The flush of pink on her cheeks gives away every thought–every feeling. She’s easy to read and asks for what she wants.
I don’t think Lennon asks for anything. She would be the type to demand it.
My blood heats, and I’m not sure who is causing it.
“I’d be up for making plans,” I finally answer, realizing just how much I need a distraction. Anything to get my mind off of Lennon, desperate apologies, and the whole host of pictures I spent a good thirty minutes scrolling through.
I hope I didn’t accidentally double-tap the photo she posted from spring break two years ago. She’d been sunbathing by the pool at a small bed-and-breakfast in Put-in-Bay.
That image needs to be replaced.
I stand, grabbing my laptop and my satchel, and knowing that I need to get to my own evening class. “What do you think about eight-thirty? I can meet you back here.”
Julia licks her bottom lip before a smile stretches across her face. “Depends. What did you have in mind?” She pauses, her eyes flicking down in a very obvious show of what she’s thinking. It seems we are on the same page there.
I allow a knowing smile to work at the corners of my lips. “I think I could come up with a few ideas.”
“Eight-thirty, then.”
And with that, she turns, striding down the hallway and leaving me alone with my thoughts.
There are about a million and one things I’d like to do with that woman, but somehow, I don’t think any of them will live up to the fantasy now running on repeat in the back of my mind. It’s unwanted.
It’s not like I would ever consider touching Lennon. Something about it feels off–wrong? Maybe it’s that I would be hooking up with someone too close to the friend group. I can’t see a world in which hooking up with her would be a good thing.
Still, it doesn’t hurt to imagine it a little.
The memory of Lennon’s voice echoes in my mind as I rush to class.
I bite.
I fucking wish she would.