Chapter 5
Lennon
“So,” says Anna, eyes dancing with excitement. “What do we think? Do we love the idea, or what?”
“A team-building event?” I ask numbly.
It’s the third or fourth time I’ve said it, and so far, no one has confirmed or denied that my understanding of what Anna is proposing is sound.
I look around on the off chance I’ve misunderstood what she’s suggesting.
We’re huddled around a round table in the small breakout room, having our weekly team meeting.
Usually, our team meeting is a fairly tolerable event.
It mainly consists of us talking shit and having coffee and cake.
We take turns bringing the cake in. There’s a roster and everything. It’s usually not too bad.
Why in God’s name would Anna do this to us?
Why would she do it to herself?
“Here’s what I’m thinking”—Anna squeezes her lips together to suppress her delight. She holds her hands up near her head and wriggles her fingers—“bowling.”
She says it as though it’s a word she’s invented. A brand-new concept never conceived of by anyone else in the past.
I look around the room helplessly. Across the table from me, Blake has gone a pale shade of green. There’s a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead and a faraway look in his eyes that leads me to suspect he’s daydreaming of murder.
Bev’s mouth is a straight line and she’s blinking slowly. She’s not happy with Anna. Not by a long shot, but she’s also not shutting this shit down as fast as she should be.
I use every ounce of my energy to establish a telepathic link with her.
You can stop this, Bev. You have all the power here. You’re the boss, you can do it. Fire her. Do it now. I’ll pack her shit and walk her out of the building, no questions asked.
“Well,” says Bev, dragging the word out, “I guess we do have a line in the budget for it.”
Across from me, Blake’s eyes slide shut and he places both hands on the table to keep himself upright.
“Ohmigod,” squeals Anna. “Thanks, Bev! I’ll start planning right away.
I mean, unless someone else wants to form a committee with me?
I’d be super open to that.” No one moves or reacts.
“Perfect! I’ll handle everything myself.
I’ll create a new group chat to keep you informed.
” But, but, we already have seven team group chats, I think but don’t say.
Seven. I counted last week. “I’m thinking Friday or Saturday night, so if we’re hungover, we have the next day to recover. What do you think?”
No one replies for a long time, and eventually, Blake whimpers, “Please not the weekend.”
It’s eleven fifteen by the time Blake and I have successfully thwarted Anna’s direct threat on the only two days of the week we have away from this hellhole.
Eleven fifteen, on Tuesday. I’m in such a state of incredulity about the shit show my life has turned into, I almost forget that I’m supposed to be at Crema.
Almost. Not quite.
As soon as I’m back at my desk, and the initial shock of the team-building event has worn off, awareness of the time and day of the week begins to assault me.
Soft blows at first. Light jabs to my kidneys, then harder ones to my ribs.
My heart reacts like it always does when I know where he is and I’m not there.
It squeezes and clenches. Beating too hard and too fast for me to ignore.
“Need some fresh air,” I say, pushing my chair back.
I take the stairs out of the building two at a time. I mean to slow to a normal-adjacent pace when I get to the gables, but I don’t. I can’t. My limbs move without my consent. Arms and legs pumping so hard that the sound of my feet hitting the stone path makes bystanders leap out of my way.
Crema is an eight-minute walk from the student services building. I make it in three.
I get there, breathless and wheezing, in time to see the flick of an auburn ponytail as it disappears behind a conifer hedge to the left of the coffee shop.
Fuck!
I’m late.
Too late.
My heart drops, sinking like a stone. A hard, heavy stone that leaves me winded.
I’ve missed him.
I open the door to Crema anyway and spin around once inside, searching the tables he usually sits at for a forgettable face. A too-big shirt. A too-big smile. Anything. Any sign of him.
He isn’t here.
In desperation, I check the counter and the rest of the tables, though I know that if the redhead has already left, chances are, so has he.
I stumble to the seat nearest to me and slump onto it, dropping my head into my hands as painful throbbing consumes me.
The storm of emotion I feel in no way aligns with the scale of the event.
Even now, in the thick of it, I’m aware of that.
I’m aware that I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me.
I’m aware that what I’m doing is wrong, and more than that, I’m aware that it doesn’t make any sense, no matter how I look at it.
None of that means a thing to my heart.
It spasms. Physically spasms as I frantically begin calculating when and where I’ll see him next.
It won’t be today. Probably not even tomorrow.
He only has one class tomorrow, and that’s business admin.
It’s on a different campus. I can’t get there and back on a break, no matter how fast I run, and I can’t drive there because even though it’s only a ten-minute drive, parking is a fucking nightmare in this place, and if I move my car, I won’t be able to find another spot anywhere near student services when I get back.
This is a sign, I tell myself. A sign this has gone too far. A sign that you need to stop.
My breathing slows gradually, but the spasm in my chest persists.
I cross my arms on the table in front of me and rest my forehead on them, closing my eyes and exhaling slowly to release some of the inexplicable contagion that’s taken possession of me.
I open them again, turning my head to the side so I can breathe better, and groan aloud when I realize I don’t have my wallet or phone with me.
Goddamn it. I’m such a mess. I can’t even buy myself a fucking snack. This has to stop. I need to get my shit together. Fast.
Something catches my eye. A movement in my peripheral vision. Something khaki-green drops against the wall behind me.
A backpack.
A backpack with a keychain attached to one of the zippers. Wooden beads and a handmade tassel.
I know that keychain, and I know that bag.
It’s his.
His.
The redhead made the keychain for him. I know she did. I was there when she gave it to him. He smiled and thanked her like it was the first thing he’d ever been given. The first, most precious gift any human being had ever received.
Oh Jesus.
He’s here.
Behind me.
Close.
Two, maybe three paces behind me.
Every hair on my body stands on end. I can’t see him, but I can feel him. His body heat disrupts the air behind me.
It’s the closest I’ve ever been to him.
Anxiety rips through me like wildfire. A vivid, vibrant flame. A flame that exists both outside and inside of me. A flame with a pulse and a personality all its own.
I keep my head down as I try to work out what I should do.
My mind races with options, but they’re all largely irrelevant as I’m paralyzed from the legs down.
I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I stay there, immobile, head on my arms, eyes trained on his bag, until a big freckled hand reaches down and lifts the backpack, moving it from view.
I don’t move when the backpack disappears, and I don’t move when the air around me returns to something less stagnant and more normal. I wait until I hear the door behind me opening and closing, and for good measure, I don’t move for a full minute after that.
When I’m positive beyond any doubt that he’s gone, I lift my head.
Gingerly. Like a chick emerging from the safety of an egg, or a man in a warzone, raising his head after a blast. I look around to check whether anyone is watching me, but I’m met by nothing but the bored, glazed faces of people plugged in to their phones.
When I’m able to stand, I do so and turn around to see what he was doing.
There’s a noticeboard behind me. A large corkboard with flyers and notices pinned on it. A discordance of colored paper. Some overlapping. Some professionally printed.
One stands out like a beacon.
White paper. Black ink.
My blood runs cold and then hot. There’s a low buzz in my brain. The same noxious thrill I felt the first time I saw him. My heart contracts and relaxes. Blood is forced through valves and chambers. I’m brutally, blissfully aware of its passage.
Right atrium. Right ventricle.
Lungs.
Left atrium. Left ventricle.
Limbs.
I breathe in, gratefully, as warmth spreads to the rest of my body. It’s a soft whisper. A gentle reminder of something I didn’t think I’d ever need to be reminded of: life.
I’m alive.
I’m still here.
I’m real, and I’m living.