Chapter 17
Lennon
My mind is racing. I’ve been watching Connor take tablet after tablet with no idea what to do with my face. Eventually, it occurs to me that normal people, people who don’t know every little thing about someone else’s life, would ask why he’s taking so many meds.
“What’s all that for?” I ask.
“I had congenital heart failure.” He says it like he’s talking about the weather.
His expression is calm. There are no lines on his face.
No worry or pain in his eyes. “I collapsed during a football game in my second year of college, and that’s how we found out I was sick.
Treatments worked for a while, and then they didn’t.
It got pretty hairy. I had to drop out for a year.
” There’s a hitch in his voice. Very, very slight, but it’s there.
“But I got a new heart, so I’m all good now. ”
For a long time now, I’ve hated the numbness.
The absence of everything good has been so stark that it’s made me wonder if it wouldn’t be better to feel pain if that’s the price I have to pay to be happy.
Now, I’m grateful for it because as he talks, I feel nothing.
I move my eyebrows up and down and try to coordinate my mouth into expressions that match what I’m doing with my brows.
“So you got a transplant, huh?” I hear myself say. “Gnarly.”
My use of the word gnarly makes him laugh, which is kind of funny because Havi used to love it when I said it too.
He bought me a T-shirt for my birthday one year that had a big iron-on print of the word over the chest. Every time I wore it, he’d spend the entire day saying “Gnarly, bro,” every time I said or did anything.
“It was gnarly,” Connor says, taking the piss out of me and doing the worst impression of a skater boy I’ve ever heard. “It was gnarly as fuck, man.”
He laughs like it’s easy. Like the world is a good place and life is worth living.
When he does it, his eyes crease at the corners and his lips pull back so far that three or four curved lines form on either side of his mouth.
His cheeks go pink and a splotch of color forms at the base of his throat.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
I’ve watched him and watched him from the shadows. I’ve watched him for so long, yet the more I get to know him, the less I know about him.
“So,” I say, waving in his general direction, “is that, like, why you’re like this—all Zen master and shit? ’Cause you almost died?”
He stops laughing gradually and looks at me. His eyes are still shining. Blue-green and peaceful.
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m like this because I lived.”
It’s a subtle difference, but it’s not lost on me.
It’s almost the truth, but not quite. Maybe it’s his version of the truth, but the real truth, the universal truth, is that he isn’t like this because he nearly died or even because he lived.
He’s like this because this is who he is: someone who chooses to focus on good things instead of bad.
“But yeah,” he continues, “it was a…” His voice trails off, and changes, softer and more husky now. “Groundbreaking…mind-altering…life-changing experience. It changed me in ways I’m still discovering and coming to grips with.”
My eyes wander and land on the photograph of him on the shelf. The one of him in his football gear. “Do you miss him?” I ask, gesturing to the picture with a tilt of my head. “The guy you were before?”
He turns, following my gaze, and looks at the photograph for a while. “That guy had it pretty good,” he says. “Not gonna lie, he really did. He had guys and girls all over him.”
Guys and girls? Guys and girls?
What the fuck?
“Thought you were gay,” I say before I have time to stop myself.
“I didn’t say I was gay…” He smiles neutrally, almost impersonally, for a second, and then it changes. It goes from friendly and polite to something laced with unmistakable desire. “I said you were good-looking.”
“So, what, are you bi?” I blurt.
“D’you want to talk about my sexuality or my enlightenment? Because I’m more than happy to talk about either, I just need to know what you—”
Obviously, I’d rather talk about his enlightenment.
It’s clearly a way more interesting topic than his sexuality.
It’s just that it did throw me when I thought he was gay.
It gave my confidence as a—not a stalker as such, but as someone who has been highly focused on looking out for him—a ding.
I can’t deny that. I’ve been watching him intently for months, and I completely missed it.
I mean, yes, looking back, there were some Pride posts on his Instagram, and that kind of thing, but I thought those were just because he’s hellbent on being a good person.
I’ve only just started to organize my thoughts about him being gay—working through his social media and piecing together which of his guy friends he might be more than friends with, and all that—and now I’m going to have to do the same thing all over again for his girlfriends as well. It’s fucking annoying.
“I’m interested in your enlightenment,” I say firmly.
“Okay,” he says, leaning back against the counter.
“As I was saying, the guy in that photo had it good. He had a nice life. His mom and dad loved him, and he was popular. He played football and got drunk with his friends on the weekend. He had a lot going for him, and jeez, he was ripped.” He laughs softly to himself.
“But none of that really matters because he had a time bomb in his chest and no clue he was on borrowed time.”
His arms hang loosely at his sides and he talks with the ease of a man who lives life without regret.
“He was kind of in the thick of it, you know? It’s like he was in life.
It was on top of him and all around him.
I feel differently now. Life is the same, but I’m looking at it from a different angle.
” He doesn’t say it, but what he means is he’s above it now.
He’s not in it. He’s looking at things from above.
Honest to God, this fucker has gone and risen above shit.
That’s annoying as well. “I used to be caught up in the details, but now I see the big picture. Little things bothered the crap out of me, but now I have a different understanding of what really matters.”
I’m mildly perturbed that he’s figured all this shit out while I’m an epic mess, but I’m also oddly hopeful. It’s a strange feeling. Distant, yet prickly and sharp. Little zaps under my skin that make my delusional ass think Connor Lockwood might just be in possession of the secret to life.
“What really matters?” I ask quietly.
“Love, Lennon.” He says it simply and without judgment that it isn’t something I know. “And living. Being here and breathing. Watching sunrises and talking shit with your roommate.”
I scoff, though I don’t mean to.
Connor smiles, but the scary thing is, I can tell he’s completely serious. He honestly believes that being here with me is as important as breathing. That talking shit with a near-stranger and the sun rising and setting every day are equally miraculous.
I can’t handle this kind of talk. I shouldn’t have asked the question. I should’ve known better. It’s way too early to deal with this shit.
“I guess we better get going,” he says when we’ve finished our toast. “Those nightstands aren’t going to thrift themselves.”
“Would it make any difference if I said I’d rather rip my eyeballs out and stomp on them than go thrifting?”
He presses the corners of his mouth into a frown and shakes his head unsympathetically.
“’Fraid not, bud. Anna and I exchanged numbers yesterday, and she made me swear I’d send her pictures of your room after we’ve been shopping.
I don’t know her as well as you do…but I really don’t want to get on her bad side. ”
“Shit.” I know what he means. I don’t want to get on Anna’s bad side either. Her good side is plenty bad enough. “Fine. Let’s do this fucking thing.”
“By the way,” he says conversationally as we head down the hall to our bedrooms, “she says you need a new lamp too.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. “I regret applying for that fucking job.”
He pauses at his bedroom door. “Why did you? It doesn’t really seem like a good fit for you.”
“Hm?” I squeak. Anxiety spikes, and out of panic, I start patting my legs down like an idiot, feigning a sudden and urgent need to find my phone.
Fuck.
How did I get myself into this mess? How did I make such a wreck of my life?
This shit is on top of me. All around me. Not only that, it has me by the throat and is holding me down.
“Lennon,” he says in a calm, neutral tone that gives me no indication of the gravity of what he’s going to say next, “you didn’t ask more about my sexuality earlier, but I could tell you wanted to, and I don’t mind talking about it.
I’m pansexual. And before you ask, yes, I am attracted to you.
But don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself. ”