Chapter 19
Lennon
We step back and admire our efforts. The nightstands have been placed on either side of my bed, the new lamp on the right side, and Havi’s old broken one on the left.
The books I was perfectly happy using as a nightstand have been placed on the shelf, in alphabetic order, and the wicker baskets take up most of the bottom shelf.
“Hm,” says Connor critically. “You need a mirror or something above the shelves.” If I cared about the décor of my room, or if this was indeed my actual room, not a visual representation of several of my biggest mistakes come to life, I’d be inclined to agree.
“Wanna come antiquing with me again next weekend?”
“No,” I say firmly.
Connor’s chest caves and a throaty chuckle leaves him. He swings a hand in my direction, swatting me lightly on the arm. “If you come with me, I won’t tell Anna you need a mirror.”
“Good luck with that,” I tell him, crossing my arms and rubbing the spot he just touched. His touch was light, but it left a warm imprint of his hand on my skin all the same. “Hate to break it to you, bud, but that threat only works once.”
“Okay,” he shrugs. “So you’ll come because you want to spend time with me.” He’s being completely ridiculous. I have no idea why it isn’t annoying the hell out of me. “What are you going to put in the baskets?”
“No idea. I wasn’t the one who thought I needed them.”
He crosses his arms and tips his head to the side. “I guess if you had a big collection of sex toys, you could put ’em in there. They’re a good size for that kind of thing. Pity the shelves are so far from the bed though.”
“I, er, I don’t have sex toys.” His brows shoot up, and despite how out of left field his comment was, he manages to look more shocked by my response than I am by what he said.
I’m not sure how to reply, but it feels like I need to say something.
Sadly, I land on, “Do you have a big collection of sex toys?”
He scoots his lips up and to the side and rocks a hand from side to side. “I wouldn’t say big, but it’s well-rounded.”
His phone rings, and all traces of our conversation evaporate.
“It’s my mom,” he cries happily.
I gape at his back as he leaves my room. If this continues, I’m going to have to compile a list of shit dudes don’t get ridiculously happy about and give it to him when I move out.
“Hey, Momma,” I hear him say as he heads to his room. There’s a smile in his voice. Love too. A lot of it. There’s a pause as his mom says something, and he answers, “Yep, still here…” Another pause. Another smile, this one accompanied by a soft sigh. “Still beating.”
I look down at my wrist and groan inwardly. There are still hours of today left. Hours and fucking hours. I can’t be in this apartment with Connor here until nightfall.
In keeping with the fact that I haven’t had a rational thought in months, I decide that the best thing to do is to go for a run.
Get some fresh air. Clear my head.
It’ll do me good.
Turns out, I hate running. Also, Caroline might be right. I’m a stubborn motherfucker who’s completely out of touch with reality. I know this because, despite the fact that I’m deathly unfit and don’t own a pair of proper trainers, I’ve run, stopping and starting, for almost an hour.
I’m three miles from home, my lungs are screaming, I’m sweating like a pig, and I’m pretty sure there’s a blister developing on my little toe.
It’s a hellish experience.
Still, it beats being in the apartment with Connor.
By the time I limp home, the stench of smoke has wafted from our apartment all the way to the elevator. I enter to find Connor deeply embroiled in the process of scorching two salmon fillets. The smoke detector is blaring, and for once, his steadfastly calm demeanor is showing signs of cracking.
Instead of being harassed or stressed about the situation like a normal person, he’s doubled over in a fit of giggles. I throw the windows open and grab a tea towel, flapping it wildly in the vicinity of the smoke detector until it stops.
“Jesus,” I say, ears still ringing.
For some reason, that makes him laugh too. I shoo him out of the way with the towel in my hand and turn down the temperature of the oven and the burners on the stovetop.
With some difficulty, I hack off the burned parts of the salmon and put the rest of it back in the now much cooler oven to finish roasting. The rice Connor was cooking is unsalvageable, so it goes in the trash.
“It’s a little harder than it looks,” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
I consider telling him the kitchen is too small for two people, but I’m too tired to get into it.
“My mom wrote out a lot of my favorite recipes for me, and I’m doing exactly what she said I should, but it isn’t working out all that well. ”
“Did the recipes say to cook everything on the highest heat possible?” I ask mildly.
“No, but I was trying to hurry. I wanted to have everything ready by the time you got home.”
I shake my head at him and try not to think that it’s shit like this that makes people look at him like he’s the most singular human being on the planet.
To distract myself, I raid the fridge and pantry. I find a can of lentils and a bag of spinach and throw them together, along with some finely sliced red onion, a lemon, and a Dijon mustard dressing that I whip up. When it’s ready, I flake the butchered salmon over it and serve.
“Whoa,” says Connor, “you really know what you’re doing in the kitchen.”
“I’m not… It’s nothing. It’s no big deal.”
He tilts his head slightly and blinks. “Of course it’s a big deal, Lennon,” he says, “’cause you’re a big deal.”
I roll my eyes hard, but a flicker of amusement seeps out of the stony facade I’m doing my best to maintain. “Are you flirting with me?”
He purses his lips and squints his eyes as he gives what I’ve said some serious thought. Then he shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t think so. Just being honest.”
I opt to eat out on the balcony, thinking it can’t possibly be more uncomfortable than dinner was at the dining table last night.
It’s hard to say if it’s the right call or not.
Connor brings the little oil lamp that lives on the dining table out, puts it in the middle of the bistro table, and proceeds to wax lyrical about the salad.
I find myself smiling at him. Not because he’s funny, just because he’s so happy, and it does something strange to my insides to see someone like that. It’s not specific to him. It’s specific to happy people.
When he runs out of things to say about the food, we eat in silence for a while, and I quickly become uncomfortable. Perhaps he notices.
“So,” he says, “your best friend Havi, is he real or fictional?”
For a really weird moment, my head spins, and I find myself giving his question serious consideration. “Of course he’s real.”
“Oh.” Connor swallows what he was chewing and takes a sip of water. “I thought maybe you made him up to prove to me that you weren’t homophobic.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but I quickly lose patience with trying to figure it out. “No, I didn’t.”
Connor’s expression is calm and neutral. He accepts me at my word, but I’m still agitated. “What’s he like? Am I going to meet him anytime soon?”
Two questions with very different answers.
Both hurt me in different ways.
“I dunno how to describe him.”
How do you paint a picture of who someone is in their entirety with nothing but words?
Where do you start?
It’s impossible, really, especially when you’re describing someone like Havi.
Someone so complex. So flawed and multifaceted, yet also such a perfect version of himself.
How do you succinctly describe a friend who was family for most of your life before turning out to be the worst thing that ever happened to you?
“He’s…” I take a breath, splutter, and start again.
“You know how when you’re a kid, you play with whoever—your neighbor, your mom’s best friend’s kid, the kid you sit next to in math—it doesn’t really matter what they’re like, or if you even like them, all that matters is that you’re thrown into close proximity with them.
” He nods and masticates thoughtfully. “Well, Havi wasn’t like that.
He was the first friend I ever had where I chose him and he chose me because we actually liked each other.
He was a weird little kid. Very loud. Very outspoken.
Very sure of himself. He had thoughts and ideas about everything, and he shared them whether his opinions were asked for or not.
He was always getting sent out of class for being disruptive, but the school guidance counselor and the principal had a soft spot for him, so he never really got into serious trouble.
” I can’t help smiling at the memory. Havi ran rings around lots of people, not just adults, but kids too.
He got away with murder. “He’s a lot, but he doesn’t care, and he never tries to be less.
When we were kids, everyone made exceptions for him because he was like, incorrigible and cute, and really sweet when he needed to be.
I dunno. It’s hard to explain. Right from the start, I just got him, and he got me.
We became friends the day we met and never looked back. ”
“He sounds really cool,” says Connor.
“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s an asshole when he wants to be, but he’s also the best. Or at least, he was the best. I-I don’t know what he is anymore…
” I take a big breath to steady myself. I feel strange talking about Havi.
My head is spinning, and my ears are ringing, as though the smoke detector is still going off.
“What do you mean?” says Connor.
I realize with a jolt where I am and who I’m talking to. Something hard and solid in my chest cracks. Pure pain rushes in, or out, of the crack. I can’t tell which.
“We had a really big fight last year,” I reply robotically. “An awful fight. The worst fight we ever had…and he, he’s never spoken to me again. Not a word. Not a call, not a text, nothing.”
Connor’s eyes widen in concern. Blue-green pools lap at my ankles, approaching and retreating, creating a safe space for me to speak. I hate it. “Nothing?”
“Nope,” I say with a modicum of satisfaction because Connor is exuding a level of sympathy and disbelief that is entirely appropriate to the situation. “We were friends for fifteen years, and he just vanished from my life.”
Connor’s jaw drops and he blinks hard. “He ghosted you?”
I laugh dryly, not because it’s funny, but because Havi would find it funny. The crack from before splits open wider. It’s intolerable. Unsurvivable. The pain is so acute, my teeth ache.
“Like I said,” I say, breathing deeply and willing the numbness to return, “I love him, but he can be a real dick sometimes.”
By the time dinner is over, the feeling has passed.
The day is over. The weekend is done. It dawns on me that I have to go to work in the housing department tomorrow, and that brings on a severe case of Sunday blues.
Seeing Connor happy and talking about Havi has made me feel strange in a bad way.
I feel empty where food should be, and full where numbness usually lives.
On top of that, it feels wrong to be here, and the horrible homesick feeling I had when Anna left yesterday is back, and this time, it’s worse.
It’s one of the things I hate about whatever it is I’ve got. The numbness is constant almost all the time. Most of the time, I’m the shape of a person with nothing inside, but when I’m not, if I feel something, good or bad, for even a second, the weight of it is crushing.
It’s like a punishment for feeling anything.
I help Connor load the dishwasher, but I find it hard to keep up with the conversation.
“I’m beat,” I say. “Might turn in early.”