Chapter 29
Lennon
“So,” I hear myself say, “any plans for the day?”
Fuck, I hate myself for stooping this low. If I keep this shit up, there really won’t be any explanation for my behavior other than that I might, in fact, have a very slight crush on Connor Lockwood.
“Nothing much,” he replies, looking up from a bowl of granola with Greek yogurt and honey. He’s standing at the counter, eating, waiting for the machine to spit out a second cup of coffee for him. “Tuesdays are pretty chill for me. I only have one class this morning.”
“Only one class?” I parrot, doing things with my eyebrows that I think I’ve seen normal people do in response to this type of information.
“Jesus fucking fuck,” I mutter to myself as I get into my car and close the door. “I’m a mess.”
Out of spite, I punch out a couple of angry messages and send them to Havi.
I hope you’re happy.
My life is a shit show, and it’s all your fault.
I get to work and feel bad, so I delete the messages even though, believe me, I know how stupid it is.
The clock taunts me from the second I sit at my desk. I can’t tell if it’s my imagination or not, but I swear I can feel Anna and Bev looking at me and then at each other. I’m almost positive I catch Blake at it once too.
I hate this fucking job.
Minutes tick by, cranking my anxiety up steadily with each one that passes.
I try to focus on clearing maintenance requests. They require the least amount of cognitive function, but I keep doing dumb shit like mistyping my password when my screen falls asleep.
I enter my password again, this time with care. I’m going to get locked out of my account if I keep this shit up. My phone rattles on my desk as I do it. The vibration is unexpected and unpleasantly loud.
Fuck phone settings on top of everything else. It’s fucking rude how they interrupt you when you’re trying to get shit done.
It’s probably Caroline asking if I’m alive.
Either that, or it’s my mom.
Shit. I better add sending proof of life to my to-do list before they file a missing person’s report on me.
I log a request for a handyman to fix a jammed door handle and turn my phone over, swiping at the screen to wake it. The fucking device doesn’t recognize me from this angle. Too many chins, probably, so I enter my PIN angrily and open my messages.
It’s not Caroline or my mom. It’s Connor. I sit up a little straighter and look around furtively, like a dumbass who thinks Anna and Bev are not only obsessed with me, but they also have the psychic ability to read my messages before I do.
Hey.
Wanna ditch work? I’m grabbing coffee near you after class.
I read the texts at least eleven times more than the simple message they convey requires, using a colossal amount of effort to keep my face neutral.
Where?
What time?
Crema at ten forty-five
I look at my screen, pleased. I’m ridiculously impressed with myself for thinking to ask about the logistics of the meetup, given that I already know the answers. It’s deeply pathetic, as I’m pretty sure what I’m doing is stalking 101.
I’m so distracted by the turn of events that I accidentally excuse myself ten minutes earlier than I need to leave.
I kill time by going to the restroom and fixing my hair.
I’ve been wearing it neat, slicked back and uptight, out of spite against Havi for wrecking my life, and out of spite against myself for letting him.
It’s hard to explain exactly how or why it spites Havi, or me, for that matter, but believe me, it does.
I look in the mirror for a while, taking in the reflection of the stranger that stares back at me, then I yank open an extra button at my neck and roll my sleeves up to expose my forearms. It’s better, but not much.
I wash my hands, shaking off most of the water before running my fingers through my hair.
I start at the sides, using both hands to scrape it back, and then drop my left hand.
My right hand finds its way to my crown, scrunching the thick mat it finds there and messing it up.
It’s a rough tussle, a careless twirl that drags a lock down over my forehead.
It’s an action so familiar that it’s muscle memory more than conscious action.
When I look up, I look like someone else.
Someone I used to know.
I walk to Crema at a leisurely pace, hands deep in my pockets, gait sure and unbothered for once.
I arrive in time to see Connor place his order. The walls behind the counter are painted a rich java brown, but floor-to-ceiling windows on the other three walls let sunlight flood in. Light bounces off Connor. Off his teeth and his bottom lip. Off his hair and his shoulders.
He stops talking when he sees me. His smile freezes for a second and then widens as he raises a hand to greet me.
I weave my way toward him through people waiting in line, and others standing around like assholes as they overthink their orders. I get to him breathless, having covered the space from the door to where he stands at a slightly hard-to-explain speed.
“Hey,” he says.
When he says it, I realize I’m standing a lot closer to him than I usually do. I must be because as he speaks, his breath lands on my cheek in a soft, warm puff.
His hand floats toward me and quickly drops down. A split second later, mine does the same. He leans in and straightens. As he straightens, I lean in. It’s an awkward as fuck mess that feels a bit like a meeting of two people who have never met another human being before.
Why am I so close to him?
I’m almost touching him, for fuck’s sake. It’s way too close for a casual greeting. It’s super weird, especially because I’m not the only one being weird. Connor’s being weird too. He hugs literally everyone he knows, yet he’s standing around looking like he doesn’t know how to greet me.
If I were the jock, I mean Tank, he’d have his arms around me. He’d be slapping my back and resting his arm on my shoulder when he released me. The exchange would be natural and easy, like breathing.
“Hey,” I say, sounding mildly constipated and taking a step back to restore order to chaos.
“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, “so I got a Frappuccino and a cappuccino—I’ll have whatever you don’t want.”
I like my coffee milky. Add froth, and I love it. When I have time, I froth my milk in the mornings. My little frother is one of the only things I remembered to bring with me when I left home.
This morning, Connor frothed some milk for me while I was in the shower.
“The cappuccino will be good. Thanks.”
He smiles, mainly because it’s a reaction that comes naturally to him, but also because he loves frappuccinos and he’s happy I chose the drink he expected me to.
He’s careful with his diet and doesn’t indulge in treats often, but he looks forward to this every week.
I can tell because he holds his cup a little tighter than normal when the girl at the counter hands it to him.
I smile back because I like knowing that something I did put a smile on his face.
There’s a free table in the corner, so we take it.
Connor sits down, perfectly framed by glass, grass, and trees that are beginning to shed their leaves.
Yellows and oranges form an autumnal blaze behind him, lighting his eyes, making them so green that I can’t believe I ever thought they were blue.
“How was class?” I ask.
Five bucks says he enjoyed it.
“Uh, I loved it so much.” I stifle a scoff.
Behind Connor, the breeze plucks a burned leaf from the tip of a branch and twirls it as it falls to the ground.
“I mean it, Lennon. I love this class. No offense to business management and economics, as they definitely have their place, but they have nothing on the arts.”
He was two years into a business degree when he got sick.
He’s told me that before his heart failed, he had a life planned out that involved football and doing things that were expected of him.
He’s putting most of the credits he earned to use, but he has added several art subjects to his course.
I asked him once why he made the change a few weeks ago, and he told me it’s because life is too short to do things you don’t love.
“My art history lecturer is amazing. Seriously. He bikes everywhere and only wears shades of taupe. He spends his time telling all of us we’re stuck in second gear and getting so angry about things that matter to him that his face goes bright red.
I love him. He’s so passionate about what he teaches…
Did you know the Mona Lisa has her own mailbox at the Louvre? ”
I’m in a fatuous mood today. One of those puerile states that makes you laugh at unfunny things. I must be because that wasn’t all that funny, but I’m laughing my ass off. “No, I had no idea. Why does she need a mailbox?”
He’s as pleased that I’m laughing as he is with the question.
He was hoping for it. I know because his smile changed from his Connor Day Smile to his Connor For Real smile when I asked.
It’s a subtle shift that makes his upper body relax and the space where his elbow meets the table dissolve, so he and the table become one. “’Cause she gets so many love letters.”
His eyes spark as he says it. Tiny sapphires catch the light in an emerald ocean and sail toward me.
Ten bucks says he writes Mona Lisa a love letter before the end of the week.
“Is that right?” I say, taking a sip of my coffee and licking the foam off my top lip.
“Yep.” He bobs his head earnestly. “You know what you should do? You should write her a letter.”
A hard gust of air bursts out of me. “I’m not writing a painting a letter. You should write her.”
He cocks his head, drink in one hand, as his free hand sweeps across his bottom lip. “You should write her. You’re the one who’s all dark and mysterious. You could tell her your secrets.”
I laugh longer and louder than the situation calls for. “I’m not writing her shit.”
“We’ll see.” He gives me a knowing look I try my best to hate.
“Where’s Georgie?” I ask. The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked up.
I shouldn’t know he meets her here. He’s never said anything about it to me.
His brows shoot up, and he puts his drink down.
“I, uh, I thought she’d be here. I think you said something…
about her. S-something about meeting her here. ”
“Oh.” He picks the cup up again. My heart clanks in my chest and a shrill warning makes my ears ring. “I don’t remember that.”
He takes a sip, keeping the straw in his mouth for a little longer than usual as I search his eyes for signs of suspicion. I find none. His lips bow, curling around the straw and forming a pretty O as he takes a sip.
I know I should look away, but I don’t.
His bottom lip shines in the center, glistening from his drink. He releases the straw from his lips and clamps it between his teeth instead. A glint of an incisor hits me between the eyes and almost makes me miss the color rising on his cheeks.
“I’m not meeting Georgie today,” he says, dipping his head and breaking eye contact.
Oh.
Interesting.
I wonder why not?
Nope. No. Take the win. Change the subject. Move on and do not ask any questions.
“How come?” I ask.
He looks up again and shows me everything. Heated cheeks and a hint of embarrassment. A bashful dip of a dimple that spills his secrets. Green-blue eyes that favor the truth.
“’Cause I wanted you all to myself.”
It’s a ridiculous statement that should kill the conversation stone dead, but it doesn’t because Connor is in the same mood as me.
The kind of mood that makes things that aren’t all that funny hilarious.
A mood that hears nonsense words and rolls them into balls that swell in our chests and froth out of us in a quiet rumble.
A rumble that grows bigger and deeper. Louder, until people nearby turn to look at us.
“Does that make you uncomfortable?” he asks, when our laughter dies down. “I’ll stop with this shit if it does.”
The fact that he thinks to ask makes everything slow down.
The air around me. The air leaving and entering my lungs.
Havi never asked questions like that. He didn’t seem to think he needed to.
Never. Not once. When Connor does it, it makes it hard not to think about how different life would be if he had.
I’m tired of thinking these kinds of thoughts, exhausted beyond reason and measure, so I push them down as hard as I can and return my full attention to Connor.
It’s not as hard as it should be because he has a lightness about him that draws me in. I don’t mean around him. I don’t mean the sunlight bouncing off him. I mean about him. In him. A lightness that chases bad thoughts away.
“Why would it make me uncomfortable?” There’s a dash of humor in my voice and a low whirr in my words. A very specific combination that I recognize dimly.
I’ve heard it before. Lots of times.
Where have I heard it before?
Out. I’ve heard it when I’m out. When I’m leaning in, talking loudly so my voice carries over loud music and raised voices.
Fucking hell.
It’s how I talk to girls when I’m out.
It’s how I sound when I flirt.
Wait.
Am I flirting with Connor Lockwood right now?
Later, I watch as he walks to his car. Not from the shadows, but from where we stood when we said goodbye.
His outline grows smaller the farther he gets from me.
Dark jeans. Blue Henley. There’s something infinitely familiar about the way he moves.
His arms and legs work in concert with each other.
Like instruments. Like music. Like a song I know well.
The swing of his arms, the lyrics. Long, certain strides, the melody.