Chapter 37
Lennon
I hold the door open, and a raucous wave of debauchery leaks out of the bar and flows down the street.
It’s dark in The Pardon. Dark wood and dark floors.
There are lots of people here having fun, and lots of people who want to get laid.
A mirrored wall behind the bar glitters, reflecting light through liquor. Patrons are drawn to it like an altar.
The first shot of Jager burns hot and cold and tastes like a mistake. A bitter mistake I’ve made many times before and regretted the next day. The fourth shot tastes nothing like that.
I’m not saying it tastes like a good idea. No. Not exactly. It still burns, but not cold. It burns hot, like an opportunity to learn. A life lesson more than an outright error in judgment.
Connor is at my side, standing out like a beacon.
He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. I’m not sure if it’s the white shirt that makes him stand out, but it might be.
Or it might be the fact that he’s sober and everyone else here is off their faces.
It might be that everyone else is loud, and he’s quiet. Everyone else is chaos, and he’s calm.
It might be that.
It might be the fact that he’s The Spark, and there’s no one else like him.
It might be that music, words, and people change when they’re around him. When they get close to him, in his orbit, they slow down and drag out.
People react to him the way they always do. They’re drawn to him. Attracted by a force they can’t see. They make their way toward him in droves, all of them wanting something he has.
For a long time, I thought that might be my problem as well. I thought I wanted something he had.
Now, I just want him.
I don’t even know exactly what it is I want.
His body, for sure. I want his mouth and his skin.
I want to be naked with him, and I want to do all the things naked people do together.
I want all of that. I’m not saying I don’t, but I want more.
I want so much more than fucking that fucking hardly seems important.
What I want is invisible. What I want exists in the space between us. It has no name. No voice. It makes no sound, yet it might be the realest, loudest thing I’ve ever encountered. It might be the thing that’s keeping me here. On this planet.
It might be the reason I’m still standing.
Still breathing.
Still beating.
“I’m glad you came out,” he says to me. “I know you didn’t want to, but I’m glad you’re here.”
We’re standing at a small high-top table.
There are people all around us, some on their feet, some sitting on barstools.
They’re loud and animated, shuffling behind us and bumping into us.
There are people everywhere, but we’re also the only two people here.
The only two people in The Pardon tonight.
In this bar. In this suburb. In this city.
“You’re quiet tonight. Are you okay?” I’m next to him, and I speak the words into his ear. As I do it, he turns his head to face me, and in doing so, his lips are inches from mine.
The heat from his body burns hotter than the last shot I took.
He makes a cute sound. Soft and kind of squeaky. It’s uncharacteristic for him. A self-conscious giggle, I realize.
“I’m a little nervous tonight,” he says.
“Nervous?” No! He can’t be nervous. How dare something make him nervous. “Do you want to go home?”
He smiles and shakes his head like he’s been outside and has been rained on. Not rained on hard. Rained on softly, like a coating of dew more than a downpour.
“You’re having fun, Lennon.” The giggle is gone, so is the soft rain, replaced by a gentle challenge I like a lot. “And it’s nice to see, so we can’t go home.”
“I am having fun.” To my endless surprise, it’s true.
I am having a good time. There’s a warm hum of lost inhibitions in my veins and things that usually bother me feel unimportant.
I can hardly remember what they are. I haven’t thought of a single thing that isn’t Connor since I got here.
“But if you’re not feeling it, I’ll take you home. ”
I know what he’s like, all grateful and shit.
All big-picture and focused on what’s important.
And yeah, that’s great and all, but I hate that he has to be so perfect.
So careful. So consistent. I hate that he’s twenty-two and can’t drink.
That he has to watch what he eats and take meds for the rest of his life.
That he can’t play football and have the life he wanted before he got sick.
I hate that he had to look death in the face to become this version of himself.
I know he doesn’t share these feelings. He’s grateful to his core, not just in words and superficial ways. He really is. So if he’s tired and not feeling it tonight, I want him to feel comfortable saying he wants to go home. And I want to be the one who takes him home.
“No, it’s okay. I’m having a good time.”
People around him are having a good time as well. They’re having a good time because he’s here. He makes every single one of them feel seen. He gives them his time and attention. He puts his hands on them when they talk to him, so they can feel his good intentions.
I don’t know why he touches others so much when he never touches me.
I also don’t know why it’s so hard for me to touch him when he’s right next to me.
I’m not talking about touching him in a sexual way.
I mean in a casual way, as a friend. He probably wouldn’t even notice if I did it.
Everyone touches him like that. Literally every single person who’s greeted him tonight has touched him in some way.
Hugs and high fives. Fist bumps and back slaps.
I don’t know why it has to be such a big deal for me to do it. We’re friends now, and friends hug and shit like that. It’s normal. I hugged Tank and Georgie when I saw them tonight, for fuck’s sake, and that wasn’t weird at all.
Why can’t I hug Connor?
When our drinks are almost empty, Connor goes to the bar, insisting it’s his turn to get a round.
I watch as he threads through a sea of inebriated people.
They snare him before he reaches his destination, wrapping their tentacles around him to slow him, to entice him, to keep him with them for as long as possible.
He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t struggle.
He lets the current take him. Lying back in choppy water, floating and happy, as others splash and scrap around him.
He’s fifteen, maybe twenty feet away from me. It’s farther than he usually is when we’re at home, and closer than he is when I watch him from the shadows.
It’s strange to see him there, in the middle distance.
I can see all of him from here. All the good things.
His hair and the outline of his body. Eyelashes and smile lines.
Shoelaces and a profusion of freckles. I can see the stitching on his jeans and the way his waistband hangs low on his hips.
I can see the gentle slope between his pecs, and a hint of a silvery scar peeking out of the V of his T-shirt.
Behind him, others blur. Moving, heaving in time with the music.
Connor lets it flow through him. The music, the people. Like everything life throws at him, he doesn’t waste energy resisting or fighting. He lets the mournful whine of an electric guitar enter his bones through his shoulders, and the loud, steady beat of a drum through his hips and spine.
He moves with the music. Not dancing exactly, but something like it.
Something spiritual and good. Something that makes his eyes slide to half-mast and his lips turn up at the corners as he mouths the lyrics of the song that’s playing.
As he does it, people mill past him, reaching out and touching him. A hand on his arm. A pat on his back.
He smiles when it happens, a gentle acknowledgment more than active encouragement.
The people around him fade. The music fades too.
The space between us aches.
I find myself on my feet, gravitating toward him more than actively deciding to do so. I circle him, skirting the perimeter of the room. Finding the shadows I know so well and cloaking myself in them.
I’m in front of him, then I’m circling him, and finally, I’m behind him.
I’m five feet away now, not fifteen or twenty.
I can see the hair on the back of his neck and the whorl of hair on his crown. The melody of the song that’s playing whispers his name and his body sways to greet it.
A girl puts her hand on his cheek, and he smiles. I can tell he hardly noticed her touch though. It didn’t offend him or move him in any way. It didn’t bother him. It washed off him, and now that she’s moved her hand, he probably won’t think of it again.
It’ll be the same if I touch him, I tell myself. He’ll smile and keep swaying. The music will keep having its way with him, and tomorrow, he probably won’t remember that it happened.
It’ll mean nothing.
I’m behind him. He can’t see me.
He might not even notice if I do it. He might not even know I’m the one touching him.
I slink closer to him, stepping out of the shadows and into his orbit.
It’s warm here. His T-shirt looks soft, and he smells nothing like laundry detergent.
Nothing like chemicals or lavender. He smells like himself.
Like kind eyes and a throaty chuckle. Like understanding and humor and sex rolled into one.
His T-shirt is slightly bunched, the fabric rumpled at his side. If I touch him there, he probably won’t feel it.
I’m almost positive he won’t feel it.
I extend my hand.
The room spins.
My heart pounds.
The space between us throbs.
There’s a soft scratch of cotton on my palm. The warm breath of a body I want. I touch him lightly and quickly, ready to withdraw and retreat. To run and pretend it didn’t happen.
I’m quick, but he’s quicker.
His hand tightens around mine like a vise. A hot brand that sinks into my skin. He leans into me without turning to see who’s touching him.