Heart

Chapter 42

Lennon

“What do you mean I agreed to it weeks ago?” I wail.

He smiles beatifically. “I said, let’s check out my dad’s store, are you in or out? And you said, I’m in. Remember?”

I remember agreeing to something, and not knowing what it was. That’s what I remember. And even the memory of that is foggy. It was before anything happened between us, and it feels like a different lifetime.

Still, that Lennon and this Lennon have one thing in common, and that’s that we don’t love meeting the parents of people we’re getting naked with.

“It’ll be the best,” he continues, entirely undeterred by my lukewarm enthusiasm. “I’ll show you all my favorite things in the store, and you can meet my dad.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to scare the crap out of me or sell me on the idea.”

“I’m selling the idea,” he says, leaning in and stamping a blistering kiss on my lips that completely resets me.

I grumble most of the way there, and he chatters happily, telling me all about what a great time I’m about to have. Call me crazy, but I like it. I like our banter. There’s something nice about it. A balance, almost.

Mr. Lockwood is waiting for us on the curb when we get there.

He’s shorter and broader than Connor. He has a different body type altogether, and his face doesn’t look like Connor’s either.

If it weren’t for the fact that he was standing next to Connor, looking up at him with indisputable fatherly pride, in that first grainy picture I saw of Connor, I wouldn’t think they were related.

Connor’s dad raises his hand when he sees us and his face splinters into a massive smile. An over-the-top smile without a hint of self-consciousness. A smile exactly like Connor’s.

As soon as Connor is within reaching distance, his dad pulls him into a hug that could easily knock the breath out of someone.

Connor, naturally, gives as good as he gets, and the result is an exuberant greeting that would be more fitting for two people who haven’t seen each other in years rather than weeks or days.

“Hi, sweetie,” says Mr. Lockwood. “How are you? How’s the hea—”

Connor cuts him off seamlessly. “Still beating.”

If I didn’t know what this family had been through, perhaps I wouldn’t notice how the lines around his dad’s eyes deepen when he hears Connor’s reply.

But because I do, I see abject relief. I see second chances and new beginnings.

I see a man who didn’t expect his son to live, and who, like Connor, has a unique perspective on life because of it.

“This is Lennon, Dad,” says Connor, doing the double-handed baked good presentation thing again. It’s embarrassing.

I’d tell him to knock it off if I didn’t like it so much.

“Lennon,” says his dad reverently, almost breathless from the honor of meeting me.

“What a day. What a great day.” He looks nothing like Connor, but his mannerisms and voice are so similar it’s jarring.

It’s moving. Sweet in a way that makes me like his dad before I get to know anything else about him.

“Joy and I have been dying to meet you. Con says you’re a skateboarder. Come on, I have something to show you.”

It hits a bit weird that that’s the thing Connor told him about me.

Or that that’s the thing that stood out about me to his dad.

It feels good in a way. Right and also wrong.

Right because for the longest time, if I’d been asked to describe myself to someone, riding a wobbly board on four wheels would have been one of the first things I said.

Wrong because I’m so different from that version of myself now that I hardly recognize myself.

He leads us into the store, and I can see right away why Connor loves it here.

It’s not like any other antique store I’ve been into—not that I’m claiming to be an expert by any means.

There’s a lot of old stuff, obviously, but there’s an interesting mix of new thrown in with it.

Ornate, antique sofas are displayed with modern coffee tables.

Curved, swoopy lines and solid stone. Brutalist lighting offsetting whimsical, dainty dining tables and chairs.

I don’t know enough about this kind of thing to know exactly what makes it work, or what makes it good. I only know that the second I walk in, I can tell that the person who has curated it is an artist.

For his part, Connor moves through the space like it’s an extension of him, and I guess, maybe it is.

Seeing him here, so comfortable, surrounded by beautiful things, sucks the breath out of me.

What’s fascinating about him is that no matter where he is—on campus, in his car, in the apartment, with his friends—one thing remains constant: Connor is the same.

He’s the same wherever he goes and whoever he’s with, and I think that’s rare.

I think it’s beautiful.

He must know what his dad wants to show me because he leads the way to a large armoire with deep drawers and opens the bottom one. His dad riffles through the drawer and has a print in his hand when he straightens.

He holds it out to me, and I take it.

I can tell at a glance it’s old. The photograph is faded, the paper yellow around the edges with a few faint watermarks on it. None of those things detracts from it.

It’s a picture of a boy riding a skateboard in a tunnel. It’s a dramatic shot—the kid is getting some serious air—his knees are bent, curled up close to his body, and the board is glued to his feet as if by magic. One hand is thrown into the air in victory.

The tunnel is blacked out, the light at the end of it overexposing the image slightly. The boy’s silhouette is solid black. Stark. Simple. A shadow. A boy, not a man.

A tiny human flying without wings.

The image punches a hole in my gut, sending me careening backward into a different time altogether. A time and place where Havi and I stood together on the edge of a bowl, cheering each other on as we learned to fly.

“Wow,” I say, looking at Connor and then at his dad.

“Look at the date stamp,” says Mr. Lockwood, cheeks ruddy with barely contained excitement.

It takes me a second to find the stamp, and then I’m right there with Mr. Lockwood.

“Nineteen fifty-seven!” I exclaim. “That’s two years before the first commercially produced skateboard was ever sold.”

“Neat, right?” says Mr. Lockwood, adjusting his waistband and digging a hand into his pocket. “I don’t know who this kid is, but chances are, he was one of the first people to ride a board like that.”

I look at the photograph again, and my belly swoops. It lurches up to my throat and falls to my knees exactly like it used to. It takes me back and back and back, and for once, spits me out somewhere that doesn’t hurt.

It reminds me of good times.

Good things.

“It’s incredible.” My voice is so soft and sincere that it makes Connor beam. “Thanks for showing me, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Mr. Lockwood?” He looks around with mock indignance. “That’s my father. Call me Brian, please.”

The bell at the entrance chimes, alerting us to the fact that a customer has walked in. Mr. Lockwood, or Brian, excuses himself, and I hand the photograph to Connor, who carefully puts it back in the drawer and closes it.

“Show him all the good stuff, Con,” calls his dad, throwing a smile at us over his shoulder.

Connor wastes no time doing just that. He moves through the storefront quickly, pointing out pieces as he goes. Saying things like, “Edwardian satinwood settee,” and “Regency-era card table.”

He takes me to a door at the back of the store and leads me through it. “This is where all the really good stuff is,” he tells me.

The back room, or rooms, are smaller than the storefront and connected through a series of interlinked passages. It’s darker here. Not as curated, quieter, and there’s no one else here.

We’re alone, and that makes me want to kiss Connor.

I can’t, though, because he’s moving too quickly, pulling me by the hand from room to room and showing me what he likes best in each one.

When we get to the end of the maze, he stops. His eyes narrow, and he looks at me critically, as if to determine whether he can trust me.

“I’m going to show you my two favorite things,” he says, when the decision is made. “The only person who knows about the first one is my dad, and the second one… Well, no one knows about that one but me.”

The first thing is a jewelry box. It’s made of ebonized wood and is about the size of a shoebox.

It has a mechanical mechanism that’s triggered when he opens it.

A tinny waltz plays as Connor shows me a series of tiny drawers and hidden compartments.

He opens each one, eyes glistening, as he reveals what’s hidden inside.

An ornate silver locket. A single clip-on earring.

A peacock feather. A gold strap that looks like it once had a wristwatch attached to it.

“It’s a rose-cut diamond,” he says, holding the earring up and turning it so the light hits it and throws up a pastel rainbow.

He puts the earring back and picks up the watch strap.

“And this is eighteen karat gold. I found the earring in the cushion of a sofa, and the strap had fallen behind a bedside drawer. I search the furniture when it comes into the store and collect anything good that I find. I keep it all in here.”

What’s happening to his face as he talks is unreal.

Incredible. It’s crazy. It’s beautiful. Connor is Connor wherever he goes, but right now, he’s the most Connor I’ve ever seen him.

He’s so happy and excited that whatever it is that makes him him has risen to the surface and is pouring out of him.

It spills onto the floor around us, pooling at my feet and wrapping itself around my legs as it travels up to my heart.

It’s infectious. Adorable. So sweet it makes my knees weak.

He gestures to the jewelry box. “When I was little, I used to call it my treasure chest, and the things inside it my loot.” He says loot as if he’s a pirate.

“My dad said I could keep what I found, but that I had to keep everything here at the store, in case someone missed something and came back for it. He told me that if that happens, I have to give it back. When I was a kid, I lived in fear of it happening, but it’s been years and years, and it hasn’t happened once, so I’m pretty sure the loot is mine now. ”

He has the wonderment of a five-year-old and the enthused, slightly crazed glint of a sybarite in his eyes.

It reminds me of something I read somewhere once: as humans, our love of shiny things is hardwired into us.

We’re instinctively drawn to sparkly things because they evoke a sense of abundance.

It might be that through the ages, glossy things have reminded us of water, and without water, there is no life.

How fitting that someone like Connor, of all people, would be drawn to something that symbolizes life.

The kiss that’s been threatening since I first saw him in the store propels me onto my toes and wraps my arms around his neck. “You’re a magpie,” I tell him, pressing my lips against his cheeks and then his lips.

He chuckles and nods, and kisses me back with more heat.

“Let me show you the last thing,” he says, stepping back with a little reluctance before taking my hand.

We work our way through more rooms and furniture, and I find myself in a small, pokey place that’s stacked high with tables and chairs.

Connor steers me to a table that’s been pushed into the corner.

It’s made of a caramel-colored wood with intricate mother-of-pearl inlaid into it in repeated geometric shapes. It’s stunning, and it’s different.

He turns to me, expression somber. “Now, before we do this, you have to swear not to tell my dad.” My curiosity piques, and so does my amusement.

I can’t imagine there are many things Connor hides from his dad, and I’m interested to find out what his big secret is.

“I was nine when I did it, and I regret it because it was the wrong thing to do, but also, also, this table… It’s mine.

I love it. I was here the day it came in.

It was a Saturday, and the guys carried it in and set it down on the shop floor, and oof.

” He clutches his chest. “It was love at first sight. It’s been here ever since, and at least once a year, I make my dad an offer to buy it, but so far, he hasn’t accepted. ”

“It’s a nice table,” I say, doing my best impression of a person who knows about things like this. He tugs at my hand and all but manhandles me onto the floor. “What are we doing?”

It’s a stupid question because the answer is clear as day—we’re on our hands and knees, crawling under an antique table. We shuffle positions until we’re sitting, knees at our ears, heads tilted at awkward angles.

Connor turns on the flashlight on his phone and shines it on the underside of the tabletop. Like the top of the table, the underside is varnished to within an inch of its life, so the light bounces off the smooth surface and makes it hard to read whatever it is that Connor is trying to show me.

I squint and move my head. Childish block letters appear in the glossy finish.

PROPERTY OF CONNOR LOCKWOOD

The words were carved by an unsteady hand wielding something sharp. The handwriting is untidy and some letters are a lot bigger and carved deeper than others.

I’m not sure if it’s because Connor’s big, dark secret is neither big nor dark, or if it’s because I’m sitting under a table, feeling exactly like I used to when Caroline and I were kids and built cubby houses in the den, but either way, I start laughing uncontrollably.

Connor jabs me in the ribs and hisses, “Shhh!”

I jab him back, and like that, we’re both five.

We tumble out from under the table in a ball with arms and legs sticking out of it, hissing and spluttering hysterically as we roll around on the floor. At one point, Connor escapes my grip, scrambles to his feet, and runs away from me. I give chase at high speed.

It devolves into a high-stakes game of tag.

Connor knows his way around the back rooms so well.

It’s like he has the blueprint of the building and each item of stock stamped into his mind.

I’m running blind, terrified of knocking something valuable over, but unwilling, or unable, to let Connor out of my sight.

Cabinets and chests whiz past us. Our feet beat the carpet beneath us so hard that puffs of dust fly into the air. The entire time, I’m weakened by laughter. Helpless. Almost falling over. And so is Connor. He’s shaking, shoulders raised up. A defenseless, high-pitched sound spilling out of him.

There’s no way to put it except that we’re playing. Like kids. Like boys.

Like men who’ve forgotten bad things exist.