Chapter 44
Lennon
My life is a dream. A sleepwalking, daylight, lucid dream. A hazy vision that I move through with no hesitation. I’m underwater, but it’s nice. I like it here. The only two people who exist are Connor and me. Just us.
Just the apartment when we’re home.
Just the grocery store when we go shopping.
I’m aware that other things still exist, but dimly so. They’re there, but they’re far away and don’t bother me anymore. Not even work bothers me anymore. I experience it, but only in a way that’s relevant to Connor. Only in a way that has me noticing things I can tell him about when I get home.
It’s the team-building event this week, and honestly, I’m not even bothered about that. I’ve dreaded it for so long, and Blake and I have got it postponed so many times that the last time we tried, Anna’s face went blood red, and Bev gave Blake and me a warning look.
“I’m going to go ahead and lock this date in,” Anna said with a little twitch of her head.
Neither Blake nor I have had the balls to push back on it again.
Now that the dastardly event is finally happening, I’m pretty chill about it. Yesterday, in our team meeting, I asked Bev if I could bring Connor along, and she said, “Sure, hun, I’m bringing Mal, so you bring whoever you want.”
Anna’s eyes bulged worryingly, and she started jabbing furiously on her phone. She looked really mad about the change in the number of attendees until after the meeting, when I pointed out to her that if Bev is paired up with Mal, and I’m paired up with Connor, she and Blake will have to pair up.
After that, she cheered right up.
So, I guess all’s well that ends well. Yes, I’m going to a team-building event, and yes, that’s not something I ever thought I’d be okay with, but Connor’s coming too.
When I think about it, it might not be that bad. It might actually be fun.
Okay. It turns out my optimism was grossly misplaced.
We just got to the bowling alley, and the loud music and bright flashing lights have hit me like a wall.
The staff here is made up of exactly two kinds of people.
Those who passionately hate customer service, and those who believe their treatment of patrons has the potential to convert them into bowling fanatics for life, and that’s something they want to be part of.
Badly. The patrons are as bad as the staff.
They’re all either toxically competitive and failing to hide it, or they’re skittish, with a glazed look of how the fuck did I get here?
It’s hard to say which of those personality types I dislike more.
Everyone here, the staff and the patrons, has this angst-inducing reverence directed at the bowling lanes. They’re shiny as shit and look more like a death trap than a good time.
I’ve only been here for a few minutes, but that’s all it’s taken for me to remember that I passionately hate organized sports, seeing colleagues outside of work hours, and activities that require me to feign enthusiasm.
There’s a jubilant greeting when Connor and I arrive, headed up by Anna, of course.
Those of us who have rented shoes shuffle to our table and wrestle with laces that have been tied too tightly as we shove our feet into uncomfortable shoes that have been worn by other people, while attempting not to think about how much they perspired when they wore them.
“Are we having a good time or what?” trills Anna, looking directly at me.
“I didn’t know there’d be team shirts,” I say regretfully.
She swats me playfully on the arm. “Oh you.”
She’s wearing a high ponytail, ripped ankle-biter jeans, and a pair of black-and-white bowling shoes that she owns. I realize now that owning bowling shoes instead of renting is a massive red flag in a person.
Anyway, say what you will about Anna, but she knows how to dress for her body type. This sassy, sporty look suits her so well that Blake puts his new bowling shirt on inside out.
Fortunately, she’s on hand to help him rectify the situation.
His shirt is black with pink piping. Anna’s is pink with black piping.
If forced to guess, I’d say she’s playing with a Grease theme for the two of them.
Something that’s quickly confirmed when she names their team Hopelessly Devoted.
Blake goes along with it, but I can tell he’s going to be super embarrassed by his behavior later.
Mal and Bev have been issued Hawaiian-inspired shirts, presumably because their favorite pastime is going on Pacific Island cruises together.
By some miracle, Connor and I have escaped a recognizable theme. Thank fuck.
His shirt is cherry red, with a narrow pinstripe, and his name is embroidered on his left pocket in curly cursive lettering. Mine is red with a broad white vertical stripe.
Unsurprisingly, Connor is having the time of his life. He loves team-building events, bowling, enthusiasm, and the opportunity to meet new people.
The problem is, he looks so fucking good in his bowling shirt that I’m starting to find it hard to remember why I don’t like any of those things.
His shirt is a little shorter than the rest of the tops he owns, falling only fractionally below his belt. It’s boxy, and he’s left it unbuttoned. He has a white tank underneath that’s so fitted it’s literally begging me to run my hand up his chest.
To distract myself from that, I watch Connor interact with the rest of the group. As always, everyone responds well to him. They flock to him, drawing closer and trying to draw him into their conversations. Even Blake does it, and that’s not something I thought I’d ever see.
It turns out, Blake collects antique chess sets and likes talking about them. Connor’s eyes are glistening with interest, and I notice he keeps trying to steer the conversation back to a jade chess set Blake found at an estate sale.
I bet it’s valuable. I bet it’s taking everything he has not to make Blake an offer on it.
It’s pretty cute to see him like this, actually.
Bev orders a couple of pitchers of beer for the table and a massive platter of chicken wings.
Conversation flows easily and bowling happens.
I mean, I’m sure it does. Now and again, I get up and do my best to throw a big, heavy ball at a bunch of pins, but mostly, I’m frozen in a strange time-loop, watching Connor.
He’s good at bowling. He makes it look easy. His stance and approach are consistent. His swing is smooth and controlled.
His shirt clings to his back as he slides.
His jeans cling to his ass too.
The sight of him like that, crouched, leaning forward slightly, does something to my brain. It makes it impossible for me to think of anything other than the fact that I know what he looks like under his jeans. Under his clothes.
I know what his back looks like, his shoulders speckled with freckles. I know the knobs of his spine, and where they lead. I know what his ass looks like naked, his skin pale and velvety smooth.
Around me, people talk and laugh, and for all I know, I talk and laugh back. I don’t think of anything, feel anything, other than how close or far Connor is from me.
Every time he slides back into the booth next to me, he reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes it. Our fingers knit together, and we try not to look at each other, but I feel the smile tug at his lips as surely as I feel one tugging at mine.
The next time he gets up, I find myself alone at the table with Bev.
Mal’s chatting to Connor, and Anna is talking Blake through a seven-ten split.
She’s using her hands a lot, and has a scarily determined tilt to her head.
Blake inches closer to her and says something.
It must be pretty good because she responds by throwing her head back and laughing.
“Look at her,” says Bev, motioning to Anna. “So happy.”
“Yeah, she’s having fun.”
“Mm.” Bev nods and goes quiet, a wistful expression softening her gaze. “She was in worse shape than you when she got to the housing department. Did you know that?”
It catches me off guard. At first, it makes no sense as Anna is one of those people who is almost aggressively fine. But then I look at her, really look at her. And at Blake. And at myself. Suddenly, everything makes sense.
“So that’s your deal, huh?” I say with a wry smile. “That’s why you do what you do, and that’s why you’re on the same team after all these years. You collect lost souls, don’t you?”
Bev leans back and tilts her head to the side, smiling at me fondly. “Not lost, Lennon. There’s no such thing as a lost soul…only wounded.”
Mal calls her to come and take her shot, and as she gets up to leave the table, her words settle on different parts of my body.
My face. My neck. My chest.
“Come ’ere,” calls Connor, waving to me.
I walk over to him, wondering if it’s possible that Bev’s right. If I’m wounded, not lost. If I’m wounded and being put back together by people I didn’t even realize were doing it.
If I’m wounded but healing.
When I get to everyone, I’m quickly absorbed into the fray. Hands clap my back and arms circle me. Anna yells advice, and Mal has quiet, encouraging words for each of us.
The night shifts gears and gradually dissolves into hilarity. People laugh and talk loudly. People who were strangers a few months ago start feeling familiar.
As the others grow louder, Connor comes closer and talks to me quietly.
He looks at me for longer than he needs to and a husk spins in his throat when we make eye contact.
The blaze takes a while to catch on fire.
Lapping at my clothes first, at soft parts of me next, gradually making everything in its path hard and hot.
When the hand clapping my back is his, it feels different. Hotter and deeper. Sexier and slower.
By the end of the night, when he reaches for my hand under the table, he’s reaching into an inferno. A wildfire. A statue of me, that’s been set alight.