Chapter 54 #2
The day slowly winds down. I organize my handover and clean out my drawers. There’s an hour or so to go until the end of the day, but I’ve hit that weird no-man’s-land time of day. It’s too early to leave and too late to start anything new.
Bev looks at me for a long time and then tilts her head to the door. “Don’t stay too late.”
Kind brown eyes tell me my work here is done. And more importantly, when it comes to me, so is hers.
I hug Bev first, finding it a lot harder than I was expecting to let her go.
“Thanks for everything,” I whisper, eyes stinging. “I mean it, Bev.”
“Don’t mention it.” She squeezes me tightly and smiles when she releases me. “And hey, let me know how that five-year personal-growth plan pans out.”
Anna’s next, and even though she makes a big song and dance of it, it’s not the worst goodbye because there are already forty-three unread messages in the Team Building 2.0 group chat, and I know damn well I’m seeing her for brunch this weekend, whether I want to or not.
Blake is up last. He approaches with a sheepish, sinuous lope and walks into my arms. His hug is a slightly stiff, awkward affair. Anna looks on with the mushiest, most lovestruck expression imaginable.
As soon as we make contact, I snap.
“Anna is crazy about you,” I hiss into his ear, “stop fucking around!”
He pulls away, brows shooting up comically high. “Nah-uh.” He shakes his head blankly. “We’re just really good fr—”
No.
That’s it. I’ve had enough of this shit.
I pull him back in for another, much firmer hug. “She is. I mean it, bud. For the love of God, kiss the girl.”
I leave the housing department with a half-empty box under my arm, a messenger bag on my shoulder, and a content smile on my face. The last thing I hear before the door swings shut on this strange, unexpectedly good, unexpectedly necessary chapter of my life is Blake’s raspy voice.
“Anna. May I see you in the small breakout room, please?”
The garage is dimly lit. A halogen light blinks rudely above us, making me feel more disoriented by being awake at this hour.
“Sorry to get you out of bed this early,” I say, “but you know what Con’s like, he’s up with the sun.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Tank, waving me off. He appears to have rolled out of bed exactly as jovial as he is at any other time of day. “I’m happy to help.”
We wrestle Connor’s birthday present into the elevator and carry it into the apartment as quietly as we can. Once inside, we talk to each other in silent hand gestures usually used by baseball players. I’m pretty sure neither of us has a clue what the other is saying.
It’s one hell of a mission, and by the end of it, Tank and I are out of breath, but Connor’s gift is wrapped.
It stands in the middle of the living room with a big gold bow on it.
There’s some bunching in the wrapping on the sides, a couple of tears we had to patch up with Scotch tape, and the paper is mismatched because the first roll ran out.
“Looks good,” whispers Tank, stepping back and admiring our work.
It looks like it was wrapped by a kindergartner.
I’m a little disappointed. I’ve been planning this gift for months, and I was hoping for a more polished final product.
“D’you think Con will like it?” I ask.
“Are you kidding me? He’ll love it. He’d love anything you gave him, Lennon, but this”—Tank motions to the massive monument to mediocrity standing in the living room as though it’s a work of art—“this is going to knock his socks off.”
It makes me feel a bit better.
When he leaves, Tank pulls me into a bear hug that lifts me off my feet. “He’s lucky to have you, bud. I’m so glad he’s with someone who puts this much effort into making him happy. He deserves that.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
“Okay, now keep your eyes closed and don’t peek.” I’m behind Connor, shuffling down the hall with my hands over his eyes. He’s smiling so hard that his smile lines tickle my palms.
“Whoa!” he yells when I let him open his eyes.
There’s an innocent sense of wonder about him this morning that’s making me so happy I could burst.
He paces around the gift thoughtfully, as though he’s trying to work out the best plan of attack.
“I’m not sure where to start,” he says, making big eyes. “I don’t want to mess up the wrapping.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Rip it, birthday boy.”
He looks at me as he bunches the first handful and tears a massive gash in the paper, then he looks down and his face changes. Childish wonder to love so deep and eternal that I feel it in the back of my throat.
He tears the paper again and again until a caramel-colored surface is exposed. A smooth, high-gloss finish. Uniform geometric patterns, repeated. Timber and mother-of-pearl.
His jaw drops and his eyes start sparkling like crazy. “My table! You got me my table.”
“How could I not?” I place my hand over my heart and tap twice. “That thing has your name written all over it.”
He walks around the table, running his fingers along every carved detail as though it’s the first time he’s ever seen it. “I can’t believe my dad gave it to you. Do you know how many times I’ve begged him for it?”
“Is that right?” I say, arching a brow.
“Yeah, he always said he’d give it to me when I could afford to pay full price for it.” His head spins in my direction, the whites of his eyes showing. “Oh God, please tell me you didn’t pay full price for it, Lennon.”
“Well, he tried to give it to me for free, but it’s a gift, so I insisted on paying something.”
Just when I thought his jaw had dropped as much as it could, it drops again. “Wait. You, you negotiated up?” His voice lilts dramatically and he squeezes the bridge of his nose hard. “Lennon, Lennon, Lennon. I’ve taught you nothing.”
I laugh and catch his hand, pulling it down to his side so I can see his face. His beautiful face. A face I love more than any other. A man I love in this lifetime, the last one, and the next one. I kiss his lips, then his cheeks, then his forehead, and his nose.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I love you too.”
He spends ages moving things in the apartment around, trying out different options to find the perfect spot for the table. Eventually, he puts it near the front door. It’s a little big for the space, and we have to turn to the side to get past it when we open the door, but it looks good.
“It’s perfect,” he cries happily, “because when you think about it, we shouldn’t really be dumping our shoes and bags here anyway. Now we won’t be able to!”
“Mm, perfect,” I agree.
He places his chicken cup, an assortment of old books, and a tall vase on the table. He moves everything around, this way and that, humming to himself until he’s satisfied with the placement.
“I’m so happy,” he says, clutching his hands to his chest.
His hair is a morning mess and a single dimple dips deeply in his cheek. He’s wearing his sweatpants and one of my old T-shirts. His face is shining with joy, his eyes dancing with light and life.
I look at him and good things pulse gently through my body. A peaceful conviction that I’m exactly where I belong swims through my veins and warms my heart.
“Me too,” I say. And I mean it.