17. Chapter 17
Lark
For the rest of the week, I oscillate between delirious happiness and a giddiness I haven’t felt since the last time I was onstage.
Narrating this audiobook has opened a door in my mind.
It has reminded me how much I love acting, and while I don’t know if I’d take on a project with as much erotic content as Jessica’s book again, I start to think I might try to figure out how to do this from home in the very near future.
I had been a little worried about how Silas and I would interact after I more or less rejected him.
It happens all the time where actors date—or don’t—and it messes up the chemistry between them.
But Silas is nothing if not professional, and we fall right back into our easy rapport as we knock out the middle chapters much faster than the early ones.
Lennon seems to have gone back to normal after whatever that was last Friday night, too.
Or at least, he’s doing a good job of pretending it never happened.
He doesn’t bring it up, and neither do I.
The idea of kissing him seems to be buried between us, even if I lie awake most nights thinking of the pad of his thumb pressed against my bottom lip.
I’m thinking about it now, in fact, as I pour butter over air-popped popcorn. I sprinkle in a little salt, too, and that reminds me of the saltiness of his skin. I only got a little taste, and admittedly, I want more as I pop a well-seasoned piece of popcorn into my mouth.
It’s just forbidden fruit, I tell myself. The only reason I want it is because I can’t have it.
Lennon’s broad hands land on my hips as he gently moves me to the side so he can get to a drawer I’m blocking. I gasp and jump out of his way, almost knocking over the entire bowl of popcorn in the process.
He chuckles. “Sorry, Songbird. I said your name, like, three times, but you were in your own world.”
“Oh.” Nervous laughter tumbles out of me, and I can’t control it. “My bad.”
He opens the drawer and rummages around a bit before closing it and opening another. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say with more confidence, even though the feeling of his hands on my hips lingers. “Just concentrating.”
“Popcorn does require a lot of concentration.” He finally finds the corkscrew he was looking for. Wiggling it at me in triumph, he moves to the other side of the counter to open the bottle of wine we bought when we went to the beach.
I cock my hip and rest my hand on it. “I will have you know that I take popcorn-making very seriously.”
His eyebrow ticks up as he twists the corkscrew into the bottle. “It would seem so.” After a little effort on his part, the cork comes free of the bottle with a pop. He pulls down a couple of wineglasses from an overhead cabinet and pours us each one.
I stir the butter into the popcorn and taste it again, then add more salt. Lennon takes a drink of his wine and hums. “It’s good,” he declares, handing me my glass.
My eyes flutter closed as bring it to my nose and inhale deeply. “Smells like berries.” I take another sniff. “And smoke.” I sip it and hum my approval.
“I didn’t know I was in the presence of a sommelier,” Lennon teases.
I huff a laugh, balancing the wineglass in one hand and the giant bowl of popcorn in the other. “Just a connoisseur. Wine tastings are, like, a rite of passage in the mom world.”
“Have you heard from Devin?”
Sighing, I follow him to the couch. “She texted me this morning that they made it to Lucerne. She sent a couple of gorgeous pictures of the mountains. I sent back a picture of the ocean, and she said she was jealous. I suspect she was just trying to make me feel better.”
Lennon has already cued up the movie—something artsy and award-winning that I’m sure I don’t have the attention span for, based on my spaciness in the kitchen.
He flops onto a cushion at the far end, lifting his right arm so it rests on the back of the couch.
I pause, still holding the popcorn and my wine, trying to rewrite physics to make more space on the couch.
There isn’t much room to sit if I’m not going to be touching him, and I fear that any contact I make might be dangerous.
We’ve watched movies and cuddled together thousands of times , I remind myself. It’s fine.
He starts the movie and looks up at me, smiling expectantly, so I settle into the crook of his arm anyway. If I sit at the other end of the couch like a sensible woman would, he’d know something is off.
It’s not hard to ease into him. I fit here, my legs stretched out lengthwise on the seat of the couch, my head resting back against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady. It whooshes under me, louder than the movie.
We sip wine and munch on handfuls of popcorn, but I can’t concentrate on the screen.
Not with Lennon’s heart so close to my head.
Not with his blue-sky scent overtaking my senses.
Not with his arm stretched out behind me, his shirt sleeve riding up, and his tattoos taunting me like they have since I got here.
Lennon is singularly focused on the television, but my attention wanders to his arm.
He didn’t start getting tattoos until he was in his late twenties.
He’d send me pictures of things he wanted to ink and then pictures of the finished product.
It fascinated me. I used to spend a lot of stolen moments between Devin’s dance classes and school drop-offs looking at the way pieces of his body changed with art and time.
This particular tattoo is the outdoor scene that has been plaguing my thoughts.
Jessica’s character has a similar tattoo.
I always have to bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh about it as I’m recording, but if she was writing about Lennon’s tattoo, she hasn’t done it justice.
It’s beautiful and intricate, circling all the way around his biceps and up his shoulder.
I have seen pictures of it, of course, but in person, it’s stunning.
I hadn’t realized it went all the way around the inside of his arm, or it hadn’t registered as important.
Or maybe he’s added to it since I saw it last. But now all I want to do is touch it.
Trace the soft skin with my fingertips. Let some of the ink metaphorically bleed into my psyche, to shore me up for the inevitable stretch of time where I won’t see him again.
Just when I’m about to chastise myself for thinking about this yet again, he shifts forward to get another handful of popcorn.
The sleeve of his shirt lifts up a little more, and something there catches my eye in the flickering light of the television.
Two birds, flying above the trees, crests on their heads and black stripes on their faces.
Larks . The dim realization dawns on me like a soft stage light. He tattooed larks onto his arm.
When did he do that? He never told me.
I don’t even think then. I reach out and trace them lightly with my fingers. Lennon sucks in a breath, but I don’t stop. His skin here is so soft, and these birds…
“When…?” My voice comes out as a whisper.
“Ten years ago.” His is rough and restrained. “After I saw you. Right when I got back. It…” He trails off and swallows audibly. I don’t dare tear my eyes away from the birds on his arm to look at him lest it causes him to stop talking. I barely even breathe.
“It hurt, leaving you. It always hurts, but it was worse that time. Maybe a part of me sensed it’d be so long before I saw you again.
Spending time with you and Devin… She’s such a cool kid, so much like you.
It felt like…” He coughs, then runs a hand through his hair.
“It felt like being part of a family. I almost packed up everything here and came back. But I didn’t know how that would make you feel, having me hanging around.
You and Devin had a great thing going by then… ”
My brain must have shut off or short circuited, because I lean forward and lightly brush my lips over the birds on his arm. Even though I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway. It’s featherlight, but I can taste his skin. Clean and salty and smooth.
Lennon’s head tips back, and he moans. It’s an almost feral sound, low and full of pent-up desire and bad decisions.
I spring to my feet. “Shit,” I breathe, and I walk straight out the sliding door to the balcony. I close it behind me and lean against the railing. I can’t look at him, or I might make a terrible mistake.
My mind is going a mile a minute, looping around and around the fact that he has larks permanently tattooed onto his arm.
That could be a normal thing that best friends do, right?
If I were someone who had a habit of getting tattoos, I’d get one for him.
And yet that sound he made when I kissed them didn’t sound at all friendly.
I shake my head violently, still gasping for air. If I can just get a handle on my breathing…
The door slides open behind me. My heart skips a few beats. What did I think was going to happen? He was going to just sit there and continue on with his movie while I hyperventilated on his balcony after kissing his arm?
“Lark.” His voice pierces through the cool night air, deep and weighted with something. Grief? Longing? Without looking at his expression, all I know is that the word falls quickly, lodging itself in my gut like a bullet, and it hurts almost as much.
What was I thinking, kissing his arm? He’s my best friend.
The man who held me as I cried when I realized my acting career was over before it began.
Who spent endless summer nights in college gazing at the stars and telling me stories about what they looked like over the ocean.
Who dragged me out of my own self-pity and into the brave new world of audiobook recording.
Who makes me happy. I need him. But I had to go cross that line—the line that I drew.