17. Chapter 17 #2
“I’m sorry,” I say out into the space between his building and the next one. “That was inappropriate.”
“Lark, look at me.”
No way in hell can I look at him , I think, even as my body turns around.
His frame fills the doorway, and his chest rises and falls with labored breaths. He looks anguished. Wounded, almost. I suddenly want nothing more than to crash into him. Taste him again. Take away whatever he’s feeling and replace it with something better.
Instead, I grip the banister behind me to keep me in place. “Those are larks. On your arm.”
He nods once. “They are.”
“For me?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I just like the way they look?” He smirks, but it quickly falls. “Of course they’re for you.”
It’s such a soft, tender admission. He leans forward as he says it, as if that could make the words hit home more than they already have. It’s unnecessary. They’ve already burrowed their way into my soul and taken root there.
“Why?” I breathe.
He runs a hand through his sandy hair again and blows out a puff of air. He looks up to the sky, clutching at the strands on his head, the birds on his arm on full display. He must have done this motion a hundred times since I’ve been here. I don’t know how I possibly missed them.
“Why not, Lark? You’re everything to me. You have been since we were fifteen. I was nothing until you dragged me into that Drama Club meeting. I have tattoos of things that mean far less to me than you. You’re my favorite person. You’re my best friend.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what I was expecting.
An admission of desire? A declaration of love?
Twenty-five years of friendship and he’s never once told me he loves me.
Just that I’m his favorite or his best. I kind of thought it had become a sort of joke—one of those things you keep saying because you’ve always said it, that ends up meaning more than an I love you .
But maybe not. Maybe I’m the only one feeling these warring emotions, and I’m imagining him reciprocating any of it.
Like being part of a family , he said. Not being a lover. That’s reserved for other women. I’ve been a fool to think otherwise. Suddenly, I’m embarrassed to have brought it up when we got home from the club last week. He probably thought I had lost my mind.
He drops his hand to his side, and it smacks his leg. The sound is loud in the quiet night, and I jump back into focus.
“I’m not doing a good job of this,” he mutters. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Screw what up?”
He crosses the balcony to stand in front of me, and it’s so fast, I’m caught off guard. He’s in my space again, invading my senses. I’m sure my knuckles are white from gripping the banister. He lays his palms on my hands, gently loosening my fingers and clasping them between us.
He holds both my hands in one of his and brings the other up to cup my jaw.
“You said you couldn’t lose me, and I don’t want that, either,” he says softly, his hazel eyes searching mine in the darkness.
“But if I told you that feeling your lips on my arm just now snapped something inside me I thought I could control, would you run away and never talk to me again?”
I shake my head slowly, unable to take my eyes off him. “Not possible.”
“If I said I’ve been in a spiral of wanting you ever since I heard your audition, would that freak you out?”
It takes barely a second to process what he’s saying, but when I do, my breath whooshes out of me. He wants me. I haven’t been making it up.
“Only since then?” I tease, trying to break some of the tension between us, even as I have to fight to focus with his thumb tracing a delicate line against my cheekbone. It’s not that I don’t think we can handle the strain, but that I know we don’t have to.
He laughs quietly. “I’ve probably been living in denial.”
“I’m not someone you bring home from the bar for a night.
” I don’t know what makes me say it, and I try not to cringe as soon as it’s out of my mouth.
Aside from some playful jealousy at his freedom, I’ve never taken issue with his parade of women, but that’s also not me.
It might crush me to finally have his lips on mine and know in a few weeks he was on to the next thing.
He shakes his head. “If I wanted to psychoanalyze that, I’d probably say none of them ever stuck because I was waiting for you.”
“We’re friends.”
“We’re more than friends,” he counters, leaning closer to rest his forehead against mine.
“We’ve been a million things to each other over the years.
Why not this, too?” His pleading voice shifts something between us, and the ache to kiss him balloons inside me, expanding and rising until it takes up all the available space.
“We’re friends first.” I open my eyes to meet his again, hoping to drive the point deeper.
He nods and inhales deeply as if to drink in the air we share between us. “First and always.”
And then, like he can’t hold off for one more second, his lips are on mine. Warm and sweet. Soft and careful. Exploring. Sure, but tentative lest one of us makes a wrong move.
It hardly feels real. I’m kissing Lennon, and it feels good . Somehow I know this is exactly what I’ve always wanted but have never let myself admit for fear of losing him and shattering my heart into a million pieces.
His tongue teases at my mouth, and I open to draw him in.
That’s when something else changes. He steps closer, pressing my back against the railing and his body into mine.
He tastes like salt and wine, but under that is a flavor so distinctly Lennon.
I haven’t ever tasted it before, but I’d know it anywhere.
“Songbird,” he whispers against my skin as he lowers his mouth to my neck, pressing a hot line of kisses down to my collarbone. A moan escapes me, lifting up into the night like a prayer: Please let me keep all of him. Just like this.
I weave my fingers into his hair, tugging so he’ll look at me.
His eyes are hooded and dark, his lips bee-stung and swollen.
I lift my face to his again, unable to stay away.
Needing more. More of his taste, more of his chest rising and falling against mine, more of the railing biting against my back.
Our tongues dance together, teasing and exploring. A strand of hair gets caught between us. He palms the side of my head, pushing my hair out of the way in a move that seems both practiced and special as he winds the strands of it around his fingers.
I don’t know who breaks the kiss. Maybe we both sense the need to come up for air as we separate, our breathing ragged and loud.
“Is this… Are we…okay?” I ask.
His lopsided grin could singlehandedly light up the night. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more okay than I am right now.”
My returning smile feels love-drunk and woozy, like my face can’t quite do what I’m asking it to. “Good.”
He dips his lips to mine again, then parts too quickly. “I don’t know how we spent twenty-five years not doing that.”
My laughter starts quiet but quickly takes flight on the night air. His joins mine, low and rumbling but no less joyful. His eyes glitter in the ambient light from the building across the way as he tucks my hair behind my ear and studies me.
I can sense the moment is over, even though he hasn’t separated his body from mine. “I hope it doesn’t take another twenty-five years to do it again.” My voice tips up like a question.
Lennon shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m just getting started. Getting my feet wet, if you will.”
I smirk, cocking an eyebrow. “What happened to jumping in?”
He laughs incredulously. “I’d say that was a pretty huge jump.”
I shrug a shoulder, taunting. “I mean, we’re not in the deep end or anything.”
“Not yet,” he says, his voice suddenly dripping with a sultry promise that sends a shiver up my spine. Lennon’s eyes gleam.
“I want to ask you to spend the night with me or something,” I say tentatively, but he shakes his head.
“Soon.” He takes a step back and reaches around to take my hand from his neck.
He weaves his fingers through mine. “I don’t…
” He trails off and brings my knuckles to his lips.
They’re warm against my hands, which I’m just now realizing are chilled from the night air.
“I want to do this right, Lark. Let me.” His face is open and earnest, the sharp edges of it softening.
I nod, squeezing his hand and leaning into his shoulder.
Truthfully, I’d let him do anything right now.
But he’s right. So instead of cracking that joke, I silently lead him back inside.
We settle on the couch again to finish the movie, a little closer and a little lighter.
Every so often, he nuzzles my hair or presses a kiss to the top of my head, and I trace my fingers along his shoulder like I’ve longed to do since I got here.
When the movie is over, we laugh as he walks me to my door. He lingers, kissing me again.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he promises against my lips. And then, as if it takes a great effort, he leaves me and goes into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
I fall asleep quickly, my hand pressed against my mouth, as if I could keep the feeling of Lennon’s lips with me long into the night.