Chapter Nineteen
Theo’s room is clean yet lived in. He’s made his bed, imperfectly, which is kind of cute.
The best part of his room is the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors, which look out to his backyard.
I love the accessibility of bungalows. Everything on the same level.
No one is ever too far away. But for some reason, in here tonight, I feel separate from everything happening out there.
Snow covers his backyard pool and pavers.
A few lawn chairs are also covered in snow, cushions and all.
I wonder if putting those chairs away had been his father’s job and Theo didn’t do it in time for the first snow.
It must be hard having little reminders of someone’s absence pop up in the most unexpected ways. Especially in the first few years.
It’s a great backyard. I remember thinking so the first time I was here. I can picture myself out there on a warm summer day, sprawled on a lawn chair reading, in-between laps in the pool. Theo and John at the barbecue. Andie strolling past in her bikini. Me covered up with a large towel.
I have to stop including John in my daydreams. I foolishly let myself believe the connection we had was written in the stars just because of our names. I must stop feeding myself these false beliefs. The second I do, I’ll be able to at least start the process of moving on.
I check my phone for messages from Andie. Theo isn’t even Andie’s type.
Me: Do you want me to come back or should I stay away longer?
Andie: Stay away longer
I tuck my phone in my back pocket as my eyes land on an impressive bookshelf next to Theo’s closet.
I examine the titles, running my fingers along the spines: Edward Said, nonfiction books on Palestine by Ilan Pappé, and, of course, a Bible.
In a wooden frame on the top shelf sits a picture of Theo with his dad.
I bring it down and wipe the light layer of dust away with my sleeve.
In my house, death is a subject that’s almost as taboo as sex.
“Did you know him?” a deep voice asks.
I look up to find John standing across from me. “Father Petropolis?” I ask, gripping the frame.
He nods.
“We never officially met. My dad knew him, though. He’s on the church board of directors or whatever. My dad, I mean.”
“He was a great guy. Theo was really broken up about it,” John says, glancing at the photo in my hand. “Wouldn’t talk to anyone aside from me and his mom for months.”
“Fourteen is too young to lose a parent,” I say as I place the frame back on the shelf, studying Theo’s wide, genuine smile. “He’d been sick for a while. Maybe Theo feels some relief now, as terrible as that is to say.”
“No, I agree. Watching someone you love suffering long term—to me, that feels worse than a quick death. Everyone’s life in limbo. In a state of anticipatory grief and being paralyzed by both the known and unknown.” John’s eyes find mine again before he looks away. “What’re you doing in here?”
“Theo told me his bathroom would be less contaminated,” I say.
Anticipatory grief?
John laughs and sits on the foot of Theo’s bed before running both hands through his hair. “I fucking hate New Year’s.”
“Me too,” I say, moving to lean against the chest of drawers across from Theo’s bed.
“Yeah? How come?”
“Because…” I breathe out, and John’s eyes latch onto mine.
“It’s like this actual tangible marker of time passing, but in a sad way.
Once a year is over, that’s it. It becomes an instant memory.
And with everyone’s lives seeming to move at warp speed, all New Year’s does is make me feel kind of inferior about where I am. ” And where I’m not.
“What’s so wrong about where you are?”
A beat of silence passes over us. “Right now?” I ask, allowing a smile to sneak out. “Nothing. But it’s fleeting.”
John smiles back, his hands gripping both knees. “I’m surprised your dad let you come here tonight.”
My father is not exactly who I want to be talking about while I’m in a room alone with John. But somehow he always manages to make it into my most intimate conversations.
“He doesn’t see Theo as a threat,” I say, point-blank.
John chuckles. “Theo is a good guy, but he’s not exactly the altar boy image he portrays.”
“Aren’t we all pretending to be someone we’re not?”
“Are you pretending now?” he asks, tracing the lines of my face with his eyes.
“To my detriment, I struggle to hold back around you. The words come out, never the way I rehearsed them, and I say too much, and I feel too much, and I’m always just too much.”
“You’re perfect,” he says simply.
“If that were true then we wouldn’t be here right now, dancing around all the heavy subtext. We’d be together,” I say, taking slow, cautious steps toward Theo’s bed. I sit next to John, my hands clasped together on my lap.
He turns to look at me. “I lied. When you said…” He clenches his jaw, then swallows. “When I said I didn’t feel the same way you did. Because I did. I do.”
“But…?” I ask, because I know there’s more. There always is.
“But,” he continues, “everything else I said still stands. It’s why I couldn’t say the words then.
I wanted to, more than anything. I wanted to tell you I felt the same.
” He pauses, releasing a deep exhale before locking eyes with me again.
“While you were fighting for me to admit the truth of how I felt, I was already grieving the us that could never be. That’s why I didn’t say it back.
It’s why I walked away.” His voice trails off, and he looks down at my hand holding his.
Could never be.
I look at his face. Those stunning blue eyes. The scar that runs slightly jagged above his lip. His soft brown hair. The way his neck curves into his broad shoulders.
If only I could read his mind.
If only.
In the silence, I search his eyes for the truth. To cut through all the rules we seem to think we have to follow. Rules invented by other people.
“John,” I begin to say, but his voice is louder.
“I love you.”
His words, a literal dream, ignite me. Blood rising. Skin flushing.
I take in breaths, covertly, trying to steady my racing heart.
“Since the moment we met, I’ve been trying to get over you,” I confess. “But I couldn’t. I always felt tethered to you.”
“We’re connected,” he says, repeating his words from the day we met.
John leans in, his warm breath tickling my lips. “We shouldn’t,” he murmurs, as if to himself. He moves back, creating a draft between us, but I lean in closer.
“I love you too.” My words come out softly, but without fear. “I love you,” I say again, this time against his mouth. A euphoric aura surrounds us.
We’re so close that I can feel his resistance fading.
Silence lingers as I run a hand through John’s hair, still wet at the roots from his shower.
He almost groans at my touch as his mouth grazes mine again.
He lets out a strangled sound before kissing me with an intensity he never has before.
It’s hungry and breathy and I lose myself in it, in him.
But then, just as suddenly as the kiss happened, he pulls away.
From blatant need to obvious restraint in less than five seconds.
He bolts up and walks to the sliding door, looking out over Theo’s backyard. A light from outside shines on his face, illuminating both his imperfections and his perfections.
“If you want me to leave, I’ll go,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I nod slightly before getting up.
“Lennon,” he calls out as I reach for the doorknob.
I take in a deep breath, knowing whatever John says next will change everything.
“Stay. Please.”
His words steal the air out of my lungs. Before I realize it, my fingers twist the lock on the door. John is turned away from the glass doors now. The moon lights up the sky and reflects off the snow, creating this ethereal royal blue haze around him. He looks like a mirage.
He pulls the drapes over the door, shielding us from the world outside.
We walk in slow paces, inching our way closer to one another.
It’s not too late. I could still leave. I could do the right thing.
Be a good girl and do what my parents have taught me to do: stay away from boys.
But I don’t want to. I want to be in this room, alone with John.
Every inch of my body knows this. My heart knows this.
It’s only my inner voice—speaking the rules that have been instilled in me since I was taught there’s a difference between boys and girls—that hasn’t quite accepted what I’m going to do. What I so desperately want to do.
We’re face-to-face, our chests inches apart. I stare at John’s lips, breathing him in. The lavender scent of his shampoo wafts from his body to mine.
“I don’t drink because my dad’s an alcoholic,” John says. “And I don’t want to end up like him.”
My lips part at his reveal, but I don’t respond right away. All our past interactions play like a highlight reel in my mind. The hesitation, his insecurities—the clues were there all along. He just wasn’t ready to tell me until now. Not until he felt safe enough.
“You’re not your father.”
John’s open palm moves to my cheek, and I lean into it. His lips find mine, kissing me as if it’s the first time. He moves with care, delicately, his warm mouth gentle against my top lip, then the bottom. With every kiss, his love radiates, of this I am certain.
My arms wrap around his body, this body I know so well but which also feels like a stranger. It’s electricity and sparks and butterflies all in one. If I could make myself invisible to exist inside of him, I would.
Our kiss deepens, but he pulls away again, looking down at me, at my body, like he’s seeking permission.
I nod, then watch as he brings his hands up to delicately unbutton my cardigan.
He slides it off and a chill passes over me as it falls to my feet.
John places tiny kisses on my bare, goosebump-covered shoulders.
His fingers travel up and down my arms, making the hairs stand at attention.