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 negotiatedup?” His voice lilts dramatically and he squeezes the bridge of his nose hard. “Lennon, Lennon, Lennon. I’ve taught younothing.”
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.
18 months later
Connor
Istandwithmyback pressed against the wall, breathing slowly and quietly to avoid detection. There’s a branch obscuring me from view, and now and again, it blows into my face and tickles my nose.
I’ve been here for so long that my neck has a cramp in it. My legs too.
I’m uncomfortable as hell, but it’s worth it to see what I’m about to see.
It’s a late summer blue-sky day and Lennon is forty yards away. He looks out over the bowl, skateboard dangling carelessly from his hand. He holds it easily, like it’s hardly there. Like it’s an extension of him.
He’s wearing a burned-out T-shirt, black fabric that’s faded, and shorts that fall below his knees, luring my gaze to the sexy swell of his calves. A gentle breeze picks up, disturbing his hair and causing him to narrow his eyes slightly.
A trickle of heat flows up and down my body.
Holy shit, he’s attractive.
He throws his arms into the air as he drops in. An act of surrender. Of strength. Of defiance and acceptance.
There’s something magical about seeing him like this. My man in his natural habitat.
Every time it happens, every time I see Lennon fly, a rash of goose bumps erupts on my arms, and I feel the same way I did that day almost two years ago when I first put my hand out to shake his.
Humbled to be here.
Grateful I lived long enough to meet him.
