I feel it.
In my chest.
In my neck.
In my face.
It gradually climbs up my body and works its way out of me in a slow, machine gun rattle.
It’s a strange sound. Eerie and clanky, yet strangely familiar.
It takes me a while to place it.
When I do, the recognition lands with a hollow thud.
In another life, it was a sound I made all the time.
15
Lennon
WhenI’vehiddeninmy room for as long as I possibly can without it being weird, I venture into the living area. Whatever Connor is cooking smells pretty decent. Rich and savory. Meat that’s been cooked with onions, garlic, and celery.
The scent hits my olfactory bulb and reminds me in no uncertain terms that I skipped lunch.
“Smells good,” I say.
“Thanks. I don’t eat processed food anymore, so I’ve been trying to teach myself to cook.”
Ordinarily, I’d meet a quip like that with the same amount of mistrust as someone claiming to enjoy CrossFit. Given what I know about him, I let it go.
He’s in the kitchen, standing at the counter, slicing tomatoes and painstakingly layering them with mozzarella. Out of habit, I wash my hands, rinse a few stems of fresh basil, and pinch off the best leaves, placing them on the corner of the chopping board he’s using for him to add to the salad.
He accepts my help with a guileless smile. In his world, things like this exist. Strangers stand side by side in small kitchens and cook together, and there’s nothing unusual or untoward about it.
Neither of us says anything, and to my surprise, he doesn’t rush in and attempt to fill the silence. He’s comfortable in my presence. Content with being quiet.
This close, I can smell his hair. A woodsy scent with a hint of cypress and black pepper. It’s light brown, short at the back and sides, and long enough on top to allow for a subtle wave to curl on his forehead. From here, his skin looks paler than it does thirty yards away. It’s milky and smooth, liberally covered in freckles. Even though the freckles are light, the profusion of them darkens his complexion by at least a shade or two.
He has the kind of skin that probably worried his mother when he was a kid. I bet it had her calling after him to remind him to use sunscreen before he left home in the mornings.
Not that it makes him interesting or memorable. His face is still super forgettable.
“D’you want to sit at the table or on the balcony?” he asks when dinner is ready. There’s a tiny balcony through the double doors near the dining table. It’s so small it barely got a mention during the grand tour of the apartment.
“Table’s fine,” I reply. There isn’t much to look at on the balcony other than the parking lot. Being out there will undoubtedly only make an already awkward meal a lot more awkward.
Connor steps out of the way and motions for me to serve myself. I grab the knife and fork he’s put out on the counter for me and head to the table.
“Drink?” he says. “I have soda, water, or red wine.”
A quick spark of hope flares in me. No, not hope exactly. More like vindication. Justification. “Thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t.” He shrugs personably. “I bought the wine for you. Thought it would go well with the pasta. Want me to pour a glass for you?”
I stop moving and turn back toward the kitchen. “I’ll, uh, I’ll pour for myself, thanks.”
“Just so you know,” he says as he sprinkles a pinch of salt on his pasta. “I don’t have a problem with alcohol. I don’t drink for health reasons, so please don’t feel uncomfortable drinking around me.”
