“So, what, are you bi?” I blurt.
“D’you want to talk about my sexuality or my enlightenment? Because I’m more than happy to talk about either, I just need to know what you—”
Obviously, I’d rather talk about his enlightenment. It’s clearly a way more interesting topic than his sexuality. It’s just that it did throw me when I thought he was gay. It gave my confidence as a—not a stalker as such, but as someone who has been highly focused on looking out for him—a ding. I can’t deny that. I’ve been watching him intently for months, and I completely missed it. I mean, yes, looking back, there were some Pride posts on hisInstagram, and that kind of thing, but I thought those were just because he’s hellbent on being a good person.
I’ve only just started to organize my thoughts about him being gay—working through his social media and piecing together which of his guy friends he might be more than friends with, and all that—and now I’m going to have to do the same thing all over again for his girlfriends as well. It’s fucking annoying.
“I’m interested in your enlightenment,” I say firmly.
“Okay,” he says, leaning back against the counter. “As I was saying, the guy in that photo had it good. He had a nice life. His mom and dad loved him, and he was popular. He played football and got drunk with his friends on the weekend. He had a lot going for him, and jeez, he wasripped.” He laughs softly to himself. “But none of that really matters because he had a time bomb in his chest and no clue he was on borrowed time.”
His arms hang loosely at his sides and he talks with the ease of a man who lives life without regret. “He was kind of in the thick of it, you know? It’s like he wasinlife. It was on top of him and all around him. I feel differently now. Life is the same, but I’m looking at it from a different angle.” He doesn’t say it, but what he means is he’s above it now. He’s not in it. He’s looking at things from above. Honest to God, this fucker has gone and risen above shit. That’s annoying as well. “I used to be caught up in the details, but now I see the big picture. Little things bothered the crap out of me, but now I have a different understanding of what really matters.”
I’m mildly perturbed that he’s figured all this shit out while I’m an epic mess, but I’m also oddly hopeful. It’s a strange feeling. Distant, yet prickly and sharp. Little zaps under my skin that make my delusional ass think Connor Lockwood might just be in possession of the secret to life.
“What really matters?” I ask quietly.
“Love, Lennon.” He says it simply and without judgment that it isn’t something I know. “And living. Being here and breathing. Watching sunrises and talking shit with your roommate.”
I scoff, though I don’t mean to.
Connor smiles, but the scary thing is, I can tell he’s completely serious. He honestly believes that being here with me is as important as breathing. That talking shit with a near-stranger and the sun rising and setting every day are equally miraculous.
I can’t handle this kind of talk. I shouldn’t have asked the question. I should’ve known better. It’s way too early to deal with this shit.
“I guess we better get going,” he says when we’ve finished our toast. “Those nightstands aren’t going to thrift themselves.”
“Would it make any difference if I said I’d rather rip my eyeballs out and stomp on them than go thrifting?”
He presses the corners of his mouth into a frown and shakes his head unsympathetically. “’Fraid not, bud. Anna and I exchanged numbers yesterday, and she made me swear I’d send her pictures of your room after we’ve been shopping. I don’t know her as well as you do…but Ireallydon’t want to get on her bad side.”
“Shit.” I know what he means. I don’t want to get on Anna’s bad side either. Her good side is plenty bad enough. “Fine. Let’s do this fucking thing.”
“By the way,” he says conversationally as we head down the hall to our bedrooms, “she says you need a new lamp too.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. “I regret applying for that fucking job.”
He pauses at his bedroom door. “Why did you? It doesn’t really seem like a good fit for you.”
“Hm?” I squeak. Anxiety spikes, and out of panic, I start patting my legs down like an idiot, feigning a sudden and urgent need to find my phone.
Fuck.
How did I get myself into this mess? How did I make such a wreck of my life?
This shit is on top of me. All around me. Not only that, it has me by the throat and is holding me down.
“Lennon,” he says in a calm, neutral tone that gives me no indication of the gravity of what he’s going to say next, “you didn’t ask more about my sexuality earlier, but I could tell you wanted to, and I don’t mind talking about it. I’m pansexual. And before you ask, yes, I am attracted to you. But don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
18
Lennon
I’minthepassengerseat in Connor’s car on the way to a thrift store, and all I can say is that I’m floored. Absolutely fucking floored. The audacity of this guy. To look me in the eye and tell me he’s attracted to me. Who does that? He wasn’t even nervous or spluttery. He was dead fucking calm. Cool and collected as you please. He should have been stammering at least. Or red in the face or something. But no. I literally don’t think I’ve ever seen someone looking more sure of themselves.
I’d be a fucking mess if I said something like that. My voice would do that weird wispy thing I hate, where it shakes and everyone in a two-mile radius can hear that I’m nervous. I’d be all clammy, sweaty-palmed, and itchy-scalped from the stress.
And that’s very normal, by the way. That’s exactly how you should react to putting yourself on the line like that and making a gargantuan ass of yourself. You should mind. You should be deeply ashamed, and you should know, the second you utter thewords, that ten, fifteen years from now, you’ll still be waking in a hot sweat when you think about what you’ve said.
