Turns out, I hate running. Also, Caroline might be right. I’m a stubborn motherfucker who’s completely out of touch with reality. I know this because, despite the fact that I’m deathly unfit and don’t own a pair of proper trainers, I’ve run, stopping and starting, for almost an hour.
I’m three miles from home, my lungs are screaming, I’m sweating like a pig, and I’m pretty sure there’s a blister developing on my little toe.
It’s a hellish experience.
Still, it beats being in the apartment with Connor.
By the time I limp home, the stench of smoke has wafted from our apartment all the way to the elevator. I enter to find Connor deeply embroiled in the process of scorching two salmon fillets. The smoke detector is blaring, and for once, his steadfastly calm demeanor is showing signs of cracking.
Instead of being harassed or stressed about the situation like a normal person, he’s doubled over in a fit of giggles. I throw the windows open and grab a tea towel, flapping it wildly in the vicinity of the smoke detector until it stops.
“Jesus,” I say, ears still ringing.
For some reason, that makes him laugh too. I shoo him out of the way with the towel in my hand and turn down the temperature of the oven and the burners on the stovetop.
With some difficulty, I hack off the burned parts of the salmon and put the rest of it back in the now much cooler oven to finish roasting. The rice Connor was cooking is unsalvageable, so it goes in the trash.
“It’s a little harder than it looks,” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter. I consider telling him the kitchen is too small for two people, but I’m too tired to get into it. “My mom wrote out a lot of my favorite recipes for me, and I’m doing exactly what she said I should, but it isn’t working out all that well.”
“Did the recipes say to cook everything on the highest heat possible?” I ask mildly.
“No, but I was trying to hurry. I wanted to have everything ready by the time you got home.”
I shake my head at him and try not to think that it’s shit like this that makes people look at him like he’s the most singular human being on the planet.
To distract myself, I raid the fridge and pantry. I find a can of lentils and a bag of spinach and throw them together, along with some finely sliced red onion, a lemon, and a Dijon mustard dressing that I whip up. When it’s ready, I flake the butchered salmon over it and serve.
“Whoa,” says Connor, “you really know what you’re doing in the kitchen.”
“I’m not… It’s nothing. It’s no big deal.”
He tilts his head slightly and blinks. “Of course it’s a big deal, Lennon,” he says, “’cause you’re a big deal.”
I roll my eyes hard, but a flicker of amusement seeps out of the stony façade I’m doing my best to maintain. “Are you flirting with me?”
He purses his lips and squints his eyes as he gives what I’ve said some serious thought. Then he shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t think so. Just being honest.”
I opt to eat out on the balcony, thinking it can’t possibly be more uncomfortable than dinner was at the dining table last night. It’s hard to say if it’s the right call or not. Connor brings the little oil lamp that lives on the dining table out, puts it in the middle of the bistro table, and proceeds to wax lyrical about the salad.
I find myself smiling at him. Not because he’s funny, just because he’s so happy, and it does something strange to my insides to see someone like that. It’s not specific to him. It’s specific to happy people.
When he runs out of things to say about the food, we eat in silence for a while, and I quickly become uncomfortable. Perhaps he notices.
“So,” he says, “your best friend Havi, is he real or fictional?”
For a really weird moment, my head spins, and I find myself giving his question serious consideration. “Of course he’s real.”
“Oh.” Connor swallows what he was chewing and takes a sip of water. “I thought maybe you made him up to prove to me that you weren’t homophobic.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but I quickly lose patience with trying to figure it out. “No, I didn’t.”
Connor’s expression is calm and neutral. He accepts me at my word, but I’m still agitated. “What’s he like? Am I going to meet him anytime soon?”
Two questions with very different answers.
Both hurt me in different ways.
“I dunno how to describe him.”
