I don’t move for a while. I let my eyes drift open and closed. Each time I open them, light shining through crystal and stained glass alters my walls. It reminds me of a kaleidoscope, spinning and spinning, changing the world each time it turns.
Eventually, I open the message app on my phone and scroll down. I’m thinking of sending Havi a message like I do most nights, but I haven’t decided what to say yet. Before I get to his name in my inbox, I get to Connor’s.
I look at the letters on my screen for a long time. I have his first name in my contacts as Connor and his last name as The Spark.
It’s incredibly stupid, and I should change it before he sees it because God only knows how I’d explain it.
A supremely dumb part of me won’t let me do it. The same part that won’t let me scroll past it. I read his name over and over. He’s in his room. I’m in mine. I know exactly where he is, and for a long time, that’s all I’ve wanted: to know where he is and what he’s doing.
I know that now.
I heard the shower come on and stay on for five minutes before it went off. I heard nothing for a couple of minutes—probably when he got out of the shower and dried himself. Then I heard water stop and start a few times—likely when he brushed his teeth and washed his face.
He’s in his room now. I know that because I heard his footsteps in the hall, and I heard thesnickof a latch bolt sliding through a strike plate when he closed his door.
He moves differently at night from the way he does in the day. Quieter. More carefully, so as not to disturb me.
It’s been at least half an hour since he closed his bedroom door, so I’m sure he’s in bed. I’m sure he’s tucked in, surrounded by soft cotton and jewel-colored tones. Maybe he’s naked, maybe he sleeps in pajamas. Maybe he’s reading, maybe he’s out like a light.
Suddenly, the not knowing ramps up and becomes intolerable. I have to know. Not whether he’s wearing pajamas or not, I’m not that kind of creep. I just need to know whether he’s awake or asleep.
I click on his name and type quickly. I don’t read the message back before sending it because I know that’s likely to lead to a bout of severe overthinking.
Thank you.
He’s awake. He must be because he replies right away.
Anytime.
23
Connor
It’soneofthosein-and-out nights. Where sleep finds me, pulls me under, and spits me out again. When I’m asleep, it’s a light, dreamless slumber. When I’m awake, I lie in the dark and think of Lennon.
The strangest thing happened when I was on the sofa with him. He was sitting close to me, the closest we’ve been to each other for any length of time, and for a while there, toward the end of the movie, my heart felt really uncomfortable. It felt like it did when I came out of surgery, swollen and too big for my chest. Every beat was distinctive. So obvious that I felt them not only in my chest, but in my lips and hands too. My heart rate was elevated, beating too hard and too fast.
Each beat delivered a clear lull and a solid contraction.
Chambers filled with blood.
Muscle squeezed it out.
I felt lightheaded, and for a second, absolute terror slammed into me.
Before I could speak and tell Lennon I needed help, something changed. Bone matter expanded and my chest cavity widened. It was intense, but it didn’t hurt.
I turned to Lennon when it happened. He was looking straight ahead at the TV. His handsome face was in profile. Light glinted off his forehead and nose. Shadows played under his eyes and darkened his stubble. He looked happy and sad. Comfortable and uncomfortable. But mostly, mostly, he looked close enough that if I reached out or leaned in, I could have touched him.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t take my eyes off him. I couldn’t help thinking that if he were the last thing I ever saw, at least he was the most beautiful too.
As I studied his face, something major happened. I don’t know what it’s called, or what caused it, but I know it happened—my heart fell into place. Perfectly. Notably. I felt the difference immediately. It was obvious. Something shifted. Something moved. Something gave, and a foreign object found its way home.
I was aware of the change for the rest of the night. Even now, as I lie here, I’m aware of it. The clear, extraneous beat I’ve come to accept as normal—new normal—is gone. The struggle is over. I don’t feel a noticeable beat in my chest anymore, though my pulse is fine. I should know, I’ve checked it at least twenty times since I came to bed. My blood pressure is good. My breathing is steady.
I don’t know what’s happened or why. All I know is that for the first time in years, my heart is beating easily.
