His laughter is throaty and low. A husky sound that interrupts my brain rhythms.
At Connor’s insistence, we walk. We’re going to a barbecue at the redhead’s apartment building, and it’s only a few blocks away. The entire way there, he talks, telling me things I already know about her and the jock.
With every step I take, the hem of my shirt taps lightly against the back of my calf. It’s soft and repetitive. Familiar, in the same way the hug of my Vans is familiar. Familiar in a way that has me listening out for the scrape of small wheels, the comforting drone of polyurethane rolling over concrete. The predictablethunkas they bump over the joins in the sidewalk.
By the time we arrive, I’m almost a hundred percent positive I’ve made a huge mistake coming here.
The building is bigger than ours and is arranged around a communal garden-slash-entertainment area. There are a couple of grills with picnic-style tables around them. It’s dark, and someone, presumably the redhead, has strung up some multicolored fairy lights around one of the grills.
There aren’t all that many people here, thank fuck. Twenty, or twenty-five, maybe. They’re all settled in. They’ve been here for a while. Connor said the plan was to have burgers and drinks before going out. Drinks have definitely already been had. I can tell from the way the people who are seated are slouching, almost melted into their seats. Others are talking loudly and there are red solo cups strewn all over one of the tables.
The second someone spots Connor, there’s a lull. Conversation splutters, and the pause is quickly followed by exuberant whoops and high-pitched squeals. Georgie and Tank are the first on their feet.
“Con!” they yell as they careen toward us.
They embrace him, all but knocking him over with the brute force of their joy. They each take one side of him and jostle him back and forth between them. At one point, Tank lifts him off his feet, and by extension, Georgie as well. None of them seems to mind.
I knew to expect this level of euphoria, as I’ve watched it happen from the shadows more times than I can count. It’s just that it’s a lot more intense up close. And a lot louder.
I’m not all that sure what to do with my face, so I opt for a prim smile as I do my best to stay out of the way of errant arms or legs.
Thankfully, the outburst, or jubilation, dies down pretty quickly. Tank puts Connor back on his feet, and Georgie steps away from him. All three of them turn and focus their attention on me.
“Meet Lennon Hawke,” says Connor, gesturing to me with his palms open. The gesture makes it seem like I’m something he baked from scratch and is proud of.
“Dude!” Tank slaps his thigh and his eyes flit shut with the strength of thedude. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“So nice,” agrees Georgie, a little too sincerely for comfort.
“Con wasampedabout you moving in.”
“Yeah, we’ve heard so much about you. Con talks about you all the time.”
“I don’t talk about himallthe time,” clarifies Connor with mock indignance. He should be super embarrassed about what Georgie said, but he isn’t. As always, he’s fine with himself in a deeply accepting way that has just enough self-deprecation sprinkled into it to keep him from coming across like an ass. “I talk about him a perfectly normal amount.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Georgie. “We all know there’s nothing normal about you, Con.” Her expression changes from lighthearted to serious. “That’s why we love you so much.”
“Yeah, bud,” says Tank, slinging an arm around Connor’s shoulders and pulling him close. “You wouldn’t be here if you were normal, so we’ll never be anything but grateful that you’re such a crazy little fucker.”
“I’m not little,” says Connor. “I’m six foot two. Trust me, there’s nothing little about me— I mean, I…”
His words are drowned out by his friends' laughter.
A small group gathers around him, and people talk animatedly to try to draw him into their conversation. They react with pleasure and interest that seem genuine when Connor introduces me to them. They ask me about myself and listen when I answer.
The way people react to Connor is fascinating. There’s an obvious undercurrent present in every interaction I observe between him and those around him. A subtle vie for his attention, a glint of an eye, a sideways glance in his direction. Interestingly, it’s an undercurrent that isn’t malicious. It’s light and benevolent. He’s magnetic, and they’re inexplicably drawn to him. They don’t know why, but they want a piece of him. Everyone wants his eyes on them. Everyone wants his soft words spoken to them.
Connor doesn’t seem to notice.
He’s centered and calm, like always. He stands, as night draws in, with a bottle of water in his hand, and lets the music flow through him. He doesn’t dance or sway, not exactly. Still, the music affects him. I see it in the tilt of his head and in his free hand. In the way his hip is cocked and his knee is bent. For his part, he doesn’t resist the beat. He lets it take him.
People mill past him, touching him as they do it. A hand on his back. A palm swept across his chest. Knowingly or unknowingly, they want something from him. His peace, his personality, I’m not exactly sure what. Connor knows and accepts it. I don’t mean he tolerates it. I don’t mean he endures it because he’s good and kind. I mean, he lets them have it willingly because he understands that whatever it is, he has more of it than he needs for himself.
He stays by my side the whole night, checking on me frequently, leaning in close, lips and jaw near my ear. “You vibing with the vibe?”
For some reason, mostly likely related to the fact that I’ve had several beers and a couple of shots in quick succession, I find that hilarious.
I am vibing with the vibe, as it happens. I’m feeling deeply chill, and almost everyone I’ve met tonight has surprised me by being not nearly as much of an asshole as I expected them to be. What I’m really vibing with, though, is the fact that I have something no one else has—I have Connor Lockwood standing next to me. I have his eyes on me. Flicking in my direction to gauge my reaction when others talk, lips peeling back when I answer. I have his smile aimed squarely at me in the quiet moments, and when I return it, he rewards me with a soft, raspy sound that sounds like my name whispered first thing in the morning.
