“Hey,” he says.
When he says it, I realize I’m standing a lot closer to him than I usually do. I must be because as he speaks, his breath lands on my cheek in a soft, warm puff.
His hand floats toward me and quickly drops down. A split second later, mine does the same. He leans in and straightens. As he straightens, I lean in. It’s an awkward as fuck mess that feels a bit like a meeting of two people who have never met another human being before.
Why am I so close to him?
I’m almost touching him, for fuck’s sake. It’s way too close for a casual greeting. It’s super weird, especially because I’m not the only one being weird. Connor’s being weird too. He hugs literally everyone he knows, yet he’s standing around looking like he doesn’t know how to greet me.
If I were the jock, I mean Tank, he’d have his arms around me. He’d be slapping my back and resting his arm on my shoulder when he released me. The exchange would be natural and easy, like breathing.
“Hey,” I say, sounding mildly constipated and taking a step back to restore order to chaos.
“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, “so I got a Frappuccino and a cappuccino—I’ll have whatever you don’t want.”
I like my coffee milky. Add froth, and I love it. When I have time, I froth my milk in the mornings. My little frother is one of the only things I remembered to bring with me when I left home.
This morning, Connor frothed some milk for me while I was in the shower.
“The cappuccino will be good. Thanks.”
He smiles, mainly because it’s a reaction that comes naturally to him, but also because he loves frappuccinos and he’s happy I chose the drink he expected me to. He’s careful with his diet and doesn’t indulge in treats often, but he looks forward to this every week. I can tell because he holds his cup a little tighter than normal when the girl at the counter hands it to him.
I smile back because I like knowing that something I did put a smile on his face.
There’s a free table in the corner, so we take it. Connor sits down, perfectly framed by glass, grass, and trees that are beginning to shed their leaves. Yellows and oranges form an autumnal blaze behind him, lighting his eyes, making them so green that I can’t believe I ever thought they were blue.
“How was class?” I ask.
Five bucks says he enjoyed it.
“Uh, I loved it so much.” I stifle a scoff. Behind Connor, the breeze plucks a burned leaf from the tip of a branch and twirls it as it falls to the ground. “I mean it, Lennon. Ilovethis class. No offense to business management and economics, as they definitely have their place, but they havenothingon the arts.”
He was two years into a business degree when he got sick. He’s told me that before his heart failed, he had a life planned out that involved football and doing things that were expected of him. He’s putting most of the credits he earned to use, but he has added several art subjects to his course. I asked him once why he made the change a few weeks ago, and he told me it’s because life is too short to do things you don’t love.
“My art history lecturer is amazing. Seriously. He bikes everywhere and only wears shades of taupe. He spends his time telling all of us we’re stuck in second gear and getting so angry about things that matter to him that his face goes bright red. I love him. He’s so passionate about what he teaches… Did you know the Mona Lisa has her own mailbox at the Louvre?”
I’m in a fatuous mood today. One of those puerile states that makes you laugh at unfunny things. I must be because that wasn’t all that funny, but I’m laughing my ass off. “No, I had no idea. Why does she need a mailbox?”
He’s as pleased that I’m laughing as he is with the question. He was hoping for it. I know because his smile changed from hisConnor Day Smileto hisConnor For Realsmile when I asked. It’s a subtle shift that makes his upper body relax and the space where his elbow meets the table dissolve, so he and the table become one. “’Cause she gets so many love letters.”
His eyes spark as he says it. Tiny sapphires catch the light in an emerald ocean and sail toward me.
Ten bucks says he writes Mona Lisa a love letter before the end of the week.
“Is that right?” I say, taking a sip of my coffee and licking the foam off my top lip.
“Yep.” He bobs his head earnestly. “You know what you should do? You should write her a letter.”
A hard gust of air bursts out of me. “I’mnotwriting a painting a letter.Youshould write her.”
He cocks his head, drink in one hand, as his free hand sweeps across his bottom lip. “You should write her. You’re the one who’s all dark and mysterious. You could tell her your secrets.”
I laugh longer and louder than the situation calls for. “I’m not writing her shit.”
“We’ll see.” He gives me a knowing look I try my best to hate.
“Where’s Georgie?” I ask. The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked up. I shouldn’t know he meets her here. He’s never said anything about it to me. His brows shoot up, and he puts his drink down. “I, uh, I thought she’d be here. I think you said something…about her. S-something about meeting her here.”
