Okay,Iadmitit.When I moved in, I thought Connor would hit on me all the time. I did. And I don’t think it was crazy of me to think that. He’s the one who gave me the impression that that’s what he’d do. That wholeholy shit, you’re attractivething is what did it, and that was on him, not me. I literally didn’t do a thing to cause it. He volunteered that information without any prompting from me.
Is it me, or is it abnormal to go from that toMay I compliment you on your appearanceto nothing?
I don’t know, but it’s not what I expected, that’s all I’m saying.
34
Lennon
It’sbeenalong-assweek of Connor being respectful and lovely. He’s been easygoing and possibly more Zen than usual. He’s also been funny as hell. He’s had me in stitches every night at dinner, to the point I have to be careful when I take a bite of food or a sip of water when he’s talking because I don’t want that shit coming out of my nose if he makes me laugh.
Most nights, we’ve talked so much that we’ve forgotten to start the old movie he’s lined up to keep me out of my head.
He’s taken to walking around shirtless or in his towel in the mornings, and I blame myself for that. I shouldn’t have told him scars are sexy. He was obviously uncomfortable about his scar before, but since I opened my big mouth, he isn’t anymore, so now I’m left dealing with the fallout.
He stands at the kitchen counter most days, taking his meds, making me look at his scar and his nipples. They’re almost the same color, his nipples and his scar. Soft, fleshy pink.
His nipples are small and flat, and most mornings, they’re hard.
His hair is longer than it was the first time I saw him. Longer and a little messier. I think it suits him. His nose is still straight, oddly determined and indomitable, compared to the softness of the rest of his face.
His eyes are still neither blue nor green.
They fuck with my mind, those eyes. They bore into me and retreat. Bore into me and see me. Bore into me and make me feel understood in a way that leaves me stark naked and unable to tell if I’ve been shaken hard and landed upside down or if I’m on my feet.
I can’t look away from him, no matter how hard I try.
Last night, when we were talking, I noticed a freckle on his throat that I’m pretty sure is heart-shaped. He was moving a lot, and the light was low, so it was hard to be sure.
This morning, I couldn’t find that particular freckle again.
I’ve thought about it all day. That tiny brown smudge with two peaks and a point at the bottom. The mark on his throat, near his jugular, that looks like a heart.
I’ve thought of things I could do to keep him still for long enough that I could find that freckle again.
Things I could do to get close enough to him to see it again.
He’s standing two feet away from me now. We’re in the hall. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt that’s half a size too big for him. It’s white, and it makes the whites of his eyes whiter. His teeth too. He’s smiling in a lazy way that makes me think he’s tired.
“Night, Lennon,” he says softly. “Call me if you need me.”
I dip my chin to show that I’ve heard him.
My eyes are trained on his throat.
I’m pretty sure that if I tackled him to the floor, pinned him down by the wrists, and did something rough to make his neck arch, I’d be able to find that freckle again.
With my mouth.
With my tongue.
And maybe with my teeth.
35
Lennon
Ididn’tknowthespace between me and someone else could ache, but I guess it can because that’s what’s been happening to the space between Connor and me.
