37
Lennon
Iholdthedooropen, and a raucous wave of debauchery leaks out of the bar and flows down the street. It’s dark in The Pardon. Dark wood and dark floors. There are lots of people here having fun, and lots of people who want to get laid. A mirrored wall behind the bar glitters, reflecting light through liquor. Patrons are drawn to it like an altar.
The first shot of Jager burns hot and cold and tastes like a mistake. A bitter mistake I’ve made many times before and regretted the next day. The fourth shot tastes nothing like that.
I’m not saying it tastes like a good idea. No. Not exactly. It still burns, but not cold. It burns hot, like an opportunity to learn. A life lesson more than an outright error in judgment.
Connor is at my side, standing out like a beacon. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. I’m not sure if it’s the white shirt that makes him stand out, but it might be. Or it might be the fact that he’s sober and everyone else here is off their faces. It might bethat everyone else is loud, and he’s quiet. Everyone else is chaos, and he’s calm.
It might be that.
It might be the fact that he’s The Spark, and there’s no one else like him.
It might be that music, words, and people change when they’re around him. When they get close to him, in his orbit, they slow down and drag out.
People react to him the way they always do. They’re drawn to him. Attracted by a force they can’t see. They make their way toward him in droves, all of them wanting something he has.
For a long time, I thought that might be my problem as well. I thought I wanted something he had.
Now, I just want him.
I don’t even know exactly what it is I want. His body, for sure. I want his mouth and his skin. I want to be naked with him, and I want to do all the things naked people do together. I want all of that. I’m not saying I don’t, but I want more. I want so much more than fucking that fucking hardly seems important.
What I want is invisible. What I want exists in the space between us. It has no name. No voice. It makes no sound, yet it might be the realest, loudest thing I’ve ever encountered. It might be the thing that’s keeping me here. On this planet.
It might be the reason I’m still standing.
Still breathing.
Still beating.
“I’m glad you came out,” he says to me. “I know you didn’t want to, but I’m glad you’re here.”
We’re standing at a small high-top table. There are people all around us, some on their feet, some sitting on barstools. They’re loud and animated, shuffling behind us and bumping into us. There are people everywhere, but we’re also the only two peoplehere. The only two people in The Pardon tonight. In this bar. In this suburb. In this city.
“You’re quiet tonight. Are you okay?” I’m next to him, and I speak the words into his ear. As I do it, he turns his head to face me, and in doing so, his lips are inches from mine.
The heat from his body burns hotter than the last shot I took.
He makes a cute sound. Soft and kind of squeaky. It’s uncharacteristic for him. A self-conscious giggle, I realize.
“I’m a little nervous tonight,” he says.
“Nervous?”No! He can’t be nervous. How dare something make him nervous.“Do you want to go home?”
He smiles and shakes his head like he’s been outside and has been rained on. Not rained on hard. Rained on softly, like a coating of dew more than a downpour.
“You’re having fun, Lennon.” The giggle is gone, so is the soft rain, replaced by a gentle challenge I like a lot. “And it’s nice to see, so we can’t go home.”
“I am having fun.” To my endless surprise, it’s true. I am having a good time. There’s a warm hum of lost inhibitions in my veins and things that usually bother me feel unimportant. I can hardly remember what they are. I haven’t thought of a single thing that isn’t Connor since I got here. “But if you’re not feeling it, I’ll take you home.”
I know what he’s like, all grateful and shit. All big-picture and focused on what’s important. And yeah, that’s great and all, but I hate that he has to be so perfect. So careful. So consistent. I hate that he’s twenty-two and can’t drink. That he has to watch what he eats and take meds for the rest of his life. That he can’t play football and have the life he wanted before he got sick.
I hate that he had to look death in the face to become this version of himself.
I know he doesn’t share these feelings. He’s grateful to his core, not just in words and superficial ways. He really is. Soif he’s tired and not feeling it tonight, I want him to feel comfortable saying he wants to go home. And I want to be the one who takes him home.
