When Bev and Anna go to lunch, I take it out of my pocket, place it on my keyboard, and stare at it for a good fifteen minutes. Blake is at his desk in body, not spirit, so he doesn’t notice.
The ink has started to fade from all the manhandling, but his number is legible and so are the wordsCall Connor.
It’s not a dare or a challenge.
It’s not even a taunt.
It’s a request.
Call Connor.
Four tabs were missing from his ad the day I caved and tore one off for myself. When I went to Crema today, only one was left, and most of his ad was hidden by a newer flyer.
Call Connor.
It’s been a while since he put up the ad. More than a week. Chances are, he’s found a roommate by now. The rent he listed is reasonable and his building is close to campus. It’s a sought-after location. He probably had a ton of calls within a day or two of posting the ad, and it’s likely he filled the room right away. It’s not like he’s overly discerning. He probably met up with the first person who responded and liked them.
I’ll bet he’s not even responding to inquiries anymore.
I bet if I call him, nothing will happen.
I bet he won’t answer. Or if he does, it will be a short conversation in which he’ll say nothing more than, “Sorry, bud, the room’s gone.”
Call Connor.
It feels strange to see his name typed out like that. Strange to think of him as Connor, nothimor The Spark.
Obviously, I know his name is Connor Lockwood. I’ve known that since the beginning. It was one of the first things I learned about him. And obviously, I know where he lives. He’s not hard to follow, and even if he were, he makes no attempt to keep his personal details off the internet. The first picture I saw of him, the one that started all this shit, had his house number and street name in the background.
5831 Rivington Lane.
It’s like he wanted me to find him.
Call Connor.
Like he wants me to call him.
9
Lennon
I’mstandinginfrontof a pale sage door, shaking from head to toe. Hands, chin, calves, and thighs trembling, my entire body quivering like a dry leaf.
He wasn’t supposed to answer my call. I waited more than two weeks specifically so he wouldn’t. I waited until I saw him with someone new on campus. Someone I hadn’t seen him with before. Someone who had the eager-to-please, bromantic look of a new roommate about him.
He wasn’t supposed to answer the fucking phone. And if he did, he was supposed to tell me the room was gone.
He sure as shit wasn’t supposed to invite me to come around to see his place.
I swear to God, I don’t know what he’s thinking. First of all, who even puts notices up like this anymore? He must be out of his mind. The second he opens this door, I’m going to tell him he has way too much of his personal information out there, andthat he needs to be a lot more careful about who he invites into his home.
I’m going to tell him all that, and then I’m going to fuck off.
I’m going to quit my stupid job, get a fuck ton of therapy, and go back to reality.
10
Connor
