Mal and Bev have been issued Hawaiian-inspired shirts, presumably because their favorite pastime is going on Pacific Island cruises together.
By some miracle, Connor and I have escaped a recognizable theme. Thank fuck.
His shirt is cherry red, with a narrow pinstripe, and his name is embroidered on his left pocket in curly cursive lettering. Mine is red with a broad white vertical stripe.
Unsurprisingly, Connor is having the time of his life. He loves team-building events, bowling, enthusiasm, and the opportunity to meet new people.
The problem is, he looks so fucking good in his bowling shirt that I’m starting to find it hard to remember why I don’t like any of those things.
His shirt is a little shorter than the rest of the tops he owns, falling only fractionally below his belt. It’s boxy, and he’s left it unbuttoned. He has a white tank underneath that’s so fitted it’s literallybeggingme to run my hand up his chest.
To distract myself from that, I watch Connor interact with the rest of the group. As always, everyone responds well to him. They flock to him, drawing closer and trying to draw him into their conversations. Even Blake does it, and that’s not something I thought I’d ever see.
It turns out, Blake collects antique chess sets and likes talking about them. Connor’s eyes are glistening with interest, and I notice he keeps trying to steer the conversation back to a jade chess set Blake found at an estate sale.
I bet it’s valuable. I bet it’s taking everything he has not to make Blake an offer on it.
It’s pretty cute to see him like this, actually.
Bev orders a couple of pitchers of beer for the table and a massive platter of chicken wings. Conversation flows easily and bowling happens. I mean, I’m sure it does. Now and again, I get up and do my best to throw a big, heavy ball at a bunch of pins, but mostly, I’m frozen in a strange time-loop, watching Connor.
He’s good at bowling. He makes it look easy. His stance and approach are consistent. His swing is smooth and controlled.
His shirt clings to his back as he slides.
His jeans cling to his ass too.
The sight of him like that, crouched, leaning forward slightly, does something to my brain. It makes it impossible for me to think of anything other than the fact that I know what he looks like under his jeans. Under his clothes.
I know what his back looks like, his shoulders speckled with freckles. I know the knobs of his spine, and where they lead. I know what his ass looks like naked, his skin pale and velvety smooth.
Around me, people talk and laugh, and for all I know, I talk and laugh back. I don’t think of anything, feel anything, other than how close or far Connor is from me.
Every time he slides back into the booth next to me, he reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes it. Our fingers knit together, and we try not to look at each other, but I feel the smile tug at his lips as surely as I feel one tugging at mine.
The next time he gets up, I find myself alone at the table with Bev. Mal’s chatting to Connor, and Anna is talking Blake through a seven-ten split. She’s using her hands a lot, and has a scarily determined tilt to her head. Blake inches closer to her and says something. It must be pretty good because she responds by throwing her head back and laughing.
“Look at her,” says Bev, motioning to Anna. “So happy.”
“Yeah, she’s having fun.”
“Mm.” Bev nods and goes quiet, a wistful expression softening her gaze. “She was in worse shape than you when she got to the housing department. Did you know that?”
It catches me off guard. At first, it makes no sense as Anna is one of those people who is almost aggressively fine. But then I look at her, really look at her. And at Blake. And at myself. Suddenly, everything makes sense.
“So that’s your deal, huh?” I say with a wry smile. “That’s why you do what you do, and that’s why you’re on the same team after all these years. You collect lost souls, don’t you?”
Bev leans back and tilts her head to the side, smiling at me fondly. “Not lost, Lennon. There’s no such thing as a lost soul…only wounded.”
Mal calls her to come and take her shot, and as she gets up to leave the table, her words settle on different parts of my body.
My face. My neck. My chest.
“Come ’ere,” calls Connor, waving to me.
I walk over to him, wondering if it’s possible that Bev’s right. If I’m wounded, not lost. If I’m wounded and being put back together by people I didn’t even realize were doing it.
If I’m wounded but healing.
