It was this.
A weight.
It was you.
I should have expected it, but I didn’t.
It always happens. This is how it goes. The happier I’ve become with Connor, the more perfect the day, the louder the things that fuck with me call my name in the night. And yesterday was as close to perfect as a day can get.
Connor loves me, and I love him. He said so, and I said it back. When he said it, I believed him, and he believed me. We saidit over and over when I was inside him, and we said it again, quietly and with more meaning, when I turned out the light. He said other things too, and now, in the dark, it’s taking everything I have not to think about them.
I cling to Connor as night digs its claws into me.
The attack is stealthy but quick. I try to lie still and take it, but I can’t. My legs are restless, and I can’t find a comfortable spot. I’m too hot. Too agitated. My mind races and lands in bad places.
I get up, go to the bathroom, and lie down again.
I get up again and open my drawer, palms sweating, as the worst of me whispers how much Connor will hate me when he finds out who I am.
“Lennon.” Connor’s voice is soft and husky with sleep. “Time to wake up, baby.”
I open my eyes a crack, a splinter of light hits my retina, and the horrible set of claws that has me in its grip begins to retract. I exhale, and the panicked ramblings of last night begin to fade. I blink and open my eyes fully. Connor is on his side, facing me, an easy smile greeting me.
The sun comes up in his eyes and chases the last fizzy remnants of my anxiety away.
We have coffee in bed, and I hum happily into the froth Connor has whipped up for me. It’s thick and so fluffy that it sticks to my top lip each time I have a sip. Connor laughs and kisses it off for me.
I shower and come back to my room to get dressed. Connor is still propped up in bed, leaning against the headboard I’m no longer convinced I hate. I step into my work pants and feel the subtle warmth of his eyes on my back as I pull them up. I button my shirt, and when I look back at the bed, Connor isn’t there.
My eyes travel slowly around the room to find him, skidding to a halt when they do.
He’s standing at my dresser, in front of my half-opened underwear drawer, naked except for a pair of my sleep shorts. He has something in his hands, and he’s looking down at it with a fond expression.
There’s an olive and rose-pink blur between his fingers, then a glint of coated steel.
“This is nice,” he says, pleased.
My blood runs cold. The entire volume of blood in my body turns to ice, numbing my arms and legs and sending a sharp, shooting pain straight to my heart.
He has the tin in his hands. My stupid, stupid fucking tin.
My entire body begins to tremble as he handles it, turning it over in his hands to examine old roses, an English garden, and a brilliant blue sky.
“What’s this?” he asks. “I haven’t seen it before.”
“Something unique,” I reply in a panicked rush. “Like Anna said. I need baskets, a plant, and something unique, and t-that’s something unique.” Something about my demeanor is alerting him to the fact that something is amiss. It must be because a flicker of confusion turns his mouth into a smallO. “Don’t-open-it,please.”
His eyes widen to match his mouth, and he hands it back to me silently. I take it from him and place it on the top shelf of my bookshelf, next to the plant he bought for me a few weeks ago.
“What’s inside it?” he asks.
The truth throttles me, cutting off my air as surely as a hand wrapped around my throat would. I don’t answer for several tense, agonizing seconds.
“Bad memories,” I choke out eventually.
51
Lennon
