It’stheendofthe world. The worst day I’ve had in months. The claws daylight has held at bay since I met Connor have their way with me. Long, curved talons rake my flesh, tearing my skin to shreds and leaving me bloody.
Why the fuck did I not hide the tin better? Why did I leave my drawer open when I was getting dressed? And why, why,why the fuckdid I put it on the bookshelf instead of bringing it to work with me?
I was in such a state when I saw him holding it that my brain stopped working altogether, and I blurted the only thing I could think of.
Fuck Anna for planting the seed. Something unique?Unique?What the fuck.
Connor might be a saint. He might be the biggest green flag in existence, but my behavior this morning was off. He’s observant. In tune with the emotions of others. Mine especially. There’s no way he missed how fucked up and affected I was.
There’s no way he doesn’t want to know what’s in the tin.
There’s no way he isn’t at home right now, thinking about opening it and looking inside.
Bev catches my eye for the third time this afternoon and says, “Do you need to go home, hun?”
I shake my head and attempt a smile. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Lennon, may I see you in the small breakout room?” asks Anna a short while later.
“Can’t, sorry. I’m swamped,” I answer, despite the fact that I haven’t logged in since my lunch break.
I check my phone compulsively, waiting for a message from Connor telling me he’s taken out a restraining order against me.
An indeterminable amount of time later, Bev issues her usual farewell. “Don’t stay too late.”
Blinds roll down and screens go black around me.
My phone buzzes and my spinal cord shudders in dread.
Are you going to be home soon, or should I set something on fire?
He’s in the kitchen when I get home, slicing and dicing vegetables, shoulders braced in a rigid way that’s nothing like him, nothing like us, when he sees me. He washes his hands, dries them, and kisses me on the cheek.
“Be back in a sec,” I say, disentangling myself from his embrace, “just going to put my bag down.”
I usually drop it at the door, and we both know it.
I walk fast to my bedroom, hating myself a little more with each step, and switch on the overhead light. I come to a stop at the bookshelf and exhale. The tin is exactly where I left it.
Connor’s outline fills my doorframe. “I didn’t open it,” he says quietly.
His hands are clasped at his chest, and his brows are raised in two peaks that make him look like he’s worried that he’s done something wrong.
It kills me to see him like that. It physically hurts me, and I don’t know what to do or say to make this better. “I know that. I-I knew you wouldn’t.”
I did know it. I know him. He’s not someone who’d pry when asked not to. The churning mess I feel is on me. It’s my shit, my baggage, my issues, not his. He’s good all the way through, and I know that.
There’s a long, fraught silence as we both wait for the other to talk, though it’s clear that an explanation from me is required. The silence stretches and grows sharper and sharper, a blade to my jugular that pushes me backward as I will my tongue, my jaw, my lips to move.
“Should we watch an old movie after dinner?” Connor suggests with an uncertain smile. It’s an olive branch, a peace offering I don’t deserve, but it comes with a deep trace of hurt that makes the blue in his eyes shine like light hitting glass.
It’s hurt that wasn’t there before. Hurt I put there. The blade at my throat stabs into me, piercing my skin and slicing through my larynx. It’s a blistering, eyewatering sensation that screams at me.
You. You put that pain in his eyes. You.
You did this to the best person you know.
Years roll by, backward and forward, and scenarios play out in my mind. All of them lead to the same place. The same thing. The thing I’ve spent every hour avoiding since I put it in motion.
