Page 26 of Sweet Nothings

Me: Do you want to tell me why you couldn’t sleep?

The bubble with three dots appears and disappears several times before a message finally comes through.

Lennon: Only if you tell me why you couldn’t sleep either.

I roll to my side and allow my fingers to hover over the screen. The realization that I’m messaging Lennon Harding in the middle of the night finally sinks in. On top of having a conversation with him, he’s the one who initiated it. A spark flickers in my chest at the idea I’m seeing a side to Lennon few have ever seen.Three a.m., can’t sleep Lennon.

I can’t tell him the true reason why I haven’t been able to shut my mind off. I promised Roe.

Me: You go first.

Lennon: I found my father the day he died. He was laid back on his balcony in a puddle of whiskey with a bag of cocaine clutched in his hand. After calling the police, I stared at him and felt nothing. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. At his funeral, I didn’t shed a single tear. One after one, people we’ve known our entire lives came up to me to offer their condolences, and again, I felt nothing.

Lennon’s confession hits me hard. I hold my breath and consider how to respond. One minute he’s teasing me about standing outside my window, the next he’s confessing his lack of empathy for his father’s death.

I imagine what he must be doing now, lying in bed with the blue glow of his phone on his face the same way as mine. Shirtless and covered in tattoos. I’ve never seen all of them. Even the night we met, though he didn’t have nearly as many then. I only know this because I remember watching my hands as they glided over his bare chest and neck through the small opening of his collared shirt. Now his tattoos easily peek out of those five figure suits he wears.

But along with imagining him in his bed, I also imagine the pain in his eyes. The same pain I caught a glimpse of as I straddled his lap before he effortlessly slid his cock inside me.

Me: I haven’t spoken to my brother since the day of his sentencing. When the jailers cuffed him, before they ushered him out of the courtroom, he looked back at me and mouthed how he was sorry and how he would make things right again. For him and for our family. I didn’t answer him. Instead, I silently hoped he wouldn’t. I wanted him to pay for what he did.

Me: I think grief wears many different masks, Lennon. Some of us are just better at wearing it than others.

Without even realizing, I’ve told Lennon a truth I’ve never spoken out loud. I’ve never even told Roe. She wasn’t there the day of the sentencing, refusing to face him.

Assuming Lennon already knows the story about Kellan’s arrest, I wait as he reads my response.

The bubble with three dots doesn’t pop up for several minutes, and I think I’ve made a mistake. I tell my hammering heart to relax, but it doesn’t. It’s as if every word typed out between us has sunk in. Maybe I went too far. Maybe Lennon wasn’t looking for a deep heart to heart conversation in the middle of the night. Considering his heart is cold and black, I curse myself for my momentary lapse in judgment.

Lennon: Your turn.

I’m not surprised by his lack of acknowledgement to my confession.

Lennon will always be a Harding.

Me: My turn?

Lennon: To tell me why you couldn’t sleep.

Me: Oh, right. It’s just been a bad day. A very, very bad day.

Lennon: This is the second time this week I’ve caught you on a bad day.

Me: Doesn’t the average person experience bad days every now and then? I hardly think I’m an exception.

The familiar sarcasm and cynicism I have when talking to Lennon has returned.

I huff and drop my phone beside me, then stare at the ceiling. I’ve allowed him to access the part of myself I’ve tried to suppress—the resentment for his lack of memory on my nineteenth birthday. Was I truly that forgettable? Even in a drunken stupor, I never guessed we’d be where we are today without him remembering.

Placing my hand on my chest, I count the beats beneath my skin and bone. I’m foolishly hoping it will ground me, and even though I hate myself for showing a side of myself I’m not all too fond of, I realize Lennon elicits other feelings buried deep inside me as well. Even without him here, the mere thought of him peering through my window in the middle of the night has my heart racing and my thighs twitching with desire. I need to get a grip.

Other than the Mrs. Harding comment, he hasn’t even remotely said anything sexy or alluring. I can’t even hear hisvoice. But if I did, I’m sure my reactions would be far worse. The man could be reading over a twenty-page contract, and I’d be soaking wet.

I’m lost in an imaginary world where I see Lennon’s dark eyes staring up at me from between said thighs when my phone pings.

Lennon: Did you know the confetti they release in Times Square on New Year’s every year is literally made of people’s wishes?

Me: Um... no, I didn’t.

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