Chapter 8

EIGHT

I haven't been able to sleep.

My skin is sticky, and the sheets cling to my body as if I climbed into bed after walking down the street on a misty Boston summer morning. The air in my apartment is thick and heavy. I throw my blanket aside, slip out of bed, and walk like a zombie across my bedroom. After opening both windows, my face is met with a cool breeze. I close my eyes and savor the sense of peace it temporarily gives me.

When I'm satisfied, I trudge back over to my bed and crawl back under the sheets, leaving the windows open. My skin is no longer damp, with goosebumps from the cool, dry air now pouring into my room and sending a shiver down my spine.

I don't know how long I slept, but the quiet, dark street in front of my building tells me it was probably only a few short hours.

My mind wanders to Roe. Her visit earlier comes crashing back like a wave rolling onto the shore, rough and untamed. I've never seen Roe suffer from more than a stuffy nose or a sore throat. But this is a sickness that isn't as insignificant as the common cold. Cancer eats away at muscle, bone, tissue, and soul until either one concedes. And that's with treatment.

Roe might not get it unless we find a way.

I swipe my current read from my nightstand, hoping it will take my mind off the helplessness and pain I'm feeling.

Cracking it open, I read the first line.

I read it again.

Then I read it again.

And again.

I snap the book shut with a huff and toss it beside me on the bed.

Reading isn't helping.

Groaning, I reach for my phone. I don't have any messages from my sister. I think about texting her, but she's a ridiculously light sleeper. Even the faintest noise wakes her. I never understood how she was one of those people who wake at a tiny ping of an incoming text.

I'm mindlessly scrolling through social media when a tiny bubble pops up in the top corner of my screen. I gasp, immediately recognizing the large gold letter ‘H' as the user's profile image.

With a shaky finger, I tap the bubble and read the message.

Lennon Harding: Having a hard time sleeping?

How could he have possibly known that?

I prop myself up on my elbows and peek through the open windows of my bedroom. Lennon can't possibly know where I live. Having only been classified as business acquaintances at best over the past year, I doubt he's taken the time to figure out where I live.

The street is just as quiet and empty as it's been since I've been awake.

I shake my head and feel myself cracking a small smile. It doesn't last long but it's enough for me to notice.

Me: How did you know? Unless you're standing outside my building, peeking through my window like a creeper.

Lennon: I'm not outside your window... unless you want me to be. ;)

My heart hammers in my chest.

Me: Doesn't answer my question.

I chew on my thumbnail, anticipating Lennon's response. I may be ignoring his last message in my reply, but I read over it again, aware of his meaning.

A small bubble pops up underneath my message. Three dots roll repeatedly as he types until it comes through.

Lennon: I couldn't sleep either.

Me: I tried reading a book, but it wasn't helping, so I found myself absentmindedly scrolling. Maybe you could try reading a book.

Lennon: I don't even think I own a book.

Me: You've got to be joking. Everyone owns at least one book.

Lennon: Have you reconsidered my proposal, Mrs. Harding?

I jerk back as a gasp escapes my parted lips. Apparently, it's his turn to divert the conversation. I'm quick with my response, ignoring the giddiness I feel inside at reading Mrs. Harding. It does things to my insides I don't have the energy to admit.

Me: No, and the answer is still a no.

My thighs tense and my stomach flips. I haven't been able to get the other day in my office out of my head. Our conversation pauses for entirely too long considering the rate of our responses up until now.

Now he's called me Mrs. Harding, too. I wasn't expecting the physical response that would occur when reading a name that isn't even mine, but one that could be.

The bubbles return followed by the tiny, short vibration in my hand.

Lennon: I'm not joking about the book, but even if I had one, I doubt it would help.

His response surprises me. Lennon is relentless in his business pursuits, much like his father, so I'm caught off guard by his lack of argument. Maybe sleep deprivation is to blame.

I stop chewing on my thumbnail and inhale a deep breath before typing out my next message. Curiosity gets the better of me. I must be going out of my mind.

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 his voice. 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.

Biting on my bottom lip, I re-read his message, double checking to make sure it was Lennon who sent it. It's out of place and completely off topic. It doesn't make sense.

Although it's odd, I find the corner of my mouth curling into a smile. The idea of a million strangers throwing their wishes out into the universe in the hopes they would come true in the new year is a sweet thought.

Me: I guess it's a little bittersweet knowing the trash I've watched tossed out into the air every year on television has a little bit of meaning. What makes you bring that up?

I wait several minutes, but there's nothing.

No bubble. No three little dots. No response.

My eyes grow heavy, and although I've spent the last few minutes replaying my entire conversation with Lennon, disappointment burrows in my chest.

Talking with and seeing a different side to him played for a perfect distraction, because even though it was short lived, he opened the door and presented an escape from reality.

When sleep is on the brink of consuming me, my phone pings, and with a hammering heart, I read his message through heavy, unfocused eyes.

Lennon: Good night, Ms. Branford x

I frown. Unsure why I'm filled with disappointment.

Exhaustion. Reality. Helplessness. Regret.

The truth.

My sister is dying, and she can't even afford the chance to lessen the odds.

Reluctantly and foolishly, I've let Lennon Harding back in.

Before my eyesight fades to black, I consider my options, remembering I would do anything for those that I love.

Even if it makes me a hypocrite.