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This dude, William, had been around my age—younger actually—when he was killed in what sounded like a fire. And unless they were hyping him up, he had died a hero at thirty-eight. Meanwhile, I was struggling to record my fifth studio album because I couldn’t get my brain off a woman who wasn't mine.
Who’s winning here, Will?
“So,” I exclaimed enthusiastically, breaking the silence with a boom, “what kind of book is it?”
“Horror,” she told me plainly, “with some romance mixed in.”
One corner of my mouth curled into an amused grin. “Horror, huh? Why am I not surprised by this?”
She laughed that time, and it was beautiful. “I have been obsessed with Stephen King and Dean Koontz for as long as I can remember, so naturally, I want to at least try my hand at writing something spooky.”
“Naturally,” I repeated. “And are you succeeding?”
Lennon laughed again, and my soul smiled. “Well, I don’t know if I’d scare anybody who read it, but I’m freaking myself out. So, that’s gotta say something, right?”
“Maybe I can read it someday,” I said, wondering if I’d even get the chance to see her again.
“I thought you didn’t like to read,” she replied in a teasing tone.
“I don’t,” I said in my defense. “But that doesn’t mean I’d never make an exception.”
There wasn't much distance between us. A hundred miles, give or take. But as the conversation lulled and the night grew darker, the distance stretched until Lennon seemed to be on the other side of the world. As I shifted on the bench across from Mr. Fuller's grave, my leg grew itchy and annoying as I questioned what she was thinking about and why she wasn't talking. Was it him? Had he taken up so much of her headspace that there was no longer room for me?
“Anyway,” I said, pushed by a burst of bold belligerence, “have you been seeing anybody lately?”
It was such an envious, juvenile thing to say, and yet I didn't care. For the moment, far away from everyone I knew and surrounded by the best secret keepers of all, I could own my jealousy and dig for the truths I needed to hear.
She snickered a bitter little laugh. “Is that why you called? Because you saw a picture online?”
“No,” I said, only half-lying. “I called because I wanted to talk to you. But, yes, I saw the picture.”
“I went on one date last night with a guy I had known in school,” she said in a way that sounded like a casual shrug.
My eyes narrowed toward the trench behind the row of graves ahead. “You gonna see him again?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she replied dismissively. “Maybe. We'll see. If he asked me out again, I'd probably say yes, but if he didn’t, that'd be okay too.”
God, she was being so easily nonchalant, as if it truly meant nothing that she had gone out with this douchebag in a crisp, pressed shirt. The moment had been documented, forever memorialized with a selfie, his arm around her shoulders and her head tipped against his. She acted like it meant nothing, but she had posted that photograph to her social media. That wasn't the action of a woman who didn't care, which could only mean that she was lying … but why? To spare my feelings?
Or had the intent all along been to make me jealous?
“I’d better head back,” I said, using the cane to stand from the bench. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Lennon replied. “How's the album coming along, by the way?” Then, she laughed softly. “God, it’s so weird that I can even ask that.”
“What do you mean, it's weird?” I asked, making my way back down the path from which I had come.
“Dylan,” she scoffed, as if I should've already known, “I told you. I've been in love with you since I was, like, nine. I mean … with your music, not … notyou. But the band.”
“Ah, that's right,” I replied, smirking with the satisfaction of having my wilted ego lightly stroked.
“I used to imagine what it would be like to call you up and chat,” she went on, rambling in the way one did when they were embarrassed. “You know, like … well, like this, I guess. And … I don't know … it just hits me every now and then. How crazy it is that I know you now. I mean …” She laughed again, completely incredulous. “We used to sleep together, for crying out loud.”
Somewhere, not far from where I stood, a rustling came from inside a shrub. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw its bristled branches shake with the movement, then came a scurrying through the grass. It could've been a ghost, an unsettled specter looking for a member of the living to terrorize, and its sights were set on me. Yet I was frozen on the spot, frowning at the grave of Alan Parsons, 1925-1999.
Used to?
Things had been tense between us. Our brief history together had been strained, to put it lightly, but I didn’t recall a distinct moment in which we'd mutually decided to put a cork in our physical relations.
