Page 21 of Love Out Loud

Chapter 8

Lennon

I barely sleep. I’m pretty sure I see every single hour tick off on the clock, and when I finally roll out of bed thinking I can at least get in a quick session at the gym before heading to the airport, I look about as exhausted and excited as I feel.

I’m nervous to see her. Which sounds so stupid, but I can’t help a little anxiety sneaking through. I see her every day, pretty much, on video calls. But two whole months with her in my apartment is going to be different. Wonderful. Amazing.

After I get home from the gym, I take a quick shower and stand in front of my closet, wondering what to wear. Suddenly, I know exactly what Lark was talking about the other night when she said she wanted to look cute. Ten years apart, and it doesn’t matter that she’s seen some variation of my wardrobe on a screen almost every day. She’s going to see it in person. I want to look good for her. I want my shirt to be soft when I hug her. I want her to think I haven’t changed much, even though I know I have.

Fuck, this is ridiculous. I run a hand through my still-wet hair. What difference does it make if I look good or not? She’s my best friend. She doesn’t care what I look like.

I grab a white shirt and blue chino shorts and throw them on. I eat some breakfast, and then it’s time to go get her.

But right before I leave, I go back and switch out my shirt for a softer one. Just in case.

***

The entire drive to LAX, I psych myself up. When we were younger, I used to be able to drink in every detail of her face. And I would, when she wasn’t watching. She was beautiful beyond all measure.

The last time I saw her in person was ten years ago for a weekend, and most of the time was spent occupying Devin. One night, we sat on her couch after Devin had gone to sleep. We leaned our heads against the back of it. She curled her knees up under her chin and hugged them toward herself. I folded a leg under me and used the toes of my other foot to play with the fibers of her carpet—something tactile to ground me, otherwise I would have floated away on the high I got from listening to her talk and having her close to me.

I still can’t shake the residuals of the feeling I had when listening to her audition. It’s both like listening to her that night ten years ago, and not. I’ve always needed Lark. She’s always been sunshine for my soul. My anchor.

But after listening to her audition, I didn’t just need her. I wanted her. Craved her presence. I haven’t listened to it again because I’m not a masochist, but every time I think about it, something I can’t name grips me. It takes a lot of conscious effort to get whatever it is to loosen up.

Knowing she’s disembarking the plane right now—that I’m going to see her in fifteen minutes—has that same feeling creeping up through my stomach and clutching my heart.

It’s just anticipation. Residual anxiety that I still feel in stressful situations even after years spent working with a therapist, maybe. Anyone would feel this way after not seeing their best friend for a decade. I’m sure it’ll go away as soon as I lay eyes on her.

There is no way I’m letting the first time I see her be as she’s slinging suitcases into my trunk and jumping into the passenger seat to avoid the ire of other people in the pickup lane. My mother didn’t teach me much, but she taught me enough to know that you don’t let a lady carry all her bags across an airport terminal. So, I swing my Jeep into the nearest parking space I can find and walk as quickly as I can to baggage claim.

I see her before she sees me. She’s not hard to spot, even with her back to me. Her short blonde hair falls in perfect curls as she reaches up to tuck a piece of it behind her ear. She’s wearing pink leggings, a black T-shirt, and gym shoes. She stands tall, her back straight and her shoulders squared. Lark was never one to slouch. I don’t even think the word is in her vocabulary.

Disbelief rocks through me. It stops me in my tracks. I suddenly understand what people mean when they say, Pinch me.

She’s here. Right in front of me. And my feet are glued to the spot.

I wish I had thought of something witty to say when I first saw her. Something she’d remember forever.

As if she knows someone is watching her, she turns around. Slowly. So achingly slow. It’s like I’m watching a movie and holding my breath, immobile and waiting for her to see me.

And then, she does. Her big blue eyes lock on mine, and an even bigger smile stretches across her face. She seems stuck, too, for a moment. Until she suddenly sprints the few feet between us and crashes into me, wrapping her arms around my torso and burying her face into my chest.

“Lennon,” she sobs.

I wrap my arms around her, one hand on her upper back and one cradling her head, pressing her into me as if I could fold her all the way into my heart and keep her there.

Her shoulders shake as she cries. Warm wetness seeps through my shirt. All I can do is hold her. Feel her hair weave its way through my fingers. Smell the bright citrus scent of her shampoo. It takes me right back to a different airport and a different time—eighteen years old and holding her just like this. Both of us embarking on our own journeys, going our separate ways, making promises that we’d never lose each other.

And we never did.

“You’re here,” I laugh, and I’m surprised to find it’s wet. The top of her head is shimmering with my own tears. I allow myself to kiss them away and breathe her in more deeply.

“I’m here.” Her voice is muffled by my shirt.

“How was your flight?”

“Well, I miss Devin and I’m overjoyed to be here with you, so…neutral?” She tilts her head up to look at me. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and it’s clear she didn’t just start crying the minute she saw me.