Mallory: the one on the left, why?
Lennox: Kitchen paint. I’m working on finishing the house so you have a proper home. If you don’t want to live here though, we’ll sell it.
Mallory: Send more pics so I can see
Lennox: [photo]
Mallory: Not of your abs! The kitchen! lol
I called Lennox that night and we talked for hours until I fell asleep on the line to his deep voice and the accent I’ve missed so much. I didn’t realize until this morning that it was the middle of the night in Scotland when I called, he never mentioned it. He told me about all the house projects he and Pop are finishing, texted me a ton of photos. I told him about my parents and trying to figure out what I want to do for a living.
We agreed we didn’t want to talk about Celeritas, but he did say he’s not driving the rest of the season. Celeritas has been taken over by solicitors pending dismissal of most of the board and executives. He said he isn’t upset about it, but I have a hard time believing it. Projects around the house will only keep him entertained for so long.
He didn’t pressure me about anything, we just talked. It was nice.
I want him to be happy.
???
This morning I finally Googled enough to find out what the scroll he sent me says: “Darling. Light of my life. I’m not gonna hurt you.” It’s a quote from The Shining, one of countless movies we watched curled up together. I laughed for a good half an hour and can’t imagine how much time he is spending on these silly, sweet mementos every day.
Most men would have sent flowers. He could afford to send expensive jewelry. But Lennox sent me horror movie quotes, memories from small moments we shared. He’d been paying attention.
Today’s package was small, a padded mailer with a thong that had “Mrs. Gibbes” ironed on and another sweet note, this one saying he wants me to be the real Mrs. Gibbes. I am both endlessly entertained and horrified wondering where he is getting these things at the little shops on the Isle of Skye. If I would log onto Instagram or Snapchat or Facebook I could probably find out. I would probably find photos of him asking some little old lady about getting a custom thong made.
But I’m blissfully disconnected from it all. I’d rather know the real him and spend my time in the real world. With real people. He was right about this, it’s too hard to see what’s real when you surround yourself with fake.
Late at night, an express mail package came, a brand new Talisker Distillery hoodie that he said he wore all day until the cut off time for overnight delivery and, of course, a joke about not lighting this one on fire. It smells like him.
Every day there are packages and notes. A little boat from Monaco, maple syrup from Canada, a Godzilla action figure from China, everywhere we’ve been he’s sent something with sweet and funny notes about loving me in those locations.
Every day we text and call at least twice per day. He still doesn’t pressure me. He ends every call telling me how much he misses me, loves me, and will never stop. But he doesn’t ask for an answer or make demands. It must be killing him not to be the one in charge.
Every day my heart heals.
Three weeks and some days since I’ve been home, I’m in bed in his tank top and we’re Skyping and watching the remake of IT together. Lennox is making jokes about catching glimpses of my side boob. Apparently side boob is the hottest thing ever, who knew.
“Be quiet and watch the movie,” I smile at his handsome face.
“Just sit here and look pretty, eh?” He jokes and throws a piece of popcorn at his laptop camera.
“Lennox Gibbes, are you eating popcorn?” I gasp with extra dramatic flair.
“Aye, extra butter,” he shoves a handful in his mouth.
“Matty is going to kill you,” I giggle.
“Ah but that’s another perk, I can eat now and Matty can’t do shit about it. By the time you come home, I’m going to be big and fat.”
Every so often, Lennox says things like this. Comments about when I come home. He finished our room today. We have a new cat who showed up outside and needed to get neutered. We need to buy a Tesla because they’re self-driving and I can’t kill myself or anyone else while driving it.
“I know what you’re doing,” I purse my lips and smirk at him.
“Getting fat?”
“Sneaking in subliminal comments about when I’m coming home. You’re not that clever.”