The Truth About Lennon

Noah’s lips part. “No, that doesn’t count, but I’m intrigued. And yes, kids really make out behind bleachers after football games. It’s like a rite of passage or something.”

“Don’t be intrigued,” I say, taking a sip of my tea. “Anastasia was a sloppy kisser. It was short and certainly nothing to write home about.”

“Did you write home about it? I mean, is that something you would actually tell your parents?”

“Seriously? Did you tell your parents you kissed girls behind the bleachers?”

“Good point.”

I shrug. “It wouldn’t have mattered. I was closer to my nanny, and she wouldn’t have cared either way. In fact, she probably would’ve just given me a thumbs up and gone about her day.”

Noah squeezes my hand. “You’re not close to your parents?”

“Not really, but it’s what I’m used to. It’s part of the role.”

“And what role is that?”

“Love child.”

“Explain.”

“Striving Broadway actress falls in love with handsome businessman, thus ending his seven-year marriage to his high school sweetheart. Nine months later, I come barreling into the world, and my parents celebrate by jetting off on a trip around the world. Without me.”

“That’s kind of fucked up.”

“It’s a lot fucked up. But it is what it is. I didn’t know the difference. For the first three years of my life, I thought Helga was my mother.”

“Helga?”

“The nanny.”

“Lennon.” Noah shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t even imagine what that was like for you, and as a parent, I don’t understand it. It took me five years to let my parents take Nova somewhere overnight. I can’t fathom leaving right after she was born.”

“That means you’re a good dad. And don’t get me wrong, my parents aren’t bad people; their priorities are just screwed up.”

“Yes, but they’re your parents. Their priority should be you.”

I take a sip of my drink. “One would think.”

“What do your parents do?”

“Well, my father is a self-made businessman,” I say, leaving out the fact that his business is actually a Fortune 500 company and that he’s currently Joseph Morgan’s vice presidential running mate for this year’s election. “And my mother was a Broadway actress. She retired a few years ago, if that’s what you call it. Now she spends her days following my father around and annoying me.”

Noah opens his mouth, no doubt prepared to pepper me with more questions I’m not ready to answer, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the waiter finally brings our food.

“Damn, that looks good.” Noah’s eyes linger on my plate of pasta. “I’m getting that next time.”

My heart flutters at the thought of a next time. I knew Noah and I would get along great, so it’s no surprise how fast the night flies by. We spend the next few hours eating, talking, and getting to know each other. I’ve never felt more relaxed or had a conversation flow so naturally.

Noah tells me about the summers he spent at his grandmother’s house. We talk about his love for baseball and how he became a mechanic, and then he tells me more about Nova and how hard it was being a single father at the age of twenty. Eventually we veer into Lennon territory, and I tell him about growing up in the city. He laughs when I tell him that even though I have a license, here in Heaven is really the first time I’ve ever driven for longer than a quarter mile. And then we laugh some more, comparing how different our teenage years were—mine filled with evenings at the theatre and whatever fancy dinner my parents decided to drag me to, and his filled with bonfires on the beach and barn parties with a slew of friends.

Eventually the waiter drops off our bill with a subtle, “Pay whenever you’re ready.”

Noah’s friend Ricky walks by the table, smiling toward me at the same time Noah pulls out his wallet.

“I’m going to use the restroom before we go,” I say, excusing myself.

“Probably a good idea because the next place I’m taking you won’t have a bathroom.”