Page 42 of This Life and All the Rest
“I’ve got a pair of sweats you can borrow, too.” I shrug again. “It’s no big.”
She twists up her lips and studies me, my skin heating under her gaze. I don’t speak. I wait her out, letting her think it through. It should be such a simple thing, but it’s not. Nothing is simple with us.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Thanks.”
I shrug a third time, the picture of fucking nonchalance.
“You can have my room, too. I’ll take the couch.” I push past her into the hall, hooking into my bedroom. “I’ll switch up the sheets real quick for you.”
“No, Macon,” she calls, following me into my bedroom.
The moment she crosses the doorway, I can feel her. It’s like the air changes. Everything smells like roses, now. It’ll be permanent.
Mother fuck.
When the fuck did she change back? Vanilla was easier. Roses?
Mother. Fuck.
“You don’t have to do that. I can sleep on the couch.”
I’m already stripping the bed, though, and she huffs when she realizes I’m not stopping.
“It’s easier for me this way,” I tell her, and it’s not a lie.
I drop the bedsheets on the ground in a ball and move to my dresser, grabbing a pair of USMC sweat pants and a matching t-shirt from the drawer. I toss them at Lennon, and she catches them awkwardly, hugging the mess of fabric to her chest.
“Go change. Take a shower if you want. I’ll have this done in a second.”
I turn my back to her, making the bed up without looking at her. I feel her eyes on me, though. I can practically hear her thoughts, but I don’t acknowledge it. Instead, I put the fitted sheet on my mattress and focus on getting my own shit under control.
Having her in my bedroom is going to fuck me up, but letting her sleep on the couch will be worse.
If she’s on the couch, there’s nothing stopping her from sneaking out on me. At least if I’m the one in the living room, I’ll know if she leaves. This time, I won’t be caught off guard.
I can feel the energy shift when she steps out of the room and heads to the bathroom. It’s like all the air follows her, and when the shower kicks on, my legs collapse. I sit on my mattress and put my head between my knees.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why the fuck is this so hard?
My phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket and put it to my ear without sitting up.
“Hello?”
“Macon, I’m worried about Lennon,” my mom says quickly. “She hasn’t come back to the house and she’s not answering her phone. I know what Claire did was uncalled for, but do you think she would leave? Do you think she’d go back to Paris?”
I sit up straight and choose not to point out the way Mom slipped up and said Lennon. It feels so much more authentic than Capri.
Capri is a lie. Lennon is the real thing.
“She’s with me, Mom,” I say, and Mom’s silence makes me nervous. “She’s in the shower.”
“Macon,” she says, her voice full of worry. “Do you think that’s smart?”
“She’s just staying here for a bit.” My exhaustion is evident in my tone. “Probably just until shit cools down with Claire. Lennon’s going to use my studio and crash here. That’s it. Nothing else.”
A long pause follows. I can hear Mom’s breathing.
