Page 43 of This Life and All the Rest
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” she asks finally. “What about last time?”
“That was years ago,” I tell her. “I’m in a better place now. I’ll be fine.”
The words are true. Iamin a better place now.
I’m not fresh out of rehab and having my last ounce of hope shattered.
This is my apartment, not some dirty alley outside of a pub in London.
I’m sober and stable. I’m not heartbroken anymore.
And more importantly, as wrong as it may feel, I tell myself that’s Capri in my shower. Not Lennon.
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I say again, repeating the words and stressing them.
Hoping like hell my mom believes them more than I do.
FOURTEEN
By the timeI’m out of the shower, it’s after midnight.
I towel dry my hair and dress in Macon’s clothes before leaving the bathroom and tiptoeing into his bedroom.
It’s empty. I don’t see him or hear him, and I don’t like the disappointment I feel. I try to ignore it.
Macon’s USMC shirt and sweats are too big in some places and snug in others. He’s built like a triangle while I’m more like a pear. Plus, he’s over six foot and I’m 5’9”. Still, despite the fact that the clothes obviously aren’t my size, they’re still heartbreakingly comfortable.
I don’t want to like the way Macon’s clothes feel on my body. I don’t want to like anything about him at all.
I fold my dirty clothes and set them on top of the dresser, before standing in the middle of the room and surveying it.
It’s different in the ways you’d expect.
He’s not nineteen anymore. Of course, his bedroom reflects that, but it’s still very Macon. Black accents. A stack of sketchbooks and a jar of pencils. There’s a large flatscreen TV mounted on the wall and a record player with a shelf of vinyl records in the corner. There are no clothes scattered on the floor or dirty dishes on the nightstand, but the room still smells like him. Spicy and minty. But no weed.
Three and a half years sober.
The thought makes me smile seconds before my lips turn into a frown.
Three and a half years sober, yet still four years of silence.
I thought I could fix him, but it turns out, he just needed me out of the way. He grew up, got clean, and made a life, all without me.
You could argue that I did the same, but it would be a lie to say I did it voluntarily. I was forced to rebuild. I made my decisions without him because I had to. He made his choices without any concern for me, and my life is a result of that.
Don’t get me wrong. I have a good life. My art career is flourishing, and I love Paris. I have friends. I have happiness.
But is it what I thought I wanted?
Four years ago, had I been allowed to make my own decisions, my life would look a hell of a lot different.
I release a hollow laugh. Maybe I should thank Macon for that.
I sit gently on the bed, give myself a little bounce, then drop so I’m lying on my back. The mattress is like being hugged by a cloud, and I groan.
God damn it.
I don’t want to be comfortable here.
