Page 50 of This Life and All the Rest
“Goody Two-Shoes Lennon Washington couldn’t fail at anything, which is why you took every AP class possible. But...” He shrugs. “You hated it. It only makes sense that you’d drop out of formal education the moment you had an ounce of freedom.”
He stares me down, daring me to contradict him. He wants me to argue. He wants to double down on why he knows he’s right.
And he is. To an extent.
As soon as I realized it was an option for me, I ran as far away from formal education as I could. But it took crashing and burning before I accepted it.
I don’t tell him that.
I will never tell him that.
I can’t let him know the power he had over me once.
When he realizes I’m not going to confirm or deny his theory, he sits back in his chair once more and hits me with a charming grin.
“Tell me about Paris,” he says again, and because I need a change of subject—away from how well he knows me, yet how drastically he doesn’t—I start talking.
I lean into everything that fits with Capri. I leave out everything connected to Lennon.
Macon is genuinely interested in hearing what I have to say, which unnerves me at first. He keeps eye contact. He interacts. He’s anactivelistener. And it works.
The longer I talk, the more comfortable I feel, until we’re laughing and smiling, and leaning so close over the kitchen island that it wouldn’t take much to kiss him if I wanted to.
I tell myself I don’t want to.
I talk to him about Paris and aboutUn Tableau.
About my little one-bedroom apartment in the 20th arrondissement of Paris. It’s a sixth floor walk-up with non-existent air-conditioning and wallpaper older than me, but the lighting is wonderful, and the building has the most charming courtyard. I was only able to snag it because one of my old coworker’s cousins moved to Germany. Before that I was in a three-bedroom with four people outside the city.
I tell him about my favorite brasseries and cafés, the bar I often go to with friends. I get lost in a story about my very first gallery show, and how I was such a nervous mess that I knocked over an entire table of beverages.
I don’t tell him how lonely it gets, or how, most weekends, I choose to stay in and paint and get drunk alone. I don’t tell him about the long string of lovers I can’t seem to commit to. I don’t talk about Franco, who is arguably my closest friend in the city but, despite his constant attempts, I keep my heart guarded from him.
I also don’t tell him that the reason I had to get my own apartment was because I was tired of explaining away my nightmares.
I used to wake up in a cold sweat, sobbing and calling out for help. They’d get worse in the summer, right around my birthday, and the only way I was able to keep them at bay was to have another person in my bed. Even better if I didn’t know that person, because then I wouldn’t fall into a deep sleep.
The nightmares stopped about a year ago, but now that I’m back here, they’ve started again.
I don’t tell him that it’s all his fault.
I paint myself as a happy, successful American living in Paris. I make it sound like a light-hearted Netflix show, and for an hour or so, I let myself believe it as well. And I let myself believe that the reason I’m laughing and happy right now is because I like the topic of conversation, not because I like who I’m talking with.
Macon does the bedtime routine with Evie, putting her in the little crib in the corner of the living room. I offer to clean up the kitchen from dinner, and after he asks if I want to watch a movie. I say sure. He’s just scrolling through the streaming options on his TV when there’s a soft knock at the door.
He pauses and I watch as the confusion on his face morphs into dread. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks it.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, then he looks at me. “Hold on.”
He jumps up and walks to the door, then swings it open.
“What the hell, Macon!” a woman’s voice yells, and she pushes past him into the apartment.
Macon immediately shushes her and steps in front of her, blocking my view, but I saw enough from my spot on the couch.
Nicolette. The girl from the phone screen.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I took Evie tonight, and I forgot to call you.”
