Page 67 of This Life and All the Rest
My lips quirk up into a small smile and I shrug.
“It’s not too far off to believe I’d be dishonorably discharged for drugs,” I say.
She doesn’t smile back, and I sigh.
“Would it have mattered, Lennon? WouldCaprihave cared?”
“Macon,” she says, pleading, and closes her eyes. “It’s just...three and half years sober? Owning the rec center? You were in a god damn helicopter crash, and no one told me.”
She opens her eyes and locks them with mine.
“Why did no one tell me any of this?”
“I also sell my pottery online,” I add lightly, and her jaw drops in surprise. I blow out a harsh laugh before hitting her with honesty.
“Why would they tell you, Lennon? Last I knew, you vehemently refused to hear my name and had to be triple reassured I was out of the country before even thinking of setting foot back on American soil. You wouldn’t have cared to know that your stepbrother was turning shit around. He was already dead to you.”
The words burn coming off my tongue.
My feelings are hurt, yes. But it hurts even more because I did this to myself. Her eyes fall to the ground, staring hard at nothing. The worry lines between her eyebrows are prominent, and I want to smooth them away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers finally. “For assuming. I’m sorry, Macon.”
I nod, but I don’t speak.
I finish with my wheel, grab my clay, and sit down to throw. Within seconds, a sense of ease and rightness settles over me. Something I have only ever felt when working alongside Lennon.
She’s the spark that sets my creativity ablaze. She’s my artistic other half. I’ve never felt more whole than when I’m with her.
Every so often, I let my eyes wander to where she sits, perched on my chair with her paintbrush poised in her hand. She chews on her lip as she works. Sometimes she mouths along with the song playing through the speakers.
She’s always done this thing, where she’ll sit back to survey her work and hold her paintbrush lightly while rolling the wooden end of it across her lower lip. I used to wait for that movement in high school, and when she did it, it would take my breath away.
Fuck, how badly I wanted to be that paintbrush.
When she does it now, it has the exact same effect. I might as well be nineteen again. My dick hardens, my heart kicks up, and I can’t tear my eyes away from that fucking paintbrush and her plush lower lip.
She stands up slowly and stretches, her shirt lifting just enough that I can see a sliver of pale skin. Skin that I had in my hands last night. That I felt and squeezed. Visions of her bent over my kitchen counter invade my mind, and I have to stop the wheel before I ruin my vase.
She glances at me over her shoulder and her breath hitches when she catches me staring. The same old zap of energy. The same need. When she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, I have to clench my clay-covered hands into fists.
“What,” she whispers. Her eyes bounce between mine, heating me up, then drop to my mouth before dragging back up. “What?”
“You’ve got a little,” I say, flicking my eyes to her jaw, “paint.”
“Oh.”
Her brow furrows, and she swipes at the opposite cheek. Slowly, I rise to my feet. Her eyes never leave mine, beckoning me to her.
“No,” I say, walking toward her, until I’m right in front of her. “You missed it.”
I gesture to the right side of her jaw. A splotch of bright green right on her delicate jawbone. It reflects the green in her eyes.
I want to wipe it off myself, but my hands are covered with wet clay. I watch her throat contract with a hard swallow, her fingers trembling slightly as she raises them and wipes at her jaw, smearing the paint across her face.
My mouth twitches into a small smile, and her eyes fall to the movement. Her pupils dilate and her lips part on a shaky inhale.
My body makes the decision before my mind does, and I reach for her. She closes her eyes just as I cup her jaw, smearing cold clay over the paint mark before sliding to her neck and pulling her into me.
