Page 112 of This Life and All the Rest
Claire and Franco are watching me. Claire is sobbing.
I take even steps until I’m standing just a few feet in front of them. My eyes stay on Claire.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I’m so sorry, Lennon,” she chokes out. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I feel nothing for her but disgust.
“You know, Claire...In high school, I never would have believed you’d be the villain in my story. But now? Now I’m just disappointed I didn’t figure it out sooner.”
I reach out and squeeze Franco’s hand.
“I’ll be back later, okay?”
He nods and squeezes my hand back, but he doesn’t speak. I give Claire one last glance, and then I turn around and walk to my car.
Only one thing matters now.
I have to find Macon.
I keep myself from speeding through town. A familiar fear courses through my body with every turn, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t the same.
I’m not that naïve seventeen-year-old girl in a battered bridesmaid dress, and Macon isn’t the same lost, broken boy with demons to keep at bay.
So much has happened. So much has changed.
I tell myself this over and over as I drive through town, but I still nearly faint with relief when I find Macon’s car in the parking lot of the rec center.
I turn off my car and walk calmly through the side door, then up the stairs that lead to Macon’s apartment. He could be in the office or the gym, but something tells me he’s up here.
I get to his door and contemplate my options, then decide to knock.
When no one comes to the door after a minute, I knock again.
It’s fine.
He’s probably just listening to music in his studio. I repeat that over and over as I wait.
It’s fine. He’s fine. We’re fine.
I knock again and wait.
When another minute passes, I take out the key and let myself in. The moment I step into the apartment, I’m hit with an overwhelming smell of alcohol, and my fear spikes.
“Macon?”
I try to fight the wobble in my limbs as I walk through the hallway, but when I step into the kitchen, my legs almost give out from underneath me.
There is shattered glass and spilled liquor all over the floor, as if a bottle had been thrown. The way the glass shards are scattered all over the room, and the liquid splashes on all the walls, there’s no way this was from an accidental drop.
The realization makes me breathe easier.
The irony.
A full liquor bottle hurled at the wall, shattered on the floor, is so much better than an empty bottle completely intact.
If the booze is on the floor and walls, then it couldn’t be consumed.
