Page 2 of This Life and All the Rest
Lennon?
“Yeah, it’s me.”
It’s Claire.
“I know.”
Lennon. You need to come home.
* * *
It’s almostnine in the evening when I step off the jet bridge, wheeling my carry-on behind me.
I didn’t have the mental capacity to pack more. I didn’t have the mental capacity to do much of anything besides shower, throw a bunch of stuff into my carry-on, and try not to panic. Luckily, I’ve had a nine-hour international flight, plus a with a ninety-minute layover in Philly and a ninety-minute connecting flight to get my shit under control.
It doesn’t matter. I probably won’t be here long anyway.
My stomach grumbles as I walk toward arrivals, reminding me that all I’ve consumed in the last twenty-four hours is a few packages of airline cookies and several airplane bottles of vodka. I can’t eat on an anxious stomach.
Apparently, I can drink, though.
I pull my phone out of my bag and turn it on, then immediately shove it in my pocket, so I can ignore any messages for a little while longer. As I walk past baggage claim, a familiar blonde head of hair catches my eye, and I heave a sigh of relief.
Then I see the sign she’s holding, and I smile.
“CASSATT, MARY” is written in bold black marker on a piece of white poster board. I shake my head slowly as I step in front of her and tap on the sign.
“Mary Cassatt was known more for oils. Or printingmaking and pastels. Not a lot of watercolor. And she was mostly straight impressionism,” I say flatly, but the humor in my voice is still recognizable to anyone who knows me. And Sam definitely knows me.
She rolls her eyes.
“Well, it was that or this.”
She flips the poster board to show me the other side.
ART SCHOOL DROP OUT.
I bark out a laugh and her lips break into a grin. Her eyes sweep over me, then scan my face. Her smile drops off, and she reaches out and takes the handle of my carry-on.
“You look like shit, Len,” she says frankly.
She’s the only person close to me who still calls me Lennon. She’d stop if I asked, I’m sure. But I haven’t. I don’t question why.
“You fly ten hours in economy, and we’ll see if you’re fresh as a daisy afterwards.”
Sam turns and starts walking, so I follow.
“You should have let me get your flight. I could have flown you first class.”
“No thanks. I don’t really want to be flying in style on the Senator’s blood money. I’m good with economy.”
“Ah, yes,” she snarks, giving me a sidelong glance as I follow her to the short-term parking lot. “Yourintegrity.”
“Look, I’m not saying anything about you. If he was my dad, I’d milk my trust fund for a Georgetown education and a life of luxury, too. But he’s not my dad, so...”
I trail off, and Sam sighs.
“Yeah, I get it.” She uses her key fob to unlock her BMW with a beep, then pops the trunk and drops my carry-on into it. “It’s just my internalized guilt. But you know I’m simply biding my time. The moment he drops his presidential bid, I’m blowing his shit wide open.”
