Page 64 of This Life and All the Rest
“He knows you, sweetie,” my mom says, pulling Lennon into a side hug. “He’s just confused. But he knows you.”
Lennon nods.
“Okay,” she whispers, and I want to pull her to me.
I want to wrap her in my arms and promise her I’ll make it all better. But after last night, touching her is off-limits. So, I do the next best thing.
“Go paint,” I tell her.
I pull my extra key out of my pocket, the one she left on my nightstand, and hold it out for her.
“My studio is yours, okay? I won’t be back until this afternoon.”
“Really?” she asks quickly, then her eyebrows scrunch up. She shakes her head. “No. It’s fine.”
“Lennon,” I say firmly, “go paint. Don’t be stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn,” she huffs, her mouth twitching slightly with the smile she’s fighting. “I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s not any more trouble than you’ve already given me,” I say with a smirk, keeping my voice low.
Lennon flares her eyes and flicks them towards my mom, but I keep mine on her. She worries her lower lip with her teeth, and I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“You sure?” she asks, and I smile softly.
“Yeah, Len.”
I reach out and take her hand to press my spare key into her palm. I don’t let go right away. I feel everyone’s eyes on us, but I hold on to her hand. I caress her wrist with my thumb. Ifeelher.
“Go paint,” I insist again. “Clear your head.”
“Thank you,” she says on an exhale. I drop her hand, and she takes a step back. “Thank you.”
I watch her leave.
I don’t acknowledge the eyes that I know are on me. I don’t feel like explaining myself or making excuses. Try as hard as I can, I’m never going to be able to act like she means nothing to me. I’ll never be able to treat her like a stepsister. I don’t want to deal with the inevitable disappointment and disgust.
“I’m going in,” I say to the room, then turn and walk through the ICU doors.
I’m surprised when Claire doesn’t follow, but I’m more relieved. I take a deep breath when I get to Trent’s room, then I knock three times before stepping through the doorway.
He looks up at me, and seeing him awake is enough to make me weep with joy. He furrows his brow for a moment, probably searching his memory to place me, then his lips turn up into a smile.
“Macon,” he says, and I smile back.
I ignore the way his voice rasps, hoarse as if he’s gone days without water. Or days with a tube shoved down his throat.
“That’s me,” I joke, crossing the room to stand by his bed. I reach out and pat his shoulder. It feels smaller. “About time you woke up, old man.”
He snorts a laugh.
“I was just catching up on sleep,” he says wryly. “How’s my munchkin? You been looking after her, I hear.”
“She’s good,” I tell him. “She’ll be stoked to see you.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for what you did. The doctors said I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”
My neck and cheeks heat, and I have to clear my throat before I can respond. I wave a hand at him, brushing off the compliment.
