Page 27 of The Love of My Next Life
“You could always apply for scholarships,” I tell her, and she snorts. We’ve had this conversation before.
“With my GPA? Schools are more likely to pay me toNOTgo to their school.”
“Well, if you get enough ofthatmoney, you can pay your way anywhere!”
She gasps and swats my arm again, the earlier tension about Josh forgotten, and my guilty silence is buried just enough that I can ignore it for now.
SEVEN
I’m wipingdown tables after my second art class at the rec center when I feel, rather than see, someone leaning on the doorframe.
I look up and find Macon. His sleeveless shirt is covered in clay, and his hair is back in that little butterfly clip. My face stays blank, not at all excited to see him, and it makes him smirk.
“Why watercolors?” he asks randomly, and I shrug.
“Why do you care?” I ask, then stand up straight and cross my arms over my chest.
I’ve been staying at Claire’s all week, and I’ve barely seen him. He was absent from class Monday and Tuesday, and when I saw him running a basketball scrimmage at the center on Tuesday night, he barely spared me a second glance. Today and yesterday, he didn’t even breathe in my direction, except for grunting a stupid laugh when Sam made a comment about my outfit in the hallway.
I don’t know why it stings, but it does.
“Curious,” he says with a shrug. The shrug makes the defined muscles in his arm jump, grabbing my eye, and I notice a few smears of dried clay on his bicep. It makes my throat tighten, and I have to swallow a few times before speaking.
“It’s unforgiving,” I say honestly, and he cocks his head to the side in interest. “It’s a beautiful medium, and the techniques can be difficult to master. And when you make a mistake, it can’t always be easily erased. Most of the time, you have to build on it or transform your original design to accommodate it.”
I shrug and go back to wiping down the table. I don’t mention anything about my mom.
“Like life,” Macon muses, and I pause, considering his comparison.
“Yeah, I guess. Kind of like life.”
“So, you like watercolors because they’re beautiful, difficult to master, and unforgiving?”
“Yeah,” I say. I grin at the table, refusing to look up at him. “It’s my love medium.”
I hear him hum and go silent. When I look back up at the doorway, he’s gone.
* * *
“How do I look?”Claire asks, then spins in a circle so I can survey her appearance. Tight black jeans, tight green crop top, and dark brown curls cascading in glossy ringlets down her back.
“Gorgeous, as usual.”
She smiles, and the painted numbers on her cheeks pop. Josh’s football number in our school colors. She tried to get me to paint Eric’s on mine, but I put my foot down.
I’m already wearing the jersey. I don’t need face-painted numbers, too.
Speaking of the jersey...
“So, you gonna put it on?” Claire gestures to the wad of mesh fabric I’m holding balled up in my lap, then laughs. “Just put it on, Len. Stop being ridiculous.”
I huff and stand up from where I was sitting on her bed, then tug the jersey over my head. It’s big around my shoulders and arms, but a little more snug around my hips and backside. It’s also long, reaching about mid-thigh.
“I know you won’t, but you could probably rock that as a hot mini dress,” Claire says as she studies my outfit. I roll my eyes and hold my tongue. “Here, let me just...”
Claire moves me around and messes with the hem of the jersey, adjusting the length and cinching it at the back somehow so that it fits better.
“How’d you do that?” I ask as I spin in front of the mirror. I actually really like the way I look in this jersey, which I wasn’t expecting. It makes me smile bigger. My dark wash high-waisted jeans look great too, adding to the illusion of an hourglass silhouette.
