Page 53 of The Love of My Next Life
“How long?” I whisper to Macon, and he cringes.Long, then. My stomach swirls. I open my mouth to speak, to inquire, but I throw up all over him instead.
TWELVE
The momentI open my eyes, I slam them shut again.
My head pounds and my mouth tastes like barf-coated cotton.Glamorous. I groan and roll over onto my stomach, sinking my head into my hands.
It’s the squeak and give of the air mattress that releases the flood of images from last night.
Shots with football players. Dancing with Eric. Hanging upside down from Macon’s shoulder. Claire drank when she said she wouldn’t. I vomited in a ditch.
I...vomited on Macon?
And then the big one hits.
Dad and Andrea. The candle. And Macon knew.
I get up slowly, babying my fragile head, and walk into the bathroom, leaving Claire snoring in her bed. I take the ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and pop two in my mouth, bending over and drinking straight from the faucet to wash them down. I use the toothbrush I leave here to brush my teeth, which helps me feel marginally better. Then I barge into Macon’s room, ready to hurl questions or insults at him, but he’s not there.
The bed is unmade, and it smells faintly of weed, but he's gone. I can’t tell if he slept here at all.
I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, finding my dad sitting at the table with his hands folded in front of him. I halt and tilt my head to the side.
“Did you sleep here?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“I came over this morning.”
I look away and walk to the coffee pot, sending up a thank you when I find some already brewed. I fix a cup, blow on it, then take several sips before finally turning to face the music.
Dad’s face is stern, and any other time I would feel ashamed. I hate disappointing him. But not this time.
“You drank last night,” he says, and I nod.
“You gonna punish me?”
His mouth hitches the tiniest bit at the corner, and he shakes his head.
“I think the way you’re feeling right now is punishment enough.”
I roll my eyes, then flinch at the pain the motion causes. I take another sip from my coffee and meet my dad’s stare.
“How long?”
“We’ve been seeing each other regularly for about a year,” he says. The steadiness of his voice irritates me and reminds me that he’s been trained for interrogation. I huff.
“So before that you were just fucking?” I spit, and he jolts.
“Lennon Capri,” he scolds, and I cower a bit under his tone. I bite my tongue on the apology I want to utter, though. I’m not sorry. I glare back at him and wait. His shoulders fall. “We were neverjust fucking.”
Surprise tickles my throat and my eyebrows jump up. My dadnevercusses.
“When did it start?” I whisper, and for the first time, I see a hint of shame on his face.
“A few years ago,” he hedges.
“When, Dad,” I force out. When he speaks again, his voice is contrite.
“Since Virginia Beach,” he says, and my jaw drops.
