Page 65 of The Love of My Next Life
Because I’m falling for her brother, and she’s going to hate me if she ever finds out.
“I don’t even wantto see him.” Claire groans as she drives us back to her house. “I might stab him with a fork if he even tries to look at me.”
I force a laugh. “That would make for an interesting dinner.”
I’ve spent the last hour listening to Claire complain about Macon. It’s not unusual, but for once, I couldn’t join in. She didn’t notice.
As soon as we turn onto Claire’s street, the sight of Macon’s Charger makes my pulse quicken. I have to physically keep myself from bouncing in my seat.
I want to see him.
Even after everything with Claire, I want to see him.
We’ve got time. He’s not my brother yet, I tell myself. It assuages the tiniest bit of guilt.
We head into the house and the smell of pasta sauce and garlic immediately makes my mouth water. I’ve always loved Drea’s cooking. That will be one plus if Dad and her eventually get married. Dinners will always be fantastic.
When we round the corner, the table is set and Dad and Drea are dancing around each other in the kitchen, stirring a pot of sauce and sprinkling cheese on homemade garlic bread.
“It smells amazing,” I tell them. I look around for Macon, but I don’t see him.
“It’s almost ready,” Drea announces. “Claire, will you go get Macon?”
Claire glowers at her mother’s back, and I send her a tight smile.
“I’ll go get him,” I offer, and Claire mouths a thank you. I am a terrible friend, but I hurry up the stairs anyway.
I rap on his door and wait. Nothing.
“Macon?” I knock again. Still nothing.
I try the door, but it’s locked, and my heart starts to race for an entirely new reason. Flashes of gray, of streaked mascara and dried vomit play like a movie reel through my memories, and I’m not breathing when I run through Claire’s bedroom to get to Macon’s through the adjoining bathroom.
“Macon?” I call into the dark room. I’m too scared to turn on the light. “Macon.”
There’s a lump on his bed, and I slowly walk toward it, praying to anything that he’s okay. That it’s not what it could be. He wouldn’t. It couldn’t happen to me again.
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I reach out with trembling fingers to pull the covers back, and I release a relieved cry when it’s just a pile of pillows underneath. My legs collapse, and I fall to my knees, dropping my head onto his comforter.
“Oh, thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.” I close my eyes and breathe, giving my tears a minute to dry. It’s okay. He’s okay.
Then reality sets in and my nerves jump again.
Where is he? I take out my phone and text him.
Hey. Family dinner?
I wait. Stare at the screen and will the text bubble to pop up. It doesn’t.
You coming? Your mom made pasta.
Another minute. Still nothing. Unease prickles at my neck, and my throat goes dry, but I push all thoughts about where he could be and who he could be with out of my head.
He wouldn’t do that to me. I’m sure of it.
“He’s not up there,” I tell Drea when I get back to the kitchen. My heart squeezes when her face falls.
“Oh,” she says, then glances at the clock on the stove. “Well, let’s go ahead and get started. He’s probably just running late.”
