Page 116 of The Love of My Next Life
“I’m not moping,Becca.”
“Yes, you are,Lennon.”
My bed dips as she takes a seat on the edge, then she grabs my hand and pulls it down, making me look at her. Her face is sad and concerned.
“I’m not like Mom,” I say quickly, and she flinches, before smiling slightly.
“I know, love,” she says. “I grew up with your mom, remember? I know what that looks like.” She waves her hand in a circle around my body. “This? This is just heartache and stupidity.”
I snort and swat her hand away. She swats back, then takes my hand in hers once more.
“I know this hurts,” she says softly. “I know it’s hard. But lying in bed and ignoring the world isn’t going to fix anything. It’ll just make it worse.”
I flutter my eyes shut.
She’s right. I know she is. But...
“Why won’t he respond, Bec?” I whisper, and my voice cracks. She squeezes my hand.
“I don’t know, love,” she says softly. “Have you tried calling?”
I shake my head.
“Andrea is the only one with the app for international calls, and I can’t...” I clamp my eyes against the tears. I’m so sick of crying, but I just can’t seem to stop. “I can’t...not before...”
“I know,” Becca says. She brushes my hair out of my face. “I know. You don’t have to explain.”
I sit up slowly and swing my legs off the bed, then drop my head into my hands. Aunt Becca walks her fingers up and down my back in the way my mom used to do when I was little. It’s so weird, all the ways that they’re similar. Some big, glaringly obvious, and others so small, you might miss it.
“Has Claire responded?” she asks, and I sigh.
“Not yet.”
“Well, just sit tight. You know how you kids are with checking your email. She probably hasn’t seen it yet.”
She’s full of shit, and she knows it. It’s the end of senior year, meaning it’s all college planning and correspondence. Claire is probably checking her email twenty times a day. She’s just choosing not to open mine.
In a way, I don’t blame her. I think back to the things I said to her the day I left.
I’d probably ignore my emails, too, if I were her.
But Macon? It just doesn’t make sense.
I know he’s okay, physically. Andrea has the app. She’d call and tell me if something happened to Macon or Dad, and aside from the short, weekly check-ins, it’s been radio silence from her.
“I don’t want this,” I say into my fingers. I feel so heavy and alone. I feel discarded and lost. “I don’t want to do this by myself,” I say again, and I hate how pathetic I sound.
I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared. Becca wraps her arms around me and rests her chin on my shoulder.
“I know, love,” she whispers. “And I know it feels like it now, but you’re not alone. You have me. I’m here. No matter what, okay?”
“Okay.”
She squeezes me tight, then hops off the bed, grabs a pillow, and whacks me in the face with it. I yelp and burst into laughter.
“Now, let’s move, lazy bones. We’re having brunch with Franco, and he’s agreed to teach you how to weld.”
I perk up. “Really?”
