Page 46 of The Love of My Next Life
The warmth I feel in my stomach and lower, the thoughts of those hands on me, those fingers inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut and work to control my breathing.
Jesus, this is ridiculous.
This isMacon, and I’m suddenly acting like some horny, obsessed idiot.
He’s making a freaking bowl. It’s not pornographic.
But in spite of myself, I can’t stop peeking at him as he works. The rest of the class period, I paint and peek. He mostly keeps his eyes on the clay, but every so often, I feel him, the burning prickle of his blue gaze. When I glance at him, our eyes meet and flit away, meet again. It’s a playful dance, shy yet magnetic. Uncertain and unavoidable. Thrilling and new and igniting something in my chest that’s hot and consuming.
The connection I feel with him...
...It’s art.
My painting today is a series of grays and tans, with hints of bright, burning blue. Wet and dry techniques, smooth fingerprint type lines. Veins. Muscles. Curls. A broken clock.
Sharp edges and hard truths.
Macon.
We clean up before the bell without speaking. He changes back into his black t-shirt. We’ve gone the whole period without saying a single word. We walk slowly, side by side, down the hall to our lockers. I drag my feet for reasons I don’t want to admit.
“You’re talented,” he says to me, breaking the silence.
“Oh,” I stutter, “I’m not... I’ve got a lot to learn. I just play around with it.”
“No,” he says firmly, “you’re talented, Lennon.” He grabs my wrist and pulls me to the side of the hall. “You shouldn’t hide it.”
I bristle, teetering between distressed and defensive.
“Take the fucking compliment, Len,” he demands. “You don’t have to put everyone else’s feelings before your own.”
The authoritative tone in his voice makes me angry. I feel scolded, but fend off my impulse to cower and apologize. Not with Macon.
Never with him.
“That’s great coming from you, Macon,” I spit. “You put your feelings before everyone’s.”
He stares at me, blank-faced, his eyes bouncing between mine, and it makes me self-conscious. What is he thinking? Why can’t I read him?
He reaches up slowly, pulls my braid over my shoulder, and takes the ribbon off the end, shoving it in his pocket. The second one he’s stolen.
“You’re talented, Lennon,” he says again. “And you know it.”
I stare at him, trying desperately to make sense of the thoughts swirling in my head. I break eye contact because I can’t think straight when he’s focused so intently on me. I glance at the ground, then the ceiling, then down the hallway. When my eyes fall on Claire, heading our direction, I panic. She’s talking to Josh and hasn’t seen us yet, so I grab Macon’s wrist and pull him into the nearest room.
I don’t even have time to care about the urinals on the wall because I’m freaking out.
“What?” Macon asks. “What’s wrong?”
“She can’t see us,” I rush out, and his face falls. He stalks back to the door and peers out, then turns around and hits me with a glare.
“Claire?” he says indignantly. “You don’t wantClaireto see us? We were fucking talking, Lennon. It’s not like I was sucking on your nipple with my hand down your pants.”
“She can’t know about that,” I say quickly, panicked. “No one can.”
His jaw drops and he jerks his head back, then laughs. A humorless and sinister chuckle.
“Of course,” he says slowly, walking backwards toward the door. “I’m just a miserable asshole, right? A fuckup. A druggie. I don’t care about anyone but myself.” He stops just before the door, his face void of emotion. “Nice and polite Lennon Washington would never be with someone like me. Claire Davis wouldn’t allow it.”
