Page 4 of The Love of My Next Life
“Claire’s had it the same, Dad, and she’s nottroubledorin need of discipline.” I hit him with a stare, and he throws the same look back at me.
“It’s been different for Claire, and you know it.”
My shoulders slump a little. He’s right. I know he is. But as a former “troubled” boy who found solace in discipline, Dad wants to only see the good in Macon.
He’ll be looking forever, though, because that boy is nothing but bad.
I pivot and raise a brow.
“Last time I stayed at Claire’s for an extended period of time, Macon got high as a kite and then slipped laxatives into our Starbucks.”
Dad barks out a laugh, and I bite down on my lip.
“It’s not funny, Dad. Macon is a menace. I don’t even know how he could have come from someone as sweet as Drea.” Dad narrows his eyes at me, and I raise palms, stopping him from scolding me. “I meanMs. Davis.”
“Respect your elders, Lennon Capri.”
“Of course, sir.”
He gives a curt nod. “If you’re sure you’ll be okay here by yourself...”
“I am, Daddy. Promise.”
“But if you’re not?”
“Then I will go stay at the Davis’s.” I give him the answer he wants. “Or I’ll have Claire come stay here.” That satisfies him.
He always does this, acts as if I’m the one who’s likely to be in harm’s way when he leaves. In reality, I’ll just be sitting at home doing homework and hanging with Claire. He’s the one traipsing around who knows where, doing who knows what, on a dangerous, top-secret mission.
“I gotta head out,” he says after taking a look at his watch. He’ll likely drive to the base at Little Creek from here, and then from there, I don’t know. My skin prickles in the way it always does just before he leaves. Anxiety stirs low in my belly, creating that subtle feeling of nausea I’ll have to live with for the next couple of weeks.
He’s the only family I have.
I hate this. I’ve always hated it. But if I tell him that, he’ll retire, and then he’ll be miserable. I’m not stupid. I know he needs this. Other than me, Dad lives for these missions, this job. So instead of letting the twist of my gut show on my face, I fake it.
“Okay. Claire will be here any minute, anyway.” I walk to the sink and rinse out my juice glass, so I have something else to focus on. “Be safe, okay? I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”
“You be good,” he teases, and I huff a laugh. As if I’d ever be anything but good. “I’ll be back in two weeks.” I nod and bite the inside of my cheek. He walks to me and wraps me in a tight hug, and I grit my teeth and breathe through the desire to cry.
“Hey,” he says into my hair, “it’s just training.”
He says this every time.
I know he’s lying.
It might not be a six-month deployment, but I know it’s not just training.
I step back and smile anyway. “That’s good. Have fun in Finland.”
After he shuts the door behind him, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my skirt. I pull it out and check the screen.
“Running late but otw,” Claire’s text reads. I check the time. We’re going to be late for our first day of senior year. I sigh, send her back an “okay,” then go to my room.
I stop to glance at myself in the wall mirror, taking note of my dark, navy-blue corduroy skirt and white blouse. I look more suited for a casual job interview than high school. My dark chestnut hair is pulled into a tight French braid, tied off with a small white ribbon, and my face is sporting my usual makeup look—brown eyeliner and black mascara to make my hazel eyes pop, peach cream blush, pink-tinted lip gloss. Claire helped me determine my color palette when we were in 8thgrade. I’ve been loyal to it since. I blink a few times at my reflection, practice a smile, then turn away.
Dropping to the floor by my bed, I pull out the large plastic tote and tug it open. The scent that wafts over me helps to slow the swirling in my stomach.
Parchment and paint and art andfreedom.
