Page 49 of The Love of My Next Life
Claire laughs as I take another drink.
“Well, disgusting or not, you’re a lightweight, so go slow,” she says, and tugs me toward the back deck. “Let’s post up and let the guys come to us.”
I haven’t seen any sign of Macon or his goons. My head’s been on a constant swivel since we got here. The deck gives a pretty good vantage point of the yard, but I can’t make out anything more than silhouettes of the people down there, thanks to the giant bonfire. I swear it’s bigger than it was last time. They really shouldn’t have it so close to the house.
The longer I stand staring at the bonfire, the more uncomfortable I become. I feel so out of place. I want to wrap my arms around my stomach or tug down the hem of my shirt. I want to go home and put on pajamas, actually. I take another sip of the nasty seltzer, wrapping both my hands around it like a little kid with a mug of cocoa.
I’m cold, wearing a glorified washcloth to cover my breasts, and I’m drinking possibly the grossest beverage ever. It’s like a fuzzy burp.
This was such a dumb idea.
Before I can tell Claire I’ve changed my mind, that I want to go back to my house and watch reruns of ‘90s sitcoms, Josh comes and whisks her away, leaving me awkwardly staring after them with a fake smile as she giggles off into the distance. I thought she would want to stay with me since I’m drinking and she’s not. I never drink. I thought maybe she’d at least want to give me some support or something. I’d have stayed with her.
I frown and uncertainty prods at my brain. I’m losing my nerve and feeling very alone.
Taking my eyes off Claire’s retreating form, the other Davis catches my attention. Macon is pressed against a tree with his tongue down some random girl’s throat. It’s not Sam. I clench my fist, spilling some of the seltzer all over my hand. I watch, teeth-clenched, as the girl runs her hands up and down Macon’s arms. When she shoves her hands into his hair, I feel murderous.
But his hands never leave her waist. I stare at his hands, study his fingers. I could probably paint them from memory, for as much time as I’ve spent watching them recently. They’re loose where they sit on the band of the girl’s jeans. Not gripping or pulling. Not rubbing or massaging. Not slipping under barrier clothing to caress naked skin.
They’re just...resting there. Like they’re killing time or boredom.
“There you are,” Eric’s voice interrupts my voyeurism, and I turn my head toward him. He walks through the sliding doors and crosses the deck to stand next to me. I take a deep breath and force another smile.
“Hey,” I say brightly, “how was the game?”
He doesn’t answer. He just smiles and gives his head a little shake, glances down my body quickly, then runs his hand through his hair. It’s shy. Cute.
“Sorry,” he says, his smile turning embarrassed. “You just, uh. You look really nice, Lennon. You look pretty. I mean, you always look pretty, but tonight, it’s a different kind of pretty.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. My cheeks and ears blush as I laugh quietly at his nervous stammering. There’s something empowering about rendering a gorgeous boy speechless, especially when that boy can have any girl he wants.
“Thank you,” I force out, grabbing for the hem of my shirt, then forcibly folding my hands behind my back. “Claire bought me this shirt for my birthday last year.”
“Remind me to thank her.” Eric’s voice is playful, but his gaze runs over me tentatively, then flits away, before dragging back. Like he wants to look longer but doesn’t know that he should. It’s sweet.
So unlike anything Macon would do.
Macon stares. Unashamedly.Rudely.
Eric’s attention is like a gentle breeze tickling my skin.
Macon’s is a forest fire consuming me in flames.
I flick my eyes back over my shoulder, but Macon and the make-out girl are gone, so I focus on Eric.
“I never see your hair down, but I like it.” He reaches out like he’s going to push my hair behind my ear, but then he drops his hand and slips it into his pocket. “Sorry,” he chuckles. “I’m so nervous right now and I don’t even know why.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” I tell him honestly, then take his hand and give it a squeeze. His dimples pop when he grins, and it makes me hyperaware of how close we’re standing. I drop his hand. “Tell me how the game went.”
Eric talks about football, then school, and I smile and laugh when appropriate. I give good small talk. I’m the perfect mirror when I need to be, and he’s the perfect gentleman. Kind, respectful, flattering. I could love him, I think. If I let myself.
When I finish my drink, Eric offers to get me another one, and I say yes. The moment he leaves, my back heats.
“What the actual fuck are you wearing?”
Macon’s voice is mocking, and I spin around to find him leaning on the deck railing with a lit cigarette between his lips. His hair is mussed, like someone just had their tacky manicured nails in it. The collar of his shirt is stretched out, but that could just be because Macon is a slob.
I put my hands on my hips and face off with him.
