Page 70 of The Love of My Next Life
“Yeah,” is all I say, but it makes his grin widen and his dimples pop, and I feel smarmy.
“So,” he continues, distracting me from my self-loathing, “I was wondering if you’d want to get together tonight and study for the calculus test?”
He’s nervous asking. It’s not a date, I tell myself. And he really is so kind.
I really do think I could love him if I tried.
“Would you mind coming to my place?” I ask, and he smiles like he’s surprised. “We could order a pizza?”
“Yes. Definitely.” He nods eagerly, like one of those silly sports bobblehead statues, and my smile stretches wide. “I can be there at seven? I’ll come right after practice.” He pushes his hair back and laughs. “I promise to shower first.”
I giggle. A real giggle. “Okay. Sounds good.”
He walks me to my locker and leans on the one next to mine as I turn the lock.
“It’s a date, then,” he says excitedly. “See you later.”
I watch him walk away. The farther away he gets, the more my smile fades, until he’s turned the corner and I’m frowning at nothing.
I turn back to my locker and pop it open, then stare at what I find inside.
A ceramic mug.
It’s rough and unpainted, obviously just from the kiln. The handle is a little wobbly, the mouth of the mug is uneven. It’s more of an oval than a circle. But it’s a mug, and it’s handmade. And inside of it is a sticky note. I read it without breathing.
On impulse, my lips twitch at the corners with the need to smile.
Damn you, Macon.
I scan the hall for him, flicking my eyes from corner to corner, but if he’s watching me, I don’t see him.
I go through the day without a single Macon sighting, though I pass Sam in the hall a few times. Her scowl tells me she’s holding a grudge from the weekend. I don’t care. I’ve been angry with Sam since she stepped on my science diorama in sixth grade. She thinks that just because her dad is a senator, she can treat people like crap and get away with it.
As far as I’m concerned, she can stay mad.
I’m relieved when I walk into free period and find the pottery wheel by my station. Just like last time, I can feel him in the room. I sit down and set up, noting the paints and water that’s already been put out for me, and seconds later, Macon emerges from the storage room.
Just like last time, we don’t speak.
We spend the whole week like that, then the next. Me painting, him sculpting, in complete silence. Just the clinking of my brushes in the jars of water and the whirring of the pottery wheel. He comes to sit with me after my classes at the rec center, too. He watches me paint, and we listen to music. We don’t even say goodbye when we part ways at night.
It’s peaceful, despite the niggling worry that he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security. It makes everything easier to ignore. Easier to deny.
We don’t mention what happened. He doesn’t apologize again. We just create and exist comfortably in the silent space together.
It’s funny, actually.
He’s so adamant about me using my voice, but Macon and I definitely seem to work better together without words.
I put the mug he made me on my dresser with the post-it note inside.
When the movers come to pack up our house, I wrap the mug in bubble wrap and place it safely in my backpack, not trusting anyone else with it.
When I unpack my things in my new room, in the new house across town that I now share with Claire and Macon, I put the mug on the top shelf in my closet. I tell myself it’s to keep it safe, but really, it’s to keep it hidden from Claire.
I dislike my new room. The house Dad and Drea bought together is nice, but it doesn’t feel like home. It’s all happened so fast that I had no time to sort out my thoughts other than panic and denial. Dad is happier than I’ve ever seen him, though, so I say nothing.
When he looks at me, I fake the same smile I’ve always faked, and he buys it like he always has. He’s trained in interrogating criminals, but he still can’t seem to read me.
