Page 111 of This Life and All the Rest
“Lennon.”
I look up from my spot on the ground, cradled in Franco’s arms, into Claire’s tear-soaked face. She looks absolutely stricken, and I can’t bring myself to care.
“Not now, Claire.”
“I just...”
She squeezes her eyes shut and releases another small sob.
“God, I’m so fucking sorry, Lennon. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I was just angry and jealous...I was going to give it back in the fall, but then you didn’t come back. Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
I’m confused, watching her stand above me spewing tear-filled apologies. I don’t grasp what it is she’s saying—Give me what? Sorry for what?—until I notice an envelope in her hands, and an eerie chill runs down my spine.
I explained.
I told you.
I asked you to wait for me.
“Claire,” I say shakily. “What is that?”
She whimpers and holds the envelope out to me with trembling hands. The handwriting on it takes my breath away.
Astraea.
“Claire,” I say again, staring at the envelope like it’s a bomb. “Whatis that?”
“He put it in your suitcase,” Claire says. “I...I took it out. I was going to give it back when you came home after the summer. I never read it. I just—”
I stand quickly and snatch the envelope then walk to the far side of the yard. My breath is coming hard, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. My hands are shaking so badly that I’m terrified I’ll rip something important as I tear open the seal of the envelope.
I hold one piece of paper as a second flutters to the ground. When I crouch down to pick it up, I start to cry all over again.
It’s a sketch of me.
Of my naked back, sitting on the bed on prom night. Macon’s initials aren’t in the corner, but I know it’s his work. I trail my fingertips lightly over the paper, tracing his pencil lines and shading.
I’ve never been more scared than I am right now. I know that the grudge I’ve been holding, the way I’ve been punishing Macon in my head for four years, is about to go up in flames.
And what will I do after?
Slowly, I unfold the second piece of paper from the envelope. It’s also torn from a sketchbook, but there are no drawings or doodles on this one. Only words.
I run my eyes over the familiar handwriting, sentences scrawled in a messy, hurried script, and my hand shoots to my mouth as I read. My head starts to spin and my heart cracks wide open as my tears land in fat drops on the paper.
His handwriting is jumbled and chaotic. The words are rushed, but the sentiment is clear.
This note, the one he put in my suitcase four years ago, changes everything.
My Astraea,
I’m sorry. If you’re reading this, that means your luggage got to your aunt’s house and you’re an ocean away from me. Fuck, I miss you already. Prom was the best night of my life. That memory is going to fuel my recovery, Astraea, I promise. I have to go to rehab. I’m leaving today after Trent drops you at the airport. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. Please don’t be mad at your dad. I asked him to send you early. I promise I’ll explain in detail when I get out and you come home in the fall. Enjoy England. I know it’s been your dream since you were little. Take lots of pictures because I want to hear all about it. Don’t give up on me, Astraea. Just wait for me a little while longer. Then when I get out, it’s you and me. For real. Out loud. Forever. I love you, Lennon Capri Washington.
See you soon,
-M
I fold the papers carefully and stick them back into the envelope, then I stand slowly and turn around.
