Page 80 of This Life and All the Rest
“I told you he would,” she says with a smile. “He’d never forget his pumpkin.”
Sam has been filled in on every aspect of my dad’s recovery via daily texts and nightly calls. I’ve told her about Evie and Claire and Eric, but only a little about Macon.
The bickering. The painting. The strange revelation about the rec center and the surgery.
But not the intimacy.
Not the spark of electricity that I resent. Not the pull that I can’t seem to deny. Not how much I hate myself for still loving him, no matter how hard I try not to.
I haven’t told her because none of that stuff matters.
Despite my love for him, I can never forgive him, and I can’t have real love without forgiveness. No matter how much I wish I could.
Or maybe, I haven’t told her because it matters too much.
“Well, I’ll be there in a few days, and I can keep you company,” she says gleefully. “These politicians drive me bonkers. It’s hard pretending I don’t hate everything they stand for.”
I snort out a laugh. I don’t think she realizes how badly she pretends. They probably all know how much she hates them. They just choose to ignore it because her dad is Senator Thom Harper.
His name is as pretentious as his soul is black.
“I have bad news though,” she says slowly, and my stomach drops. “It’s why I called. I just found out that my dear old dad is coming home, too, so he’ll be at the house.”
“It’s okay. I can just stay in the motel.”
“I hate that you’re in that ratty, old place.” She grimaces. “At least let me put you up some place better. I’ll use the campaign credit card,” she says with a bounce of her eyebrows, and I laugh again.
“The hotel is too far away. Since Dad’s awake, I want to be close.”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t even be mad about it.”
“When you get back, though, we’re getting together.” Relief shoots through me. “Early birthday present to me.”
“Deal, bitch,” she says. “Fucking deal.”
TWENTY-TWO
I hangup with Sam and drive back to the rec center.
I have a few hours of daylight left, and I’m almost finished with one of my commissions, which means I will be able to free paint until the piece Franco shipped me gets here.
That’s the one downfall of commissions.
My time to free paint isn’t as frequent, and god, do I miss it.
I let myself into Macon’s apartment, relieved to find it empty, and grab a soda from the fridge before heading to the studio.
This is all so fucked up.
Being around Macon is messing with me, but the only way to clear my head is to paint, and to paint, I have to be around Macon. I have to be in his space, surrounded by his energy and his scent.
It’s intoxicating in the most debilitating of ways.
It’s like I need him so that I won’t need him, but it’s going to blow up in my face.
I force the thoughts out of my head as I lay out my brushes and fill my jars with water. I start to mix my paints, but then remember that I’m out of white. I was going to run to the art store to get more, but I forgot after the conversation with my dad.
A conversation that I’m still trying to process.
