Page 83 of This Life and All the Rest
No one told me. No one. He can’t say he did this for me. He can’t buy my painting and think that one act forgives everything. He hasn’t cared for four years. Maybe he never did. I can’t second-guess this again. I can’t let him pull me in like this again. I can’t do this with him again.
My heart aches.
So many memories cycle through my head, both good and bad. His overdose. His strange relationship with Sam. The rec center. The Marines. The way he is with Evie. What my dad said.
But four fucking years.
I endured so much bullshit, and for what? Four fucking years of silence, just for him to imply it was my fault? To sayIwas the one who lefthim?
“Why,” I say, and the pain in my voice makes me angry.
Why does this hurt so much? I was done hurting over him. I’m supposed to be stronger than this now.
“Why now, after four years? I was doingfine! I was doinggood, and you have to come and derail me again? I was doing fine without you!”
“Fine?” he spits, his face twisted and his eyes ablaze. “You don’t wantfine, Lennon. You wantmadness. You want fire. Anything less is a waste of time.”
“You don’t know what I want!”
“Yes, I do!”
He takes a step closer and flings his finger at the paintings behind me.
“Unforgiving. Difficult to master. You don’t wanteasy. You don’t want to erase your mistakes. You want to build on them and transform them into something beautiful. You’ve never wantedfine, Lennon. You wantwatercolors.”
His words hit me right in the chest, tears I can’t stop flood my cheeks. I can taste them. The collar of my shirt is wet from them.
That night in the rec center art room floods my mind and I can almost see it playing out in front of me. He’s leaning on the doorframe, staring at me with his blue flame eyes. I’m wiping down tables, and already falling desperately for him.
So, you like watercolors because they’re beautiful, difficult to master, and unforgiving?
Yeah. It’s my love medium.
Rehab. My paintings. Four fucking years.
“I explained,” he says, shaking his head.
His voice is laced with confusion and desperation. He’s begging me to understand, and I just can’t.
“I asked you to wait for me. I asked you not to give up.”
My eyes pop open, and I shake my head in disbelief. He can’t possibly mean...
“The note?” I say on a gasp.
A crumpled sticky note? He thinks that will make up for everything?
The memory of hurling a ceramic mug at his back, note shoved inside, plays out in front of me. Then finding it on the pillowcase after prom.
Then everything that came after.
“How thefuckdo you expect me to wait for you based on something that meantnothingto you in the past?” I ask. My voice is a low growl. “Radio silence, Macon. The worst fucking time of my entire life and you gave menothing—"
“I came for you!” he yells, his hands gripping his head. “I came back for you, Lennon. When I got out of rehab, I came back,” he repeats. He slams his eyes shut.
“And you know where I found you? In an alley behind a pub with your mouth on some English fuck and his hand down your fucking pants.”
My mouth drops open and my eyes widen. I search my memory and find it immediately.
