Page 56 of The Love of My Next Life
“Go home before I call the police,” the man says. I’m terrified, but Macon laughs.
“Call ‘em,” Macon slurs, then bends down and picks up the carton of crushed eggs. I grab his arm and tug him toward my car.
“Please don’t call the cops, sir,” I plead. “He’s done. He’s not in his right mind. I’m taking him home. We’ll pay for the damage.”
“I’m not paying this fucker for shit,” Macon sneers, shaking me off again. When my hold on him breaks, he throws the crushed egg carton, hitting the wall beside the man, and stalks toward him. When he’s close enough, Macon swings, punching the man right in the face. The man falls back, and Macon falls on top of him.
I scream and rush forward. Macon grunts words with each punch.
Deadbeat. Selfish. Asshole.
For a minute, I think he’s recounting the insults I threw at him last night.
“Macon, stop it, please,” I say, my voice shrill with fear, my eyes stinging with tears.
There’s blood on the man’s face. On Macon’s hands. The man is struggling, hitting Macon’s torso, thrashing back and forth as Macon wails on him. I’ve never seen a real fight before.
“Please, Macon,” I cry. “Please!”
Macon stops, pulling back to look at me, and the man lands a punch on Macon’s jaw, the sound cracking over the lawn and laying him out flat on the fancy stone pavers. I collapse next to him, scanning his face to assess his injuries. His lips are busted and bleeding, the swelling already noticeable, and his jaw is bright red from the punch.
“Go home, Macon, now,” the guy commands through pants, and my eyes jump to him in shock. He looks worse than Macon. His eyebrow is split open, along with his lip, and he already has a black eye forming, making his piercing blue eyes look...
Just like Macon’s.
My hands tighten on Macon’s arm when I realize who just punched him. Who he just beat up. His dad.
The more I look at him, the more shocked I become. Macon looksjust likehis dad. The height, the hair, the eyes. Even the cruel tilt on his full lips is the same. This man in front of me is what Macon will look like in thirty years, if he ever gets his shit together. Cuts his hair. Wears slacks and button downs.
Corporate Macon.
Business Macon.
“She didn’t deserve that,” Macon seethes, making me jump. I pull my attention away from his dad and look down at him as he struggles to sit up. “I’m the fuck-up. I’m the one you hate. You don’t get to fucking punish them.”
He swipes at the blood on his lip with his hand, smearing it on his chin. Some of it drips onto his black shirt and disappears.
“If you come back here, I’ll press charges. Vandalism. Assault. Battery.” The man throws his finger out at us, and the sneer on his face is a carbon copy of the one I’ve seen many times before on Macon.
“You’re nineteen,” he continues slowly. “I’ll make sure they throw your punk ass in prison.”
“But this is your son,” I say in disbelief.
“Don’t fucking remind me.”
The man turns around and stomps back into the house, slamming the door behind him. It’s not until he’s gone that I notice the little boy, maybe six or seven, peeking out at me from the picture window. Blond hair, but with unruly curls just like Macon’s.
I stand up and give Macon’s arm a tug.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I say, and he shakes me off again and stands on his own.
“Go home, Lennon,” he grumbles, “stay out of this.”
“Too late for that,” I huff. “Casper called me and begged me to keep you out of jail, and your drunk ass needs my help, so get in the fucking car.”
“Fucking Casper,” he grunts, but he doesn’t argue anymore.
When he’s buckled in my passenger seat, I head back the way I came, driving us out of the expensive, daunting neighborhood.
