Page 95 of The Love of My Next Life
“Claire,” I croak out, “I’m not some toy you can fight over. I’m a human who can make her own decisions.”
Macon’s words from just moments earlier come to mind.You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.I’m so conflicted. Do I want to be claimed like that? By Macon?
“You’remy friend, Lennon,” Claire sobs, interrupting my thoughts. “He can’t have you.”
I shake my head against the anger and confusion. I’m worried about Macon. I hate that I hurt Claire, but I’m also disappointed in her. She’s never treated me like my own person. She’s always used me as a prop. As a Barbie she can dress up and manipulate however she wants. I love her, but I need some space from her.
“I need to go,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to you in a bit, okay? I need to think about all this.”
“Are you going to find Macon?” Her voice is sad and desperate, and it hurts. “Are you leaving me for him?”
“No, Claire, I’m not leaving you for him, okay? But I need some space. And maybe you should be more worried about your brother because you’re going to feel like a real asshole if something happens and the last thing you said to him was that you hated him.”
I turn to leave, but she stops me.
“I’m going to tell them,” she threatens. I know who “them” is. Our parents. I want to throw up. I turn around slowly.
“Please don’t,” I beg. “I’ll tell them when I have to. But please, Claire, if you’re really my friend, don’t tell them yet, okay?” She doesn’t say anything. Just grits her teeth and narrows her eyes at me. “Jesus, Claire, I never ask you for anything. I keep all your secrets. Just do this for me. Be a good fucking friend and do this for me.”
She flinches again, and her lips part. She blinks, then nods.
“Fine.”
I mouth a thank you, then turn and leave.
I’m grateful Dad left the keys to his 4Runner for me. I load my bags into the back and turn toward Franklin. I dial Macon on the way, but he doesn’t answer. It rings and rings and rings, until cutting to an automated woman’s voice.
I’m sorry.The person you are calling has a voice messaging system that hasn’t been set up yet. Please hang up and try your call at a later time.
I growl and jab my finger at the dashboard screen, ending the call and then redialing.
Ring, ring, ring, then the automated message.
I try four more times until it stops ringing and just goes straight toI’m sorry...
Did he turn off his phone? He wouldn’t be avoiding me. I’m not Claire. A prickle of unease runs over my skin, but I push it away. He’s probably at the house getting high on the roof, so I head there and try not to speed on the way.
When I get to the house, Macon’s Charger is nowhere in sight.
I head inside anyway. I rush up the stairs and into his room. It smells like weed, so he must have just been here, and the window to the roof is still cracked. I rush across the floor and peer out, but all that’s out there is a black notebook. No Macon.
I glance back out at the notebook. What was he doing out here with that? I open the window wider and stretch my body across the shingles, reaching for the notebook. My fingers just brush the cardboard cover, and it slips down farther on the roof.
“Shit,” I mumble. I kick off my heels, hike my dress up, and climb onto the window ledge. Slowly, I ease my way onto the roof, cursing myself for not at least changing into normal clothes first.
The sky is getting darker and the wind colder. Last I checked, they were calling for snow and ice tomorrow, but by the feel of it, it could be coming early. I hope Dad and Andrea are able to fly out before the storm hits. I’d hate for them to have to postpone their honeymoon because of a nor’easter. The cold air makes goosebumps dot my skin and I start to shiver. I blow out a slow breath, and it turns to a puff of white in front of my face.
I lower my shivering body to a crouch, then sit back on my butt and use my heels to scoot myself forward. It’s steeper out here than I realized. I don’t know how Macon does this high. Just the thought of him making one wrong move and falling off the roof makes me shudder. I close my eyes and give my head a shake, then look back at the notebook. It’s slipped to just inches from the edge. If it slides any more, it’ll fall the two stories and land in the black rocks lining the dormant flowerbeds below.
Slowly, I inch myself forward, until I can just reach the notebook with my foot. I lift my foot gently and put it on top of the notebook, then bend forward to grasp it with my fingers. It’s so cold that my hands and legs are trembling, and somehow, when I reach for the notebook, my foot slips and my body jerks forward. I kick the notebook in my flailing, and it disappears over the edge with my body sliding after it. I scream and dig my fingers into the shingles, turning my body to try and use my knees and toes and anything else possible to grind myself to a halt against the gritty roofing. I hear my dress rip and feel my nails scrape, and my skin bites with pain as it cuts into the asphalt tiles, but my body stops sliding after my feet hit and pass the edge of the roof.
I gasp for breath, frozen for a moment. My feet are dangling freely in the winter air and my fingers and knees burn with pain. I close my eyes and try to slow my breathing and steady my heartbeat, then slowly start to push myself back to the window. Inch by inch, I move up toward the window, then pull myself inside and lie flat on the floor in Macon’s room until my chills stop.
When my breathing evens out, I open my eyes. I look around Macon’s bedroom in the quiet. The bed is unmade. There are empty cans of soda on his nightstand and books stacked up by his bed. The walls are bare, which is a direct contrast to how I remember his room at his old house. Movie and band posters used to cover his walls, and a giant tie-dye tapestry was pinned to the ceiling. We’ve been here for weeks now, but I guess he hasn’t gotten around to hanging them yet.
I turn my head to the side and my attention catches on something stacked beneath Macon’s bed. I sit up and crawl over to it, then reach under the bed and pull out a pile of notebooks, similar to the one that fell off the roof. There’s maybe ten of them here, and when I flip open the first one, my jaw drops.
It’s a sketch of a tree. The one outside my old bedroom window. It’s perfectly drawn, down to the knots in the trunk and the shape of the leaves. There’s even a shadowed figure standing in the window beyond the tree.Me, I think.
