Page 101 of The Love of My Next Life
He glares at Sam, then at me, then turns and leaves without another word.
“I hate him,” Sam whispers.
I nod.Me too.
TWENTY-TWO
Sunlight is peekingthrough the window when my eyes open. Fingers are drifting up and down my cheek. I look up into the most beautiful blue eyes, and I sob.
I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around his body and crying into his hospital gown.
“I’m okay,” he says, and his voice is scratchy. “I’m okay, Lennon.”
We don’t talk as they discharge him.
We don’t talk as Sam drives us back to my car.
We don’t talk as I hug her goodbye, long and tight, then release her to get into my own car with Macon. I don’t look at the house. I can’t. Just being this close to it makes me want to cry.
My phone is dead on the passenger floorboard. I charge it just enough to text Claire and tell her my phone died and I’ll be home soon, then I turn it back off. Macon’s Charger is no longer parked on the street in front of the house, and I’m not surprised to see it already in the driveway of our house when we get there.
Senator Harper really did “take care of everything.”
Macon and I walk into the house in silence. Claire isn’t home. She’s probably at Josh’s house. I trail Macon up the stairs, then he goes into his bedroom, and I go into mine. I grab a pair of pajamas and a towel, then head into the bathroom. I turn the shower on hot, then stare at myself in the mirror as steam fills the room.
I’m still wearing the flannel jacket over my torn, filthy green bridesmaid dress. My hair is ratty, the elegant updo long gone, and my face is streaked with mascara. I haven’t looked in a mirror since yesterday, and I’ve cried so much that I’m surprised there’s any makeup left.
I stare at the streaks. It looks like someone dripped watercolor black on my cheeks. My face is leeched of all color, except for red, bloodshot eyes and gray streaky mascara. I stare until the mirror fogs with steam, until my face resembles a ghost, then I step into the shower and stay there until the water turns cold.
In my pajamas, with my hair in a towel, I step into my bedroom. Macon is sitting on my bed but stands quickly when he sees me.
“Lennon,” he whispers, and my face crumples. I start to cry again as I rush to him.
“How could you,” I hiss. My palm connects with his cheek, making a loud smack. “How could you do this!”
I shove his chest. I shove it again. My shoulders start to shake with my sobs.
“How could you be so stupid?” I close my fists and pound on him, my voice shaky and hoarse. I hit him over and over, and he lets me. He lets me cry and beat on him until my legs buckle and he catches me, pulling me to his chest. I dig my fingers into his shirt and press my face to his neck.
How could he do this, knowing what happened to my mom? How could he be so stupid?
“You could have died,” I cry and cling to him. “You weredead, Macon. You weren’t breathing.”
“I know.” His arms lock around me. I feel his lips on my head. On my cheek. I tilt my head to the side, so he can kiss my neck. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lennon.”
He takes my lips, and I groan against him, kissing him frantically. Pulling him closer, kissing him harder. I run my hands up and down his torso, squeezing the hard muscles, digging my fingers into his warm skin.
Alive. He’s alive, and he’s here. This isn’t the last time I’ll kiss him. This is real.
He wraps his hand around my neck and holds me against him, and I want to melt into his touch. If I couldn’t have this. If I’d lost this...
I move my hands to his shirt and push it up, scratching my nails on his abs, then grab the band of his jeans and pop the button. His hands close on mine, and he stops me from going any further.
I blink at him.
“You don’t want to?” I breathe out, and he shuts his eyes tightly.
“I do,” he says, but the pained tone of his voice keeps me from trying again. “I do, Lennon. But...”
