Page 115 of The Love of My Next Life
“He’s not here, Lennon.”
“I have to tell him,” I say again, swiping at my tears. “I have to tell him.”
“I’ll tell him for you.”
“Daddy, no,” I cry. “Please. Please let me say goodbye. Let me at least explain to him. He won’t understand. He’ll blame himself.”
His face softens, but he doesn’t give.
“I’m sorry, Lennon. The answer is no.”
I turn to run upstairs, but screech to a halt when I see Claire sitting on them. Her cheeks are wet, her eyes swollen, but all I see is red.
She told them. She told our parents about me and Macon, even though she said she wouldn’t. She said she’d let me be the one to tell them, and she lied.
“You,” I seethe at her, “how could you? How could you do this to me?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, shaking her head as new tears fall down her face.
“You’re so miserable, you just can’t stand to see anyone happy. You’re jealous and bitter,” I say, my voice trembling. “You’re selfish. You’ve been so hard on Macon, but you’re the selfish one. You’re the rotten one.”
“No,” she chokes out. “Lennon...” She drops her face in her hands and sobs.
I walk away when my dad’s hand wraps around my bicep, and he escorts me to the car. Andrea is in tears. Claire is in tears. I’m in tears. Macon is nowhere to be found.
I don’t speak to my dad the whole way to the airport or when he drops me at security.
“Message Andrea when you land,” he says to me. “Since I likely won’t be reachable.”
I bite my cheek and stare at his shoes.
“Lennon, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Just trust me, okay? This is what’s best. I promise.”
I hit him with a glare.
“Is that what you told Mom, Dad? To trust you? Just before you left her for six months and she killed herself?”
The pained look on his face causes a feeling of sickness deep in my stomach. Disgust. I’m disgusted with myself. But instead of apologizing, I snatch my carry-on from him.
“Have a blast in Finland,” I say, then I turn and walk away.
I don’t say goodbye. I don’t tell him I love him. I don’t tell him to be safe.
I regret it for months after.
* * *
Three Weeks Later
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
The pillow is pulled out from under my head and the curtains are ripped open, blinding me with yellow sunlight. I groan and roll over, tugging the covers over my face.
“You’re vegan,” I grumble, and Aunt Becca laughs.
“Yeah, but you’re not,” she says, then yanks the blankets off my bed. I yelp. “C’mon, love. You gotta eat. No more moping.”
I roll onto my back and throw an arm over my face.
