Page 22 of The Love of My Next Life
“It’s totally up to you,” James says, then gestures to the back. “Those are the things we were able to get with the grant money, as well as some stuff that was donated. Feel free to dig through and make a plan.”
I nod, already walking toward the shelves. He tells me he’s going to head back to the office then asks if I’ll be alright by myself. I tell him yes, without looking up from a box full of paints. He leaves, and I spend the next hour sorting. Planning. Organizing.
There’s a good amount of stuff in here. Enough for me to cover different mediums for probably the next few months. That’s likely Hank’s doing. I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the volunteering positions. He knows I paint, but I had to learn of this opportunity through my guidance counselor. The thought annoys me briefly, then flits away as I lose myself in art supplies.
I’ve finished scoping things out and am wandering back the way I came, peeking into classrooms as I go, when I hear music coming from a room farther down the hall.
“In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel.
It’s one of my favorites.
I make my way there on light feet, not wanting to disturb the person in the room, but when I peek around the door, the breath wooshes from my lungs, and I freeze, stunned.
It’s Macon.
ShirtlessMacon.
Shirtless Macon working behind a pottery wheel.
The first thing I notice is that the front of his curly hair is pulled back in a little pink butterfly clip, which should look ridiculous, but it doesn’t. He’s crouched over slightly, and he’s chewing on his lip as his focus stays on the wheel between his legs.
I let my eyes trail over his sculpted bare shoulders, to the strip of brown leather hanging around his neck like a necklace. His naked chest is dotted and smudged with gray, and it takes a second for me to realize his left pectoral is covered with a tattoo. I squint at it for a few breaths, trying to make it out. The defined muscle is covered with a clock. And script of some sort, but I can’t read it. My attention catches on his small, brown nipples, and something about that makes the hairs on the back of my neck tickle.
I haven’t seen Macon shirtless since I was thirteen, he was fifteen, and our parents took us to the beach for the weekend.
He’s definitely not built like a fifteen-year-old anymore.
That isnotthe chest of a fifteen-year-old.
I drag my eyes down to the clay he’s working and stare at his hands, the surgical scar on his left wrist, his rigid forearms. He’s covered in wet, gray clay, and it glistens as he uses deft fingers to shape what looks to be a large bowl. His clay-splattered biceps bulge as he attempts to work the bowl to his liking. It’s rough, from what I can tell. Uneven. Kinda floppy. But his determination doesn’t waver.
Not until the music starts to skip, and I realize there’s an old CD player sitting on a table, just a few feet from the door.
When Macon glances up at the CD player, our eyes meet, and his flare wide. His hands slip, the bowl folds in on itself, and I turn and run.
“Lennon, wait,” he calls from behind me, but I don’t stop. I don’t even know why I’m running, but I keep going as fast as my heels allow me. He catches up to me in seconds.
I’m almost to an emergency exit when Macon’s hand wraps around my arm, covering my skin in cold, slick clay, and he spins me around until my back is pressed against the wall. His eyes frantically search my face, as if first confirming that I am, in fact, Lennon, then he releases my arm and steps back.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. He’s not angry, but he’s flustered. Like I’m not welcome here. I raise a brow and put my hand on my hip.
“What areYOUdoing here?”
He puts his hands up, turning them over and back to show off the clay, then gestures to my arm.
“Sorry,” he says, referring to the handprint he smudged on my skin. I shrug off his apology.
“I’m going to be volunteering here,” I rush out. “Art classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He clamps his eyes shut and drops his head back. He mouths something at the ceiling, then brings his hands up to his head and presses on his temples. I don’t tell him that he’s gotten clay all over his face and hair. I’m sure he knows.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. He’s obviously distressed. He shakes his head then hits me with a look I’ve never seen on his face.
Vulnerable. Anxious. Desperate.
“You gotta swear you’ll stay quiet,” he says, his voice low and secretive. “You can’t tell anyone. Not my mom. Not your dad. Not Claire. Fuck, especially not Claire.”
I shake my head. “What on earth are you talking about? What can’t I tell them? You planning to smuggle drugs in that bowl?”
