Page 34 of The Love of My Next Life
And then I paint.
I don’t have a picture in mind, but after a few minutes, the direction becomes clearer.
Guilt. Anxiety. Lust.
An abstract depiction of the emotions sitting heavy in my stomach and clawing at my throat. Dull greens and grays with hints of blue, blending and swirling, until there’s no real beginning or end.
Abstract impressionism tends to be my favorite style to paint, but there is nothing tangible about how I’m feeling right now. No defined image to grasp. Just a mess of emotions that I don’t quite understand.
So, I do what I always do.
I put it on paper and try to make it into something beautiful.
Or, at the very least, to expel it from my body.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when the door opens, catching my attention. I look up from my paints and watch Macon slip into the room. Our eyes lock, but neither of us speak.
He walks silently toward me, rounds the table, and sits down softly in the chair beside me. I watch him as he studies my painting. I try to identify the emotions that pass over his face. It feels like forever before he finally lifts his attention off my work and meets my eyes.
“Will it bother you if I stay?” he asks, his voice soft and sincere. I blink twice, speechless, but he doesn’t shy away from the silence. He waits for my answer.
Somehow, I know nothing but words will satisfy him.
“No,” I say after a moment, “you won’t bother me if you stay.”
He gives me a small nod, then settles back in his chair to watch me paint.
“Your playlist is a good one,”Macon says as we walk to our cars an hour later. It’s not what I expected him to say, but I’m grateful that he doesn’t comment on my painting. For so long, it’s just been meant for my eyes. I’m not used to someone else experiencing my art.
“Thanks. I was feeling some indie folk-pop tonight.”
He hums into the night air, and we take more steps in silence, the asphalt crunching under our shoes.
“You have kind of an eclectic taste in music,” he muses again as we reach my car. I laugh, unlock the car door, then turn to face him. I study him for a moment, weighing my secrets, before deciding to come clean with one of them.
“I blame you for that,” I tell him honestly, and his lips purse and his eyebrows scrunch in confusion. I laugh again and his lips twitch into a playful smile.
“The first time I had a sleepover with Claire, you were listening to Fleetwood Mac, and I fell in love with the song ‘Sisters of the Moon.’ The next time I came over, you were listening to Cake. The time after that, Wu-Tang Clan.”
His eyes are so wide, his smile so big that mine stretches to match, and I have to look away from him or I’ll lose my nerve. I shrug to play it off.
“It was always something different, almost always something I liked, so I started taking notice. Started looking forward to hearing whatever your music choice would be. No matter how much you pissed me off or teased me, I was still excited for the moment you’d turn on your music.”
I huff out a laugh.
“Then Claire would complain that it was too loud, and you guys would get into a fight, and Drea would make you turn it off. Then, eventually you got headphones. But before the headphones...”
I trail off, and he chuckles. When I look back up at him, he’s closer than he was before. My breath catches in my throat and my laugher dies. He reaches over and fingers the end of my braid.
“Well, Lennon Capri,” he whispers, moving his hand from my braid to brush a stray piece of hair behind my ear, “you’re welcome for giving you great taste in music.”
I roll my eyes and scoff playfully, then open the car door.
“Go home, Macon,” I tell him with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow in free period.”
I try to hide the hopeful tone in my voice. I’m a little disappointed in myself for it being there at all. This isMacon.But...I don’t know...
I’m hopeful, regardless.
