Page 41 of The Love of My Next Life
Pictures of her and Claire ranging from age nine to seventeen.
Pictures of her and her dad. In some, he’s in uniform, but in most, he’s wearing civilian clothes.
My eyes catch on a picture of a young Lennon with a woman who looks exactly like her, and even though I’ve never met her, I know instinctively that it’s her mom, Susanna. Lennon is maybe five or six in the picture, her chestnut hair in a tight, perfect French braid tied off with a pink ribbon, and she’s smiling up at her mother with a missing front tooth. Susanna looks just like Lennon today. Same brown hair. Same hazel eyes. Same sweet smile. I’m so lost in the similarities that I almost miss the paintbrushes in their hands, and the smudges of paint on their cheeks.
My brow furrows. My brain is fuzzy from the pills, but something feels significant about this.
Another picture grabs my attention.
One of Claire, Lennon, and me from a few summers ago when Trent and Mom took us to Virginia Beach. We’re all in swimsuits, and Claire is smiling at the camera with her arms thrown around Lennon in a hug. I’m staring down the camera with my hands in my swim trunk pockets, looking every bit like I don’t want to be there. But Lennon?
Lennon almost looks like she’s looking at me.
And she’s smiling.
I pull the picture from the bulletin board and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans without thinking, then crack the door, so I can hear downstairs.
Laughter filters toward me. Some deep, some airy. Lennon’s dad and Eric seem to be hitting it off, from the sound of it, and Lennon is loving it. My stomach twists, and anger surges through the haze in my head.
Fuck Eric Masters for ruining my high.
I shut the door and kick off my shoes, then toss myself onto Lennon’s bed. Her rose scent blankets me once my head hits the pillow, and I fall asleep seconds later.
“What the hellare you doing here?” a sweet voice hisses, and I pop one eye open to find the most gorgeous sight.
A shocked and angry Lennon Capri Washington.
She’s so fucking hot when she’s pissed.
I smirk just to watch her jaw tense.
“Macon,” she demands, putting her hands on her hips and drawing my attention to the bouquet of flowers she’s holding.
It’s big. Expensive. I look it over. Try to find something wrong with it, but I can’t. It’s actually pretty perfect. Vibrant and colorful. Unique. Artistic. VeryLennon.
Fucking Masters.
“Where’s all your paint shit?” I ask her without moving. I keep my arms folded behind my head, which is resting on her pillow, and my ankles crossed.
“What?” She blinks, and I smirk again.
“Your paint shit,” I repeat. “Where is it?”
Her eyes bounce between mine, then she drags her gaze from my face to my feet and back. I let her look, and give her space, let her adjust to the sight of me in her room. On her bed.
Fuck, I know I’d need a minute if the situation was flipped.
“My paints...” She trails off, then her eyes drop to the floor. “They’re put away.”
I sit up slowly. I don’t take my attention off her. Her face is full of guilt and longing.
“Your mom used to paint,” I say, and she nods, keeping her eyes on the ground. “That’s why you keep it from your dad?”
Another silent nod.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and she finally brings her hazel eyes to mine. The sadness guts me, and I instinctively move toward her. Her eyes grow wide, and she bites her lower lip. I reach up and use my thumb to pull her plush lip away from her teeth, then rub gently over the red mark. “Don’t do that,Astrea.”
“It upsets him,” she says to me, and I guess it makes sense, but it still pisses me off.
