Page 59 of The Love of My Next Life
“Wait...” she says, glancing at the ceiling in thought. “Phillip....the lawyer from the radio commercials? The injury defense attorney?”
“One in the same.”
“Dang.”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know what she’s thinking. He’s loaded. If you couldn’t tell from his fucking McMansion on the man-made lake, you’d know from his cheesy fucking radio ads that play on every station in Virginia. Dick could afford to pay for Claire to go to college ten times over, and it wouldn’t even make a dent in his bank account, but greed doesn’t give two fucks about who it hurts.
“Poor Claire,” she whispers. “Poor Drea. That must have been the difficult conversation my dad must have been talking about.”
I scoff.
“It was hardly a conversation. He sent my mom one text. One. And then ignored all her calls until flat out blocking her.”
I take the icepack from Lennon, so I can sit back on the couch and rest my head on the cushions. I hold it to my jaw and close my eyes. I feel her move onto the couch beside me, but she doesn’t speak.
“My mom can’t afford to pay for Claire to go to college. She’s going to have to take out fucking loans, and she probably won’t even qualify for financial aid becausehe’sher fucking father, and he’s one of the richest fucks in the state.”
I let out a humorless laugh.
“It’s fine,” I say sarcastically. “She’ll just be another person drowning in student loan debt when she graduates.”
The whole situation makes me want to punch something. Or take something.
“I’m sorry.” Lennon takes my free hand in hers and squeezes. I flip my hand and thread my fingers through hers. The touch makes my shoulders relax.
“I wish he was dead,” I confess. When Lennon doesn’t speak, I realize my mistake and cringe. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Len. That was insensitive.”
“No,” she whispers. “It’s okay. You’re angry. I get it.”
“It’s just...to know that he lives thirty minutes away and wants nothing to do with us?” I swallow and breathe through my nose. “At least your mom didn’t leave you by choice.”
When she doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a noise, I turn my head toward her and open my eyes. She’s staring at our clasped hands and chewing on her lip.
“Hey,” I whisper and give her hand a squeeze. When she looks up at me, my stomach falls to my feet and my heart falls with it. I’ve never seen her look so haunted. So empty. “What? What’s wrong?”
“You know how my mom died?” she asks, her voice flat.
“She was sick...” I say slowly. It’s what my mom said. I always assumed it was cancer or something. When Lennon flinches, I know I’m wrong.
“My mom had bipolar disorder,” she whispers. “She’d have these mood swings. Dad says they started around the time she turned sixteen. My dad and her were together all through high school. Did you know that? They were high school sweethearts. He knew her before...Lovedher before.”
She pauses and swallows. Licks her lower lip.
“One time I came home from school, and she’d painted half the living room bright yellow because she wanted our house to be like the sun. The next day, she couldn’t get out of bed and stayed there for a week.”
I put down the icepack and turn, so I’m facing Lennon, but I never let go of her hand. Her lips are pursed, and her brow is furrowed, staring at something on the floor.
“She was better for a while. Got help. But she would get worse when Dad would leave. Six-month deployments are hard, you know?”
I squeeze her hand again, but I don’t speak. I save the space for her voice. It’s her story.
“He was already five months into a deployment when she overdosed,” she whispers, and my heart stops. “A bottle of vodka and a bottle of pills.”
She squeezes her eyes shut as tears leak through her lashes. I pull her to my chest and hold her tight. She buries her face in my neck. I let the implications sink in.
Five months into a six-month deployment.
