Page 67 of The Love of My Next Life
Sam’s car is parked at the curb, muffled music surrounding it, and there’s a jumble in the passenger seat. A mess of bodies.
I walk closer.
No. I’mpulledcloser.
I don’t even think. I just walk. And when I get to the car, I pull the door open. I’m hit with a cloud of weed so thick, I have to wait a moment before the scene before me comes into focus. When it does, I wish it hadn’t.
It’s Sam straddling Macon. Their lips are swollen. Macon’s shirt is stretched.
His pants are undone.
“Leonard,” Sam screeches, “you fucking creep.” She adjusts her shirt. “Get the fuck out of here!”
“Macon,” I say, but his head stays down. “Macon,” I say louder, my voice cracking. He ignores me, and it makes me furious. These are angry tears.
“Macon!” I scream and push his shoulder. I push it again harder.
Sam is saying something, calling me names, climbing back into the driver’s seat.
But all I can see, all I can focus on, is Macon. The way he rolls his head back against the seat, then slowly turns in my direction. His face is blank, his eyes glossed and red. I choke on a sob, my hands fly to my face. His swollen lips. His mussed hair. His dead eyes.
“Why?” I ask.
“Get the fuck out of here,Leonard,” he says, and it guts me. I let out a sob, then another.
And then I laugh. Because I’m such an idiot.
I swipe angrily at my tears, but they don’t stop falling. I laugh again.
“I hate you,” I tell him. I put every ounce of feeling into it. “I. Hate. You.”
“Feelin’ is mutual, bitch,” Sam taunts from the driver’s seat.
For a brief moment, I think Macon will stand up for me, but he doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and rolls his head away from me.
“Go,” he says into the air.
So, I go.
I refuseto talk to Dad. I tell him I need space and I’ll talk to him when I’m ready.
I don’t apologize for my behavior tonight. I don’t think I’m sorry. For once, I don’t want to placate anyone just to avoid a conflict.
I’m hurt and hurting. I’m angry with my dad. I need to sit with that, and so does he.
I paint for hours. Picture after picture of angry, violent strokes, sad and sorrowful shades. Each painting is a different fragment of my broken heart, a different stage of grief, but I never reach acceptance. I’m stuck oscillating between anger and depression, skipping over bargaining entirely, until eventually falling asleep.
And then I circle back in my dreams, and denial comes to me.
The sound of my window sliding open wakes me, but instead of sitting up, I close my eyes tighter and roll onto my side, giving him my back.
“Go home,” I say into the darkness.
Macon doesn’t respond. I just hear him, feel him, close the distance between us.
“Go home, Macon,” I force out, my voice hoarse and ragged with tears. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“I know,” he says, but he keeps walking until I can smell his spicy scent and notice it’s missing the lingering sweetness of weed. He sits on my bed, then lies down. I feel the bed dip when he lays his head on the pillow. I keep my back to him.
