Page 10 of The Love of My Next Life
“Oh, I insist, Leonard,” she sing-songs, and then she throws it at me, hitting my ankles and making me stumble forward. The smell of alcohol hits me hard—it was a spiked slushie, apparently—and the cold liquid coats my legs and dots my skirt.
I suppress a growl and catch myself from tripping over the cup. The sound of cackling assaults me, then a fake “sorry” is yelled, right before the car speeds off.
I hate them.
I hate them all.
I hate Macon the most.
I breathe through my nose to will away the angry tears, then I bend over and pick up the cup to throw away at my house. My legs are stained red, my ballet flats covered in the sticky juice, and there’s even some spots on my shirt. My white blouse is probably ruined.
When I get to my house, I toss the slushie cup into the outside garbage bin, then head inside and straight for the shower. I scrub my legs roughly, but the red slushie stain still shows faintly on my pale skin. God, Sam is such a bitch, and Macon is a dickhead. I don’t know why they hate me so much, but the feeling is mutual.
I give up on my legs, wash my hair and face quickly, then turn off the water. I dry, pull my wet hair into a French braid, then throw on an old US NAVY tee and sweats. As soon as I drop down next to my bed, the tension in my body melts away. I tug the tote back out and bring it downstairs to the kitchen table.
It will take me thirty minutes to get ready for the party. I’ve got a good five hours still. I’m going to paint.
Something angry and moody.
Frustrated and isolated.
Something therapeutic.
Claire pulls upto my house at exactly ten. Her promptness speaks to her excitement. Claire would be late to her own funeral.
I lock the house and make my way to her car, and she lets out a wolf whistle.
“Dang, Len,” she says when I climb in the passenger seat. “You look hot. Those knee-high tights are verygood girl gone bad.”
I snort a laugh. Thanks to Sam’s slushie bath, I look like I have hives. I had to wear the tights to cover the red stains on my shins and calves. Since my ballet flats looked stupid with the tights, I’m wearing my black suede booties.
It’s actually a cute outfit.
If I could put a cardigan over the cami, I’d be all set.
“I wish I had your boobs,” she says with a pout, and I roll my eyes.
“Why? You actuallyhaveboobs. Mine are practically microscopic.” It’s the same thing I always say when she does this. She’s sporting a perky C-cup and I weigh in with barely a B.
“Yeah, but you can go without a bra, if you want.” She gestures to her chest. “I gotta keep these bad girls contained.”
I laugh and she smirks, looking a lot like Macon, before narrowing her eyes and studying me critically.
“You gonna keep your braid in?”
“I was planning on it,” I say, but she reaches over and pulls the ribbon from the end, anyway. Using her fingers, she releases my hair from the French braid and tousles it, so it falls in waves around my shoulders. Then she ties my black lace ribbon around my neck like a choker.
“There,” she says, and she smiles proudly. “What would you do without me?”
I roll my eyes and smile back, but I don’t answer. She’s my best friend. My only friend, really. Without her, I’d be sad and lonely and lost, most likely.
Claire prattles on the whole ride to Josh’s house. He lives in the country on a farm, so I’m not surprised when she pulls up and the entire road and drive are lined with cars, a big bonfire blazing in the back about fifty yards from the bigger house. I can’t help the thought that the fire probably should be farther away, but these kids think they’re invincible.
Claire parks behind some huge Ford truck.
“I’m so nervous,” she says, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “How do I look?”
“Boneable,” I state, and she barks out a laugh. “Just...remember you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
