Page 96 of The Love of My Next Life
I turn the page and am in awe when I find a sketch of James, the man who owns and runs the rec center. He’s laughing, and it’s so lifelike that I can almost hear him. The crinkles by his eyes brighten his face, and the shading is done so expertly that even his salt-and-pepper hair is obvious, despite the drawing being done in pencil grayscale.
I remember Macon saying he’d taken an art class every year, but I had no idea he was this talented. In a way, I’m almost offended. We’ve spent so much time together in the art room and he never once let me know...
The next page is a sketch of Andrea, and it breaks my heart. She’s sad, lost, with her head in her hands and her shoulders bowed. I can tell from her form that she’s crying. She’s devastated, but instead of feeling Andrea’s pain, I feel Macon’s. It’s like I’m seeing her through his eyes, and my chest aches.
I turn the page slowly, and it takes me a moment to realize what I’m seeing.
Sketches of hands. Fingers and wrists, so familiar that my own twitch in recognition. He even added the small freckle on my left pinky finger, making it unmistakable that this is a sketch of my hands. I turn the page and my heart speeds to a gallop when I find eyes. Eyes I stare through every day. It’s the first drawing to have color, and the greens and golds and browns in the hazel irises are like looking into a mirror.
I turn the page again.
My mouth. Smiling. Biting my lower lip. Scowling. My mouth and chin and teeth.
The next page is my profile. The next is my braid from the back.
I close the notebook and open a different one. The first few pages are random sketches. Casper on the tailgate of his truck. Sam with a lit joint between her lips. Claire scowling from across a table. A broken, bruised self-portrait that must have been drawn right after a fight. Maybe the fight with his dad a few weeks ago.
And then it’s me. Every page a different aspect of me. Parts of my face. My hands. My legs. Pages dedicated to my eyebrows and collarbone. The freckle on my right earlobe. It’s like this for the whole notebook. Then the next. Then the next. There are pictures scattered in and out of random other things. His mom, kids at the center, his car. But mostly, it’s me.
I shoot up and run downstairs, ignoring the way my bare feet sting in places from where I scraped them on the roof. I run out the back door and around the side of the house, plucking Macon’s sketchbook up where it fell in the rocks. I flip quickly through the sketches until I get to the most recent, and my heart stops.
It’s not of me. It’s Claire.
She’s standing in the courtyard of the hotel in her bridesmaid dress. Her hair is styled, just like it was earlier. Macon even detailed the crystal barrette she had pinned into her curls. But her face—it’s utter devastation. Disdain and agony, with swollen, tear-filled eyes and scowling lips. My own eyes sting as I trace my finger over the rendition of what he saw today, feeling the weight of every emotion and accusation Claire threw at him. God, he must be so broken. He must hate himself right now.
I notice the corner torn and crumpled, possibly from the two-floor fall, and when I try to smooth out the page, I realize the drawing of Claire wasn’t the last one in the book. I turn the page, already knowing what I’m going to see, but it still turns my lungs to cement in my chest.
It’s my face, or the start of it. No hair or ears. There’s no jaw or chin. No cheeks. Just a pair of eyebrows and eyes, a nose and a mouth, and I look...
I close my eyes and shake my head, then look again.
This is what Macon thinks? This is what he saw today?
On the paper, I’m disgusted. Shocked. Angry. In this sketch, I’m nothing but hatred.
He can’t be more wrong. He couldn’t have misread my emotions any more thoroughly. It’s like he thinks I’ve turned on him. I feel his loss and pain immediately. He’s so used to disappointing everyone. He thinks everyone has already given up on him.
I slam the notebook shut and tuck it under my arm. I run into the house and grab my car keys, put a jacket on over my emerald green bridesmaid dress, and slip my feet into a pair of boots sitting by the front door. I think they’re Andrea’s, but I don’t care enough to find my own. I rush to my car, tossing the notebook in the front seat and back out of the driveway. I pick up my phone.
Five missed calls from Claire and ten texts. I ignore them.
One missed call and one text from Eric. I ignore those, too.
One text from Dad telling me he and Andrea are boarding the plane now, and he’ll text when they land. I text him back and tell him I love him.
Nothing from Macon.
I drive toward the rec center, making sure to pass the supermarket to check for Macon’s car, but it’s not in the lot. I park at the rec center and run inside, heading straight for the room with the pottery wheel. He’s not there. He’s not on the basketball court or hitting the punching bags, either. I run back out to my car, pulling my dress up as I go, so I don’t rip it more.
I get in my car and pull up Chris Casper’s contact. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. I try Macon again and it doesn’t even ring. Just starts withI’m sorry, and I hang up and throw my phone at the passenger seat. I don’t know Julian’s number. I wouldn’t call Sam if she was the last human being on Earth.
I glance at the clock. It’s almost eight, which means the shops in Franklin are all still open, so I back out of my parking spot and drive to the hardware store. I heave a sigh of relief when I see Casper’s truck in the parking lot, and I waste no time running inside and scanning the aisles for him.
“Lennon?” I hear Chris say, and I spin around to face him. He’s eyeing me, amused with a smirk on his face, then points his finger at me and waves it in a circle. “What happened to you?”
I glance down at my ripped, dirty dress, and run my hand over my mussed, ruined updo. My makeup is probably smeared. I know I look ridiculous wearing a flannel jacket and winter boots with a green silk formal dress, but it would take way too much time to explain.
Honestly, I’m not sure I could do it, anyway. I’m not even sureIunderstand it.
