Claire
Sunday, I woke up damp from sweat, heart racing, throat raw. Burying my head in my pillow, I cursed the heart-to-heart I’d had with Aiken. It had been a while since I’d relived that ill-fated night, and for the last two nights, my dreams had been flooded with memories.
Ill-fated nightwas a nice way of putting it. More like, fucking disaster in which my daughter ended up murdered. My fists balled tightly as the night came back into focus.
If I was one hundred percent honest with myself, I would’ve fessed up to my supersized bullshit—I’d been counting the seconds until the girls hustled out of the car.
I’d been desperately craving some time to myself.
A few hours were all I’d been hunting for—no work, no kids, no reminders of my failed marriage.
I hadn’t been asking for much.
Their nonstop chatter had vibrated in my head as I shuttled them in my late-model, yet extremely safe, SUV. I shouldn’t have been feeling the way I’d been feeling on that night.
Or any night.
I shouldn’t have been in a hurry to ditch the girls, but there was no denying I was.
After all, it was a big deal—I should’ve been celebrating and picture-taking with them, of them. First night at a concert, no chaperone, extra money in their skinny-jean pockets, and lip gloss on their young faces. They were never going to be fourteen or that innocent again.
I’d stopped on the corner, the large sign lit up like a giant Lite-Brite in front of us, the face of the stupid-as-dirt rapper they’d wanted to see for months adorning the screen. I could’ve sworn he was smirking at me, his gold tooth glittering against the night sky.
Whatever, I’d thought to myself,soon I’m free.
A bottle of wine, a bubble bath, and a salacious romance book were all waiting for me at home.
“All right, ladies. Have fun, behave, stick together—do not separate—and text Michele’s mom when you’re walking out. Laurie will tell you where she’s parked,” I said as the car idled outside the horrible monstrosity. I missed the old fieldhouse. The university had torn it down for a much sleeker basketball arena that could double as a concert venue.
Whether other concertgoers would behave never crossed my mind as I sat there with my foot on the brake. I’d told our girls the basics when it came to going out: make smart decisions, stick together, don’t talk to strange men, stay off social media.
That was enough—right?
“Thanks, Claire,” they hollered as they shimmied out of the car, their skin aglow with glitter lotion.
“Abby, be good.” My fingers grazed my daughter’s as she exited the passenger seat.
“Mom, I will…’kay? Gotta go. Love you.”
I nodded and whispered, “Love you more,” to no one. She’d already slammed the door in my face and grabbed Michele’s hand, swinging their arms toward the sky as they walked to the entrance. Shelby and Olivia did the same, their bangles falling down their bare arms. They looked like quadruplets in their black tank tops, dark painted-on jeans, and metallic gladiator sandals as dusk fell on that late August night. They’d combed style magazines for weeks, seeking the right look. It had taken several trips to our Podunk mall and a few orders off the web to perfect Abby’s outfit.
I couldn’t help but stare at their butts as they made their way to the door. Couldn’t help but remember how many times I’d wiped Abby’s very own tiny tush. It was one of the perks of being her mom, as far as I was concerned.
Pulling away from the curb, my excitement had been coupled with melancholy. My girl was growing up. First concert on her own, soon it’d be prom, then sorority life. She’d make her own life, and where would that leave me?
Doing the same thing I always did, overworking and wondering when exactly my ex-husband lost interest in me.
I punched the pillow and stood before any more tears came. As I shuffled to the bathroom, Smitty whimpered. “One sec, tough guy, lemme pee, and then I’ll let you.”
After splashing some water on my face, I opened the door for Smitty. Not brave enough to step outside and run into my neighbor, I hid in the kitchen while my dog did his business. I smacked the button on the coffee maker as if it had done something to me, fed Smitty, and dressed for a run.
I’d chase my bad thoughts and boredom away with running.
The only thing I did well these days.
When I got back home, my phone rang. I almost ignored it until I saw it was Mary.
“Hey, if you’re calling to drag me out drinking again, it’s not happening,” I answered.
