“So, why exactly have you been avoiding your family again?” I ask after a while.
“I don’t avoid them. I just … give them lots of space.”
“Fess up, Claire, or I’ll make this super awkward,” I warn her.
“It’s already going to be ridiculously awkward!” she cries out.
“Don’t think I won’t ask your mom to see your baby pictures.”
“Go ahead. I was a cute kid.”
I shoot her a suspicious look before I turn a corner. “And I wonder what your mom will say when I tell her how many times you’ve been to the homestead lately.”
She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Well, since you wouldn’t tell me the whole story, how was I to know that would upset her so much?”
She lets out a frustrated growl. “There’s no story to tell. My parents just don’t like me all that much, okay?”
“What?” I blurt out incredulously. “Of course they like you.”
“I mean, theyloveme,” she explains quietly. “It’s not like they mistreat me or anything. It’s just that I can tell I’m not their cup of tea.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “The vibe, I guess. I’m an only child, and my mom wanted me to be her best friend, her little sidekick, butwe never really meshed all that well. I didn’t fit in with the other perfect, preppy girls in school, at ballet class, or on playdates with her friends’ daughters … I’ve always been too loud, or too silly … too rough, too muddy. My dad and I got along, but I think he felt guilty about letting me do all the outdoorsy stuff with him because my mom got left out. She supported me when I picked livestock shows over pageants, but I know she was disappointed.”
I catch the wobble in her voice by the end of it, so I pull over again and turn to face her. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, forcing me to pick at another one of my old emotional wounds until I cry again?” She sniffles as she tries to shrug it off.
I sigh and reach out to wipe a tear from her cheek. “Of course. But I’m mostly sorry that you’ve been going around thinking you aren’t the most fun, the most beautiful, the most interesting, and the most compassionate girl in the room. Because you are, Claire. You’re not too muchanything. You’re just the best and the most ateverything.”
Her chin trembles as she stares back at me, and Frankie and Oscar begin whining from the back seat once they sense her crying. “You have to say that because you’re my friend. You just want me to feel better.”
“No,” I admit with a rueful smile. “The only lies I’ve ever told you were of the omission variety. I mean every word of that.”
“Well, thank you,” she says with a sniff. “It’s too bad you weren’t around ten years ago to talk me out of switching my college major and basically throwing my life away to follow Jeremy. Between moving to Camellia with him, not being able to get pregnant, and now my divorce, I haven’t given my mom any reasons to see me in a better light. And I guess I could have been avoiding her because I don’t want to hear her say ‘I told you so.’ ”
I growl. “Don’t do that, please. Everyone makes decisions they regret later for one reason or another, but you have to forgive yourself. And most of those things weren’t your fault, anyway.”
“Right,” she nods and forces a smile before she turns to reassurethe dogs that she’s okay. I’m still suspicious about the pregnancy part, but I figure I shouldn’t push her on it right now.
“For the record, as much as I hate how much you’ve had to endure, I’m a big, big fan of the woman it all helped you to become,” I add, hoping she can sense my sincerity.
“Thank you,” she says more shyly this time, but she keeps her eyes trained on Frankie. I watch her for a moment longer before I veer back onto the road.
“Oh boy,” Claire calls out when we pull into the driveway a few minutes later, presumably because of the extra car parked there. I furrow my brow questioningly. “You remember my favorite feral great-aunt, don’t you?”
I grin. “You mean sweet, oldTanteVerna?”
“Better not call her that to her face,” she mumbles.
“What, old?”
“No.Sweet.”
I chuckle as we walk Frankie and Oscar past the well-kept landscaping and the painted lawn ornaments to knock on the door of the Acadian-style home. Claire’s mom swings the door open so quickly that the pastel-colored wreath rattles, and she apologizes as she scrambles to set it right.
