“I don’t deserve her,” I whisper.
“No,” Dr. Alvarez agrees. “You don’t get to decide that.”
I flinch.
Silence stretches between us.
“I want you to keep a journal,” she says. “Write about what you want. And write about that day. Not to punish yourself, but to understand it. To stop letting it define you.”
I nod slowly.
As I stand to leave a few minutes later, my body feels strangely lighter and unbearably exposed at the same time.
Outside, the late afternoon sun warms my face. I pull my jacket tighter and start walking, Dr. Alvarez’s words echoing in my head.
Allow yourself to want.
Claire’s smile flashes through my mind again.
For the first time, instead of shoving the feeling down, I let it sit there.
Longing. Hope. Fear.
And the terrifying, fragile possibility that wanting something doesn’t make me evil.
It just makes me human.
Chapter 55
Claire
After Brandon left my life, I stopped rationing myself.
I started going to the Walker house every day after work.
Before, I had made rules. Limits. I told myself I was being respectful, that I didn’t want to confuse Lily or cross lines with Ethan. I told myself distance was maturity. But distance had always been easier when there was someone else to go home to. Someone waiting. Someone whose expectations gave me an excuse to leave.
Now there was only quiet waiting for me at my apartment, which, on a schoolteacher’s salary, I wouldn’t be able to afford for much longer anyway.
So instead, I drove past it.
Every afternoon, my car turned toward the familiar road without me thinking about it. I brought homework, worksheets and markers. Sometimes nothing at all except myself. Lily ran to the door every time like she hadn’t seen me in ages, and the way her arms wrapped around my waist made my heart full.
It felt right.
And that terrified me.
The day that broke me, started with a scarf.
I was running late for work, digging through my closet for something warmer, when my fingers closed around soft wool I didn’t remember buying. Pale blue. Frayed at one end. I pulled it free and immediately knew.
Jenny.
She had left it at my place years ago. One of those careless, intimate habits of best friends who never imagined an ending. I could see her clearly perched on my bed, legs crossed, talking too fast about something that mattered only to her. Laughing when I told her she’d forget it.
“Just give it back next time,” she’d said. “I’m basically here all the time anyway.”
The thought formed before I had time to think.
