She hesitates. Sets down her duffel bag like she's planning to stay awhile. "Can we talk? It's been a long drive and I could use a glass of water, if you have one."
I should say no. Should tell her to get back in whatever car she drove here and go home to Virginia where she belongs. Should do anything except stand here staring at her like an idiot while my brain tries to reconcile the child I remember with the woman in front of me.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Upstairs. I've got an apartment."
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
But she's already nodding, already following me toward the back stairs, and it's too late to take it back.
My apartment isn't much. One room that serves as bedroom, living space, and kitchen, with a tiny bathroom carved out of one corner. The walls are covered with my sketches. Eagles, mostly. Mountains. The occasional portrait that I tear down whenever I catch myself staring at it too long.
Claire takes it all in with those dark eyes, and I watch her catalog every detail. The unmade bed. The stack of books on the nightstand. The guitar propped in the corner that I haven't touched in months.
"You still play?" she asks, gesturing toward it.
"No."
She doesn't push. Just accepts the glass of water I hand her and settles onto my worn couch like she belongs there.
I stay standing. Keep distance between us. Try not to notice the way her sweater clings to curves that definitely weren't there ten years ago.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"How did you find me?" I ask.
"Mom kept your letters. The ones you sent with money over the years." She takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of the glass. "I found one a few weeks ago. Had a return address for Grizzly Ridge, Montana."
The letters. Right. I'd forgotten about those. Anonymous donations I'd convinced myself were just me keeping my promise to Marcus. Watching over his girls from a safe distance.
"You shouldn't be here, Claire."
"Why not?"
Because you have your father's eyes and it's killing me to look at them. Because the last time I saw you, you were thirteen years old and crying at a funeral. Because I made a promise to a dying man and sitting here alone with you feels like breaking it.
"Because I'm not the person you remember," I say instead. "I'm not anyone you should be wasting your time on."
"I remember the man who held my hand for two hours at my father's funeral." Her voice goes soft, and something in my chest cracks open. "I remember you were the only one who didn't tell me to be strong. Who didn't feed me bullshit about Dad being in a better place. You just sat with me."
"Claire."
"And then you disappeared." She sets down the glass. Meets my eyes with a directness that reminds me so much of Marcus I can barely breathe. "Ten years, Max. Not a word, not a visit. Just money in envelopes like you could buy your way out of actually being there."
The accusation lands like a punch to the gut. Mostly because she's right.
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?"
I can't answer her. Can't explain that looking at her was like looking at a ghost. That every time I saw her face, I saw Marcus bleeding out in the sand, heard his voice begging me to watch over his girls.
Can't tell her that I stayed away because I was supposed to be on that mission. Should have been the one to die.
"It's complicated," I finally say.
"Then uncomplicate it." She stands, closes the distance between us before I can retreat. Up close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose. Can smell something sweet and clean, like vanilla and fresh laundry. "I drove two thousand miles to find you, Max. I think I deserve an explanation."
She's standing too close. Close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her.
