“Ahh. Makes way more sense.” She places her laptop and mug on the table, shifting her legs to the side.
“So, anyway, dinner tonight,” she repeats.
I nod in understanding but in reality, I can’t relate at all. Weekly dinners with your parents? Justdinnerwith your parents? What’s that like? I try to look unbothered, but my expression must betray me.
“I’m sorry,” Claire says, putting her hand on my knee. “I didn’t mean to babble on about my mom and dad. That must be hard to hear.”
Out of nowhere I'm annoyed at myself that she feels like she has to take care of my feelings. “It’s fine, Claire. I don’t just fall apart whenever someone talks about their parents. You have them. I don’t. The end.” I shut it down quickly, the subject and the lack of nicotine leaving me suddenly unsettled but she doesn’t take the hint.
“So, they aren’t around at all?”
It’s a fair question, considering I’m not one for details. Still, it’s not something I really feel like talking about, now or ever, but especially now as I feel myself growing restless. I shift in my seat trying to get comfortable until I realize it's not the couch making me uneasy. I need a goddamn cigarette.
“I never knew my dad.” I lead with the easiest of the two, figuring the best way to get past this conversation is through it. Talking about an actual stranger is way easier than talking about someone who became one.
My dad was one link in the chain of losers that dragged my mom down. From what Jackson told me when I asked, he found out she was pregnant with me and split the next day. Bred from a real fucking winner.
“I saw a picture of him once — on the obituary I found in my mom’s bedside drawer. She sent me in for a lighter and I left with the only information I ever learned about my father.” I take a sudden interest in the last bit of coffee that swirls in my mug, channeling my agitation elsewhere.
After a silent moment passes, Claire clears her throat. “And your mom?” It comes out practically a whisper.
I finish the last sip and stand to refill it and to avoid sitting still. “She died. Three years ago.” I walk towards the kitchen, my back to her. “I hadn’t seen her for a while. And she wasn’t really around before that.” I sound casual like I’m telling her the weather, but inside, the blood in my veins begins to bubble.
“What about the pineapple pizza story?” she says dimly from the couch.
I should be touched that she remembers, but at the same time that she speaks, my blood boils over. I hit the heels of my hands on the granite and whip my head around to her, “I was like four when that happened, Claire.”
I wince as I turn away from her again, hearing the harshness in my tone. There’s a moment where she doesn’t respond, and I panic thinking of all the ways I’m already fucking this up. Walking away, snapping ather — why would she stick around when a simple conversation leads to something like this?
“And what about after that?” Her voice is thick, and I hate that I’m the reason. I speak the next words reluctantly, my voice still gruff, the weight of each word heavy in my chest.
“I was in and out of foster homes for nine years, Claire. Nine. There was noafter that.” I reach for the handle of the coffee pot, like a lifeline. Anything to focus on besides my confession.
Before I make contact, Claire’s arms are wrapping around my bare waist, her head resting on my back, her breath causing goosebumps on my skin. She squeezes me like the pressure of her arms can push all of my broken pieces back together.
And maybe they can.
I instantly relax, the temperature of my insides cooling from her touch alone. I cross my own arms over hers before turning without breaking her embrace. Only now that I’ve moved, do I feel the dampness where her cheeks once brushed against my spine. A wave of guilt washes over me as I realize my biggest fear — I’m afraid that my brokenness will end up breaking her too.
I rest my chin on top of her head. “Fuck, Claire, I’m sorry.”
She lifts her chin and I pull back to see her face. Her brow is creased, but her amber eyes are cloudy, tears streaking her perfectly pink cheeks.
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She searches my face like she’s looking for visual understanding. My throat constricts and my jaw tightens, my body’s reaction to the lump that is forcing its way up my chest. If only she knew how wrong she was.
34
Claire
When I get to my parents, my dad is on the phone outside, pacing in the driveway.
“I’ll take a look at everything and be in touch.”
With my windows down I hear him end the conversation. He blows through his lips and drops his phone in his shirt pocket as I turn off the engine.
“Hey, Claire Bear.” He meets me at my door and kisses me on the top of my head.
“Hi, Dad.”
