THREE
CLARA
A sliverof morning light filtered through the curtain, illuminating the diamond ring on my left hand. The brilliant round stone sent sparks flying across the ceiling, and I watched in awe at how the light danced when I moved my hand.
I wasn’t exactly sure why I was still wearing it, but something about it represented the life I had been building. An uncertain adulthood of chasing a dream, an exciting life in the city, and not worrying about bills. That life had looked so good on paper—steady money, glossy social media stories, a built-in plus-one for every event. It was the kind of life my parents calledsecure,and I’d convinced myself it was enough.
It was a life I wasn’t quite ready to let go of yet.
As the fire from my ring danced across the walls, I looked around at my childhood bedroom. Mom and Dad hadn’t changed a thing since I left at eighteen. The bedsheets were still a dusty pink with tiny roses. My vanity was covered in old makeup and nail polish I was certain had long dried up. Pictures of high school friends were stuck to the corkboard. I’d kept in touch with a few of them, but there were others that had gone their separate ways and we’d never spoken again.
Nothing about the room felt like me anymore.
I’d tried on so many versions of myself since leaving this house—college Clara, model Clara, fake-fiancée Clara—that this old high school version felt like a costume I’d outgrown and stuffed in the back of the closet.
It was strange to feel relief that I no longer had to lie about my relationship anymore, but at the same time be consumed with uncertainty. I couldn’t live with my parents forever but I’d taken Greg’s financial generosity for granted, and now that I was left to figure things out by myself, I was just ... lost.
Greg hadn’t even reached out to talk, and I was still mad at him for how publicly our drama had played out. Online gossip columns made me the butt of many jokes, and it seemed like our mutual friends were all on Greg’s side. Yes, I was happy he could openly love whomever he wanted to, but was getting a heads-up too much to ask?
It was like life had hit rewind and dropped me back at the starting line while everyone else kept running.
Burying my head in the sand was the most comforting option.
“Clara, breakfast!” my mother’s voice called from down the hall.
I was thirty-one and living with my parents, but it came with free breakfast, so maybe it wasn’tallbad.
When I didn’t respond, Mom opened the door without knocking and waltzed right in. “Time to get up, lazy bones.” She moved toward the window and jerked open the curtains, blinding me. The sunlight felt like an interrogation lamp, spotlighting my smeared mascara and the ring I still hadn’t taken off.
My hand covered my eyes. “Jeez, Mom. A little warning next time.”
She tsked and walked around the room, gathering my discarded clothes in her arms. “You didn’t learn to be any tidierwhile you were away, I see.” Her soft green eyes pinned me in place.
I offered a sheepish grin.
Mom patted my leg. “Let’s go. The day’s wasting.”
I groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets across my shoulders. Free breakfast wasn’t quite worth moving yet.
“Morning, Clara.” Dad’s cheery voice floated across the room as he walked in. My dad was pretty fit for his age and often attributed his sunny disposition to early-morning runs. “Let’s get a move on.”
Frustrated, I sat up. “Can’t a girl wallow for a while?”
Dad smiled but shook his head. “Our house, our rules.”
My face twisted. My parents’ rules had never been all that strict, but with five kids, we’d learned early that rules in Angela and Burt’s house were what helped keep it a well-oiled machine. I never imagined those rules would still apply to me as an adult.
“Fiiine.” I dragged out the word in hopes they’d feel my annoyance.
“Atta girl,” Mom chirped. She continued infiltrating my space as I sat up, moving things over, and generally attempting to organize my chaos.
She plucked a thong from the ground and held it up with two fingers. “Now what in the world doesthiscover?”
I laughed and swiped it from her hands. “Not much. That’s the point.”
Scandalized, my mother shook her head. “I swear, I don’t understand young women today. Maybe that’s why things didn’t work out ...”
There it was—the gentle, well-meaning insinuation that if I’d just been a little different, a little less, things might have gone another way.
