Regretting You(28)

I wave him off, letting him know I’m not offended. “It’s fine. You’re right. I am abrasive. I like to argue, even when I know I’m wrong.” I face him. “I’m getting better, though. I’m learning that sometimes you have to walk away from the fight in order to win it.” My aunt Jenny told me that once. I try to remember it every time I feel like I’m on the defensive.

Miller smiles gently at me, and I don’t know if the weed is finally kicking in or if his smile is making me light headed. Either way, it beats the headache I’ve had for five days from all the crying.

“If you’re back together with Shelby, why are you checking on me right now? Pretty sure she wouldn’t approve of this.”

A flash of guilt crosses his face. He grips his steering wheel, then slides his hands down it. “I’d feel even guiltier if I didn’t check on you.”

I’d really like to ruminate on that comment, but our conversation is ruined by the intrusion of a car that pulls up next to us. I glance out my open window, then sit up straight. “Crap.”

“Get in the car, Clara.” My mother’s words are firm and loud, but it could be because the windows are down and she pulled up so close to Miller’s truck that I’m not sure I’ll be able to open the door.

“Is that your mother?” Miller whispers.

“Yep.” But oddly it doesn’t faze me as much as it probably should. Maybe the weed really did help, because I kind of want to laugh that she’s here. “I forgot we have that app. She can track me anywhere.”

“Clara,” my mother says again.

Miller raises an eyebrow. “Good luck.”

I shoot him a tight-lipped smile and then open my door. I was right—I can’t get out. “You parked too close, Mom.”

My mother inhales a slow breath and then puts the gearshift in reverse. When I’m clear to open my door, I don’t even look back at Miller. I walk to my mother’s car and get inside. She says nothing as she begins to drive away from the theater.

Nothing until the words “Who was that?”

“Miller Adams.”

I can feel her disapproval, despite her silence. A few seconds later, she swings her head in my direction. “Oh my God. Are you high?”

“Huh?”

“Were you just getting high with that guy?”

“No. We were just talking.” I don’t sound convincing.

She makes a hmph sound and then says, “You smell like weed.”

“Do I?” I sniff my dress, which is stupid, because anyone who knows they don’t smell like weed wouldn’t sniff themselves to see if they do smell like weed.

Her jaw clenches even tighter when we make eye contact. Something has completely given me away. I flip down the visor and look at my bloodshot eyes. Wow, that happened fast. I flip up the visor.

“I can’t believe you skipped your father’s funeral to get high.”

“I stayed for most of it.”

“It was your father’s funeral, Clara!”

She is so pissed right now. I sigh and stare out my window. “How long am I grounded for?”

She releases a frustrated breath. “I’ll let you know after I talk to your fath—” Her mouth clamps shut when she realizes what she was about to say.

I’m not certain because I’m staring out my window, but I think she cries the entire way home.





CHAPTER SEVEN





MORGAN


Two years, six months, and thirteen days. That’s exactly how long Clara and I can live off Chris’s life insurance policy if we continue to live like we’re living. His Social Security check won’t come close to what his actual paycheck was, which means decisions need to be made. Finances need to be reconfigured. Clara’s college fund may need to be decreased. I need to find a job. A career.

Yet . . . I can’t seem to get out of bed or off the couch to face any of it. I feel like with the more hours I can put between the accident and the current moment, the pain will get better. When the pain is better, maybe my lack of desire to tackle everything that needs to be done will lessen.

I figure the quickest way to get from point A (grief) to point B (less grief) is to sleep my way through it. I think Clara feels the same way, because both of us spent most of the weekend sleeping.

She’s barely spoken to me since the funeral. I took her phone as soon as I found out she’d gotten high. But I haven’t been in the mood for conversation lately, either, so I don’t push her.

I don’t push her, but I do hug her. I don’t know if the hugs are more because I need them or because I’m worried about how she’s taking everything. Tuesday will make a week since the wreck, and I have no idea if she’s going back to school tomorrow or if she still needs more time. I’d give her more time if she needs it, but we haven’t discussed it yet.

I peek into her room just to make sure she’s okay. I don’t know how to confront this kind of grief with her. We’ve never had to navigate something this awful. I feel lost without Chris. Without Jenny, even. They were always my go-tos when I needed to vent or needed reassurance about how I’m parenting Clara.

My mother died a few years ago, but she’s the last person I’d want to get parenting advice from, anyway. I have friends, but none of them have experienced this level of unexpected loss. I feel like I’m navigating waters that are uncharted by anyone I know. I plan on putting Clara in therapy, but maybe not for another month or so. I want to give her time to work out the most painful part of the grief before I force her into something I know she isn’t going to want to do.