Regretting You(54)

I don’t want to argue with her right now. But she couldn’t be more wrong about him. It makes me angry that she’s placing my behavior on a guy, rather than on the fact that maybe the few bad decisions I’ve made have been a result of what happened forty-five days ago. That’s had way more of an effect on me than a boyfriend—knowing my texts to Aunt Jenny are what caused this entire terrible situation to begin with.

“I know nothing about what’s going on in your life. You tell me nothing.”

I roll my eyes. “Now that Aunt Jenny isn’t here to tell you every little secret?”

Her anger gives way to an expression of shock, like she honestly didn’t think I was aware Aunt Jenny used to tell her everything. Then she just looks angry. Hurt.

“Why do you think she told me everything, Clara? It’s because all the advice she ever gave you came from me. She’s spent the last five years cutting and pasting texts I wrote, and then she’d send them to you and pretend they were hers.”

“That’s not true,” I snap.

“It is true. So stop treating me like I don’t know what’s best for you or that I have no clue what I’m talking about.”

What she’s saying about Aunt Jenny isn’t true.

And even if it were . . . even if my mother was the one to relay most of the advice Jenny gave me, why would she ruin that for me? Jenny is never coming back thanks to me, and my mother just took the one thing I cherished most about my aunt and threw it in a blender and fed it to me.

I hate that I feel like I’m about to cry. I’m so angry with her. At myself. I turn around to walk away before I say something that will get me grounded, but my mother grips my arm.

“Clara.”

I yank my arm from her hand. I spin and take a lunging step toward her. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you for taking one of the things I loved the most about my aunt and ruining it for me!”

I really want to call her a bitch, but I don’t want to make her angry. I want to make her feel guilty. I want her to feel as guilty as I’ve felt since the accident.

It works, because she immediately looks ashamed for taking credit for the close relationship I had with Aunt Jenny.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I walk away, leaving her standing alone in the hallway.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





MORGAN


Why did I say all that? Why did I feel the need to take the credit now that Jenny is gone?

I know why. I’m upset and hurt by what Jenny did to me, and it hurts even more to know that Clara still considers her a saint. I wanted Clara to know that Jenny had no clue how to offer mature advice and everything she learned from Jenny, Jenny learned from me. For some reason, I wanted credit for that. Credit I don’t need. I’m taking all the anger I have toward Jenny and Chris, and I’m wanting Clara to feel anger toward them too.

I feel terrible. She’s right. I hurt her and ruined a memory she had of Jenny, and it was all for selfish reasons. Because I’m mad at Jenny. Because Jenny hurt me.

This is all the more proof that I can’t let Clara find out about what Jenny and Chris did. Just finding out this one small thing absolutely gutted her. She almost started crying right when I said it.

God, this hurts. It all hurts so much that I just want out of here. Out of this building. I want to go home. I should have never even considered applying for a job here. What teenager wants to spend all day, every day with their mother?

I turn and rush down the hallway, attempting to hold back tears until I make it outside. I’m ten feet from the door.

“Morgan?”

I freeze at the sound of my name. I spin around on my heels, and Jonah is standing in his doorway. He can tell immediately that I’m not okay. “Come here,” he says, motioning me into his empty classroom. A huge part of me wants to keep walking, but a small part of me wants to take refuge somewhere, and his empty classroom seems like a good place to do that.

He presses a hand to the small of my back and ushers me to a seat. He hands me a Kleenex. I take it and wipe at my eyes, pressing back the tears. I don’t know where it comes from, but it’s as if the last few weeks of feeling like I’m losing control of Clara hit me, and I’m forcing Jonah into being my temporary therapist. I just begin to ramble.

“I always thought I was a good mom. It’s been my only job since I was seventeen. Chris worked at the hospital, and my job was to raise Clara. So every time she did something good or surprised us in some way, I felt a sense of pride. I cultivated her into this wonderful little human, and I was so proud of her. Proud of myself. But since the day Chris died, I’m starting to think maybe I had nothing to do with all the good parts of her. She never acted out before he died. She didn’t do drugs or lie about having a boyfriend or where she is. What if all this time, I thought she was so great because I was a great mom, but this whole time, Chris is the one who brought out the best side of her? Because now that he’s gone, she and I just bring out the worst in each other.”

Jonah was leaning against his desk when I started saying all that, but now he’s seated in the desk across from me. He leans forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “Morgan, listen to me.”

I suck in a breath and give him my attention.

“You and I are in our thirties . . . we expect a fair amount of tragedy in our lives. But Clara is only sixteen. No one her age should have to deal with something this damaging. She’s lost in grief right now. You just have to let her find her way, like you did with me.”