Regretting You(81)

That’s the only thing that could probably make me feel any sense of relief right now. “I would love that.”

I’ve skipped a funeral with him, done drugs with him, gotten detention with him, snuck him into my bedroom, lost my virginity to him. In comparison, skipping half a day of school seems like an improvement in my behavior.



Miller drove us to the city park. It edges a large pond—one my dad used to take me fishing at on days like this. Miller sits under a shade tree and spreads his legs, patting the ground between them. I sit down with my back against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me as I adjust myself until I’m comfortable.

My head is leaning against his shoulder, and his cheek rests against the top of my head when he says, “What was your father like?”

It hasn’t been that long, but I still feel like I have to jog my memory to answer his question. “He had such a great laugh. It was loud and filled up the entire room. Sometimes it would embarrass my mother in public because people would turn and look at us when he laughed. And he laughed at everything. He worked a lot, but I never held it against him. Probably because when we were together, he was actually present. Wanted to know about my day, would always tell me about his.” I sigh. “I miss that. I miss telling him about my day, even when there was nothing to tell.”

“He sounds great.”

I nod. “What about yours?”

I feel a movement in Miller’s chest, like a silent, unconvincing laugh. “He’s not like your dad was. At all.”

“Did he raise you?”

I can feel Miller shake his head. “No. I spent time with him here and there growing up, but he was in and out of jail. Finally caught up to him when I was fifteen, and he got a longer sentence. He’ll be out in a couple of years, but I doubt I’ll have anything to do with him when he gets out. It had been a while since I’d seen him when he got arrested, anyway.”

So that’s why my father made that comment about Miller’s dad, about the apple not falling far from the tree. My father was wrong, obviously.

“Do you keep in touch at all?”

“No,” Miller says. “I mean . . . I don’t hate him. I just realize some people are good at being parents and some people aren’t. I don’t take it personally. I’d just rather not have a relationship with him.”

“And your mom?” I ask. “What was she like?”

I feel him deflate a little before he says, “I don’t remember her very well, but I don’t have any negative memories of her.” He wraps one of his legs around my ankle. “You know, I think that’s where my love for photography came from. After she died . . . I had nothing to remember her by. She hated the camera, so there are very few pictures of her. Not much video. It wasn’t long after that when I asked Gramps for my first camera. I’ve had it in his face ever since.”

“You could probably make an entire movie just of him.”

Miller laughs. “I could. I might. Even if it’s just something I do for myself.”

“So . . . what happens when he—”

“I’ll be okay,” he says with finality, like he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I understand why. A father in prison, a dead mom, a grandpa with terminal cancer. I get it. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.

We sit in silence for a while before Miller says, “Crap. I keep forgetting.” He pushes me forward a little and then jogs back to his truck. He comes back with his camera and a tripod, then sets it up several feet away from us.

He slips between me and the tree and resumes our position. “Don’t stare at it this time.”

I’m staring at it when he says that, so I look out at the water. “Maybe we should just cancel the project.”

“Why?”

“My mind is all over the place. I’ve been in a perpetual bad mood.”

“How bad do you want to be an actress, Clara?”

“It’s the only thing I want to be.”

“You’re in for a rude awakening if you think you’re gonna show up on set in a good mood every day.”

I exhale. “I hate it when you’re right.”

He laughs and kisses the side of my head. “You must really hate me, then.”

I shake my head gently. “Not even a little bit.”

It’s quiet again. Across the lake, there’s a man with two little boys. He’s teaching them how to fish. I watch him, wondering if he’s cheating on their mom.

Then I feel the anger return because now I feel like I’m going to be looking for the worst in people for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to talk about Aunt Jenny or my dad, or Mom and Jonah, but the words pour out of me anyway.

“The way Jonah talked today . . . he really did sound remorseful. Like maybe their kiss was an accident or a onetime thing. I want to ask her about it, but I’m scared she’ll be honest and tell me it’s way more than that. I kind of think it is because I know they went to a hotel not even a week after the accident.”

“How do you know that?”

“The app. Why else would they have been there if they weren’t already involved?”

“Either way, you need to talk to her about it. There’s really no way around it.”