Lies We Bury(90)

Shia and my mother exchange a few more pleasantries, and the image of them chatting over some casserole I made—no, more realistically, a frozen pizza I threw in the oven—enters my head. Shia adjusts his glasses twice during the conversation, and I smile at the nervous tic.

He turns to me. “Any chance you feel like taking a photo together? Not for the book launch. For us.”

I shake my head, already feeling my throat constrict with panic. This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. “No photos for me. I’m low-key tonight, and I don’t want to draw attention.”

Shia promised me he wouldn’t out me or give a speech in my honor or anything.

He draws his eyebrows together. “Are you still worried people are here to judge you? Everyone here supports you. And your family.”

I start to protest, and he adds, “No, really. Listen.”

Clutching my glass, I take a step away from the wall and eavesdrop on the conversation closest to us, something I’ve avoided doing since entering this room. I chose to come because I need to practice better, healthier habits. Instead of hearing people’s apocalyptic assumptions about me and believing they’re correct, I’m working on maintaining a positive self-view—to not be so quick to criticize and break myself down. I threw myself into the lion’s den tonight, knowing it might hurt.

“. . . I mean, she kind of went off the deep end for a while, right? Dumped coffee on a customer at a restaurant she worked at?” A man with a strong accent and a balding patch on his head gestures to his companion.

I inhale a sharp breath, not sure I’m ready for this—to hear perfect strangers’ horrific opinions of me and of the terrible things Jenessa did. Just like my middle school and high school classmates, these people believe I’m latent evil. That a murder spree from one of us was impossible to avoid. I swirl my drink absentmindedly until liquid splashes onto my hand.

Shia peers at me. “Listen.”

The same man continues. “But the customer was also stalking her, apparently. Not many people would survive that childhood and come out as well adjusted as they have. Sure, the second oldest went off her nut, but would you have fared better? I’m not sure I would. I mean, I like to think so, but—” The trio breaks into easy laughter.

I meet Shia’s gaze. I haven’t always been the most trusting. But something about his steady, reassuring nod, and the way in which he passes me a cocktail napkin to wipe the wine I spilled on my shaking hand, makes me think that might be changing.

“Stick around,” Shia says. “These people might surprise you. I’m glad you’re here, Claire.”

He turns and weaves back through the crowd to the glimmering table of books.

“How’d it go? Anyone attack?” Lily returns with a grin, and Olive waves her fist hello. Both ladies look happier now that Olive wears a fresh diaper.

I try to relax. “There was a close call, but no blood was shed.” I wince as soon as the words fall out of my idiot mouth. Lily only pats my forearm.

While I might say I don’t understand how Jenessa was capable of the things she did, that’s a lie; I understand what drove her to these extremes, even if I don’t condone them. The trauma that we survived will always be a part of each of us. There’s no altering our histories. But the real question is whether we can pivot from these terrible beginnings to lead seminormal lives. To bump into unknowns on the street and not flinch out of fear.

I set my half-full glass on a nearby cocktail table.

As Shia and I lock eyes from across the room, and the memory of his patient interview sessions comes to mind—his easy conversation and the consistent take-out nights that we’ve come to share on Thursdays—I allow my cheeks to bloom into a smile.

I’m not sure whether I’ll ever be capable of leading a seminormal life. To experience an agonizing day and not eye the burning end of a cigarette with a longing to press it against my flesh. But today I don’t. And that’s a start.





Acknowledgments

Whenever I explore someplace new, I’m on the hunt for its lesser-known features—the activities or monuments that are on the third page of search results and buried beneath a city’s flashier attractions. Well, Portland did not disappoint. Many thanks must be extended to this wonderful city for its unique love of coffee, roses, bridges, naked bike rides, breweries, strip clubs, and of course, the Portland Underground, also known as the Portland Shanghai Tunnels. To my friends, thank you for keeping Portland weird and the nicest place around.

This book would not have been written without the thoughtful support of my agent, Jill Marr, whose enthusiasm and wit can’t be overrated. Thank you for always knowing the answer, finding the answer, or simply agreeing that the answer can be found in a glass of wine. Much gratitude goes to the team at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency for ensuring my t’s are crossed and my i’s dotted.

Not enough can be said about my editors, Megha Parekh and Caitlin Alexander. Megha, I am so grateful to you for your support of my writing, your passion for diverse books and characters. Thank you for believing in this second book. Caitlin: another one down! Your sharp eyes and ability to dig into all the layers of a story are what keep me sane during the editing process. Thank you for your positivity when I need it most.

Many thanks to the entire Thomas & Mercer team. Sarah Shaw, your patience for my numerous questions is impressive. Thank you for seeking out answers when they’re not readily available. Brittany Russell, you are a rock star of publicity; thank you for everything that you do! Lindsey Bragg and Laura Barrett, likewise, I am incredibly lucky to have you both in my corner.