Regretting You (30 page)

I pull Miller closer, wanting my face hidden against his skin. I hate having these thoughts,
especially
right now, but Miller is the only thing in my life that’s made me happy since they died, and now I’m scared my mother and Jonah have ruined that. Not only am I questioning them, and now Miller, but I’m questioning the whole stupid idea of monogamy and the validity of love and thinking how losing my virginity really
isn’t
all that special. Because if love isn’t real, then sex is just sex, no matter if it’s your first time or your fiftieth time or your last time.

It’s just one body part inside another body part. Big freaking deal.

Maybe that’s why people find it so easy to cheat: because sex is actually inconsequential. No different than two people shaking hands. Maybe having sex with your boyfriend for the first time means as little as having sex with your dead sister’s fiancé.

“Clara?” Miller says my name between heavy breaths. Between movements. Then he stops.

I open my eyes and pull away from his neck, allowing my head to fall back onto my pillow.

“Am I hurting you?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He brushes hair from my face and runs a thumb down my wet cheek. “Why are you crying?”

I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not right now. I shake my head. “It’s nothing.” I try to pull him against me again, but he separates himself from me and then rolls off me. I feel strangely empty now.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

I hate the worry in his eyes. I hate that he’s thinking any part of my reaction has anything to do with him, so I adamantly shake my head. “No. It’s not you, I swear.”

He looks relieved, but only for a fraction of a second. “Then what is it? You’re scaring me,” he whispers.

“It’s not you. It’s my mother. We got in a really bad argument tonight, and I’m just . . .” I wipe the tears away with my hands. “I’m so angry at her. I’m
so
angry, and I don’t know how to process it.” I roll over onto my side so I can face him. “She and Jonah are having an affair.”

Miller pulls back a little, shocked.
“What?”

I nod, and I see the sympathy in his expression. He places a soothing hand on the side of my head.

“Earlier, when I got home, I walked in on them in the kitchen. I got so angry. It’s the angriest I’ve ever been in my life, and I think I might actually hate her. Like . . . I’m having all these thoughts about how much she’s betrayed my dad and my aunt. I can’t stop thinking about everything I can do to get back at her and punish her because all I can think about is how she deserves to suffer too.” I lift up on my elbow. “They haven’t been gone long enough for her to even be thinking about anyone other than my father. Which is why I’m pretty sure it was happening
before
the wreck.”

Miller is quiet for a moment, staring at me with a perplexed look, probably unsure how to comfort me when I’m this upset. He falls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. “That’s why you called me over here?” His voice has a sharp edge to it, even though it’s still a whisper. “Because you’re mad at your
mother
?”

His reaction is staggering. I reach out and put my hand on his chest, but he grabs my wrist and flicks it off him. He rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

“No. Miller,
no
.” I’m saying no, but that word is a lie, and we both know it. I place a hand on his shoulder, but he flinches when I touch him. He stands up, and I hear the snap of the condom as he pulls it off and tosses it angrily into the trash can next to my bed. He slides his boxers on and then steps into his jeans. He won’t even look at me.

“Miller, I swear. That’s not why I called you over here.”

He’s walking across my bedroom. “Why’d you call me, then? You weren’t ready for this to happen tonight.” He snatches up his shirt and finally looks at me. I expect to see anger in his eyes, but all I see is hurt.

I’m sitting up on the bed, the blanket pulled up to my chest. “I
was
, though. I promise. I wanted to be with you—that’s why I called you.” I’m desperately trying to recover, but I think I’ve ruined this. It’s terrifying me.

He takes a step forward, waving a hand in my direction. “You’re upset with your
mother
, Clara. You didn’t want me—you wanted revenge. I knew you weren’t ready. It was weird . . . it was . . .” He releases a frustrated rush of air.

I use the sheet to wipe some of my tears away. “I called you because I was upset, yes. But being so upset is what made me want to be with you.”

He’s already got his shirt over his head, but he pauses as he’s pulling it down over his chest. “I would have come over, Clara. Without the sex. You know that.”

Why can’t I stop offending him? I don’t want to hurt him, but that’s all I’m doing right now.

He reopens the window, and the last thing I want him to do is leave. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to drag him into this. But I don’t want him to leave me alone right now.

“Miller, wait.” He’s about to climb out the window, so I plead with him again, moving to the edge of my bed, still wrapped up in my blanket. “
Please.
It wasn’t personal. I swear.”

Those words pull him away from the window and back toward the bed. He lowers himself in front of me and cups my face with both hands. “You’re right. That’s why I’m so upset with you. The one thing that should be the
most
personal to us wasn’t personal at all.”

His words rip through me, and a loud sob breaks from my chest. I can’t believe I did this. It feels like I’ve stooped to my mother’s level. Miller releases me and starts to climb out the window, and I cover my mouth with both hands, unable to stop the feelings from tearing through me. It’s not just what I’ve done to Miller. It’s everything. I feel
everything
. I feel the loss of Jenny and the absence of my father and the guilt over how they died and the betrayal of my mother and the pain I caused Miller, and it’s so much all at once that I don’t think I can do this anymore. I crawl back up my bed and bury my face into my pillow, but I really just want to pull the covers over my head and close my eyes and never feel any of it again. It’s too much. It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

I feel the mattress dip beside me, and when I roll toward him, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. It makes me cry even harder.

I try to tell him I’m sorry, but I’m crying so much I can’t even get words out. Miller presses soft lips against the side of my head, and I struggle to say it, but the only word I’m sure he can make out is
sorry
between sobs.

He doesn’t tell me it’s okay or that he forgives me. He doesn’t say anything. He spends the next several minutes silently comforting me while I cry.

My face is pressed against his chest—buried deep into his shirt. When I can finally find my words again, I use them. Over and over.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re right, and I feel terrible.” My words are muffled against him. “I’m so sorry.”

He’s gently cupping the back of my head. “I know you feel bad,” he whispers. “I forgive you. But I’m still mad at you.”

Despite his words, he presses a kiss into my hair, and that’s all the forgiveness I need from him right now. He
should
be mad at me. I don’t blame him.
I’m
mad at me.

He lies with me for a while, but when I’m no longer crying, he pulls away and looks down at me, running his hand over my cheek. “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”

I shake my head and look pleadingly into his eyes. “Please don’t. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

I can see the three seconds of contemplation swirling around in his eyes before he nods. Then he sits up on the bed and takes off his T-shirt. He bunches it up and then reaches over and slides it over my head. “Wear this.”

I slip my arms into the T-shirt, and with the covers still on top of me, I pull the T-shirt over my hips.

It’s not lost on me that even after everything that’s happened tonight, he still hasn’t seen me naked. He never even looked when I dropped my towel.

He slips under the covers with me and pulls me to him so that my back is pressed against his chest. We share a pillow. We hold hands. And eventually, we both fall asleep, angry at different people, but both hurting the same.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

MORGAN

I thought washing baby bottles while praying for Armageddon was rock bottom, but maybe I was wrong. I think this might be rock bottom.

What do people do when they hit rock bottom? Wait until someone throws them a rope? Wither away to skin and bones until the vultures come and find them?

I’m on my bed, where I’ve been since last night, except I gave up trying to sleep. Now that the sun’s about to come up, I don’t see the point.

I walked to Clara’s room a couple more times but didn’t even bother trying to knock. She turned her music up to drown me out, so I decided to give her the night to hate me before attempting to ask for her forgiveness.

Maybe waiting to start therapy was a bad idea. I thought it would be better to wait a few months—let the hardest parts of the grief settle. But obviously, that was a mistake. I need to talk to someone. Clara and
I
both
need to talk to someone. I’m not sure this is something we can fix on our own.

I don’t want to talk to Jonah about it because he’ll just apologize and tell me it’ll be okay and assure me it’ll get better. And maybe it will. Maybe a rain will come that’ll flood the pit I’m in, and I can float to the top and climb out. Or at least
drown
. Either one seems appealing.

Even if we start therapy right away, nothing will change what happened last night. Nothing will change the fact that my daughter saw her mother kissing her dead father’s best friend so soon after his death. It’s unfathomable. Unforgiveable.

All the school counselors and therapists and conversations and self-help books in the world will never get that image out of her head.

I’m completely mortified. Ashamed.

And no matter how many texts he sends me—
seven since he left here last night
—I am not speaking to Jonah again. Not for a long time. I don’t want him in my house. I don’t like what his presence does to me. I don’t like the person it turns me into. Kissing him last night was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made, and I knew that before I even let his lips touch mine. Yet still, I did it. I allowed it. And the worst part is I
wanted
it. I’ve wanted it for a long time. Probably since the day I met him.

Maybe that’s why I feel like such a piece of shit right now, because I know if Jonah hadn’t left all those years ago, we might have eventually ended up in the same position as Jenny and Chris. Sneaking around, betraying our spouses, lying to our families.

My anger with them hasn’t subsided since last night. I’ve just developed a new anger that is just as intense, but this time it’s directed toward myself. There isn’t a life lesson I could teach Clara at this point that wouldn’t make me out to be a hypocrite. I feel like anything I say to her from this point forward will mean nothing to her. And maybe it shouldn’t. Who am I to raise a human? Who am I to teach someone
morals? Who am I to help guide someone else through life when I’m wearing a blindfold and running in the wrong direction?

I jolt upright in bed when I hear a rapping on my door. So help me God, if it’s Jonah Sullivan, I am going to be pissed.

I throw my covers off and pull on my robe. I haven’t even had a chance to speak to Clara yet, so until I speak to her, I don’t want to even bother talking it out with Jonah. I rush through the house to get to the door before he wakes her.

I swing it open but take a step back when I see Mrs. Nettle standing on my patio with the screen door open.

“Just making sure you’re alive,” she says. “Guess you are.” She releases my screen door, and it slams shut against the frame. I speak through it.

“Why were you assuming I’d be dead?”

She keeps walking, limping away with her cane. “There’s a window screen on the ground over on the side of your house. Thought someone might have broken in and murdered you last night.”

I watch her until she makes it to her patio, ensuring she doesn’t fall. Then I close the door and lock it.
Great.
A broken window screen. Something else Chris would have taken care of if he were still alive.

I’m walking into my bedroom when I pause.

I was Clara’s age once. Window screens don’t just fall off on their own.
Did she sneak out last night?

I spin and walk straight to her bedroom. I don’t even knock because she’s probably not even inside to answer me. I push at the door, but it’s locked. It’s just one of those hook locks that can easily be lifted and bypassed. I hate that I’m resorting to breaking into her room, but I need to see if she’s actually gone before I get dressed and go find her.

I grab a hanger from my closet, then slip the hanger up the crack in her door until it catches on the lock. When it releases, I push at the door, but it doesn’t open right away. Did she barricade herself in her room?

God, she might be angrier than I thought.

I shove my hip against the door, moving whatever it is she pushed against it. I get the door open a few inches, and I peek inside.

I release a huge sigh of relief. She’s still asleep. She didn’t sneak out. Or if she did, she’s home now, and that’s the most important thing.

I start to pull the door shut, but I pause when I see movement. An arm wraps over Clara’s stomach.
An arm that isn’t hers.

I throw my whole body against the door to open it. Clara sits straight up in bed, startled. So does Miller.

“What the
hell
, Clara?”

Miller is standing now, scrambling to put on his shoes. He reaches to the nightstand and grabs condoms, shoving them in the pocket of his jeans like he’s trying to hide them before I see them, but I
definitely
saw them, and I’m angry, and I want him out of my damn house right now.

“You need to leave.”

Miller is nodding. He looks at Clara with eyes full of apology.