“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.

The house has never been so quiet. Not even the sound of the TV fills the background, because the damn cable is still broken. Chris took care of all the bills, so I’m not even sure what the name of our cable company is. I’ll figure it out eventually.

I lower myself to the living room floor. It’s dark, and I attempt to meditate, but really all I’m doing is thinking of everything I can possibly think of that doesn’t involve a thought of Chris or Jenny, but it’s hard. Almost every memory I have includes one of them.

They were both a part of every single milestone or event in my life. My entire pregnancy with Clara. Her birth. Our wedding, our anniversaries, graduations, family holidays, birthday cookouts, movie dates, fishing and camping trips, Elijah’s birth.

Every important moment of my life included the two of them. They were my whole world, and I was theirs. Which is why I refuse to give another thought as to why they might have been together. There’s no way they would have betrayed me like that. Betrayed Clara like that. I would have known.

I absolutely would have known.

My thoughts are interrupted when the doorbell rings.

I get a glimpse of Jonah’s car out the window as I’m heading toward the front door. I don’t feel relieved to see him, because I’d rather not have any visitors at all, but I also don’t feel the irritation I usually feel at the sight of him when I open the door. My sympathy for his situation overshadows my irritation. Of course, I’m devastated about Jenny and Chris, but I’m reasonable enough to know that this affects Jonah more than it affects me. He’s got an infant to raise.

I at least had Chris, Jenny, and Chris’s parents to help with Clara.

Jonah only has his mother.

I guess he has me too. But I’m not much help right now.

I open the door, shocked by what I see. Jonah hasn’t shaved in a few days. He doesn’t even look like he’s showered. Or slept. He probably hasn’t, because I haven’t, and I don’t even have an infant to care for.

“Hey,” he says, his voice flat.

I open the door to let him in. “Where’s Elijah?”

“My mother wanted him for a few hours.”

That makes me feel good. Jonah needs the break.

I don’t know why he’s here, but I’m scared it’s because he wants to talk about what happened. He’s probably here to dissect why they were together. If I could have my way, I’d never speak of it. I want to pretend it didn’t happen. The grief of losing them is enough. I don’t want to pile anger and feelings of betrayal on top of that.

I just want to miss them. I don’t think I have enough strength left to hate them.

We’re standing quietly in the living room for only five seconds, but it feels like longer. I don’t know what to do. Take him to the back patio to sit? Take a seat at the dining room table with him? The couch? This is awkward because I don’t have that kind of ease with Jonah anymore. My routine with him since he showed back up has been avoidance, and since I can’t really avoid him right now, I feel like this is all-new territory.