This just got serious.

I respond with an almost embarrassing hunger, pulling him closer, wanting him and his kiss to take away the last few droplets of grief that are still swimming around inside of me. My hands are in Miller’s hair now, and one of his hands is sliding down my back.

I’ve never felt anything so good and perfect before. I can actually feel the dread building inside of me, knowing this kiss will eventually come to an end.

He grips my waist and guides me closer so that I’m straddling him. Our new position makes him groan, and his groan makes me kiss him even deeper. I can’t get enough. He tastes like coffee rather than suckers, but I don’t mind because I actually love the taste of coffee now.

His fingers graze the skin of my lower back, and I’m amazed at how such a small touch can cause such a consequential reaction. I tear my mouth from his, afraid of that feeling. That intensity. It’s new to me, and I feel somewhat jarred by it.

Miller pulls me to him, burying his face against my neck. My arms are wrapped around him, and my cheek is pressed against the top of his head. I can feel his breaths falling in heavy, heated waves against my neck.

He sighs, circling his arms more tightly around me. “That’s more along the lines of the kind of first kiss I was expecting.”

I laugh. “Oh yeah? You like that one better than the sweet one I gave you?”

He shakes his head and puts a little separation between us so that he can look at me. “No, I loved the sweet kiss too.”

I smile and press my lips gently against his so that I can give him another sweet kiss.

He sighs against my mouth and kisses me back, no tongue, just soft lips and a gentle release of air. He peeks over my shoulder, glancing at his radio, and then leans back against the seat.

“You’re late for curfew.” He says it sort of with dread, like he wishes we could stay in his truck all night.

“How late?”

“It’s fifteen after.”

“Well, crap.”

Miller slides me off of him and then exits the truck. I open my door to get out, and then Miller laces his fingers through mine as he walks me to my car. He opens the door for me, resting an arm on the top of my doorframe. We kiss one more time before I take a seat in my car.

I cannot believe how much I’m feeling right now. Before I showed up here today, I lived without Miller in my life perfectly fine. Now I feel like every minute I spend without him is going to be torture.

“Night, Clara.”

“Good night.”

He stares at me for a moment without shutting my door. Then he just groans. “Tomorrow seems so far away now.”

I love the way he put exactly how I’m feeling into the perfect string of words. He closes my door and backs away a few steps. But he doesn’t stop watching me, and he doesn’t return to his truck until I’m out of the parking lot and on my way home . . . late.

This should be fun.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MORGAN

I’ve been sitting on the back patio, contemplating. I’m not sure what I’m contemplating. My mind is like a Ping-Pong ball, bouncing from thoughts about Chris, to thoughts about how I need to start applying for jobs, to thoughts about going back to college, to thoughts about Clara and how she’s way past curfew. It’s almost ten thirty now, so I text her. Again.

You’re late. Please come home.

She’s been staying out a lot, and I have no idea who she’s with because she barely talks to me anymore. When she is here, she’s in her bedroom. The app shows she’s always either at Lexie’s or Starbucks, but who in the world spends that much time at a coffee shop?

There’s a soft knock on my back patio door, and I glance up, almost having forgotten that Jonah has been here for the past twenty minutes, fixing the kitchen door. I stand up and tuck my hair behind my ears when he walks outside.

“Do you have pliers?”

“I’m pretty sure Chris does, but his toolbox has a lock on it. But I might have a pair.” I walk into the house and go to the laundry room. I keep my own toolbox for when I needed to fix stuff when Chris wasn’t around. It’s black and pink. Chris got it for me for Christmas one year.

He also got one for Jenny. The thought pierces me.

Sometimes I think it’s getting better, but then the simplest memories remind me how much it still sucks. I pull my toolbox down and hand it to Jonah.

Jonah opens it and sorts through it. He doesn’t find what he needs. “They’re old hinges,” he says. “I can’t get the last one off because it’s stripped so bad. I have something that’ll work at the house, but it’s late, so I’ll just come back tomorrow if that’s fine?”

He says it like it’s a question, so I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

I texted him yesterday, telling him I couldn’t get the kitchen door off the hinges and asking if he could help. He said he’d be over tonight but that it would be late because he was picking his sister up at the airport. He didn’t even ask why I needed the door off the hinges. When he got here earlier, he never even asked why there was a huge hole in it. He just walked straight to the door and got to work.

I’m waiting for him to ask what happened as we walk toward the front door, but he doesn’t. I don’t like the quiet, so I throw a question in the mix that I don’t even really care to know the answer to.

“How long is your sister in town for?”

“Until Sunday. She’d love to see you. She just . . . you know. She didn’t know if you’d want company.”

I don’t, but for some reason, I smile and say, “I’d love to see her.”

Jonah laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”

I shrug because he’s right. I barely know her. I met her once when we were teens, and I saw her for a few minutes the day after Elijah was born. And she was at both funerals. But that’s the extent of my relationship with her. “You’re right. It was the polite thing to say.”

“You don’t have to be polite,” Jonah says. “Neither do I. It’s the only positive thing to come out of this. We get at least a six-month pass to be assholes.” I smile, and he nudges his head toward his car. “Walk me out?”

I follow him to his car, but before he gets in, he rests his back against the driver’s-side door and folds his arms over his chest. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it any more than I do. But it affects our kids, so . . .”

I slide my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. I sigh and look up at the night sky. “I know. We have to discuss it. Because if it’s true . . .”

“It makes Clara and Elijah half siblings,” Jonah says.

It’s weird hearing it out loud. I blow out a slow breath, nervous about what it means. “Are you planning on telling him someday?”

Jonah nods, slowly. “Someday. If he asks. If it comes up in conversation.” He sighs. “I honestly don’t know. What do you think? Do you want Clara to know?”

I’m hugging myself now. It’s not cold out, but I have chills for some reason. “No. I never want Clara to find out. It would devastate her.”

Jonah doesn’t look angry that I’m essentially asking him not to tell Elijah the truth. He only looks sympathetic to our situation. “I hate that they left this mess for us to clean up.”