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.

Clara covers her face. “Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.”

Miller starts to walk around the bed but then pauses and looks at Clara, then me, then Clara, then down at his bare chest. That’s when I realize Clara is wearing his shirt.

Does he expect her to give it back to him? Is he an idiot? He is. She’s dating an idiot. “Get out!”