“We needed to talk.”

“You didn’t talk. You had sex. I can tell. I’m an expert now.”

My mother doesn’t deny my accusation. She throws the empty bottles of wine in the trash, then finds the last bottle of wine in the kitchen and uncorks it, then pours it out in the sink.

I point my hands toward her, clapping. “Thinking ahead, I see. Good job. Good Mom.”

“Well, I can’t really trust you with much of anything at this point, so whatever it takes.” When that bottle is empty, she tosses it in the trash, then walks back to the living room. She swipes my phone off the table. I follow her down the hallway, even though I keep bumping into the wall with my shoulder. Words are hard, but walking is harder. I eventually just place my hand on the wall and balance myself until I get to my room. My mother is inside, gathering things.

My television.

My iPad.

My books.

“You’re grounding me from books?”

“Books are a privilege. You can earn them back.”

Oh my God. She’s taking away everything that brings me any semblance of happiness. I stomp over to the corner where I tossed my favorite throw pillow this morning. It’s purple and black sequined, and I like drawing shapes in it with my fingers. Sometimes I draw cuss words. It’s fun.

“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “This pillow brings me a lot of joy too. Better take it away.”

She snatches it out of my hand, and then I look for something else I like. I feel like we’re in an upside-down Marie Kondo episode. Does it spark joy? Get rid of it!

My earbuds are on my nightstand, so I grab them. “I like these. I can’t even use them because you took my phone and my iPad, but I still might be tempted to put them in my ears, so you better take them!” I toss them into the hallway, where she’s setting all the other stuff. I grab my blanket off my bed. “My blanket keeps me warm. It’s really nice, and it still smells like Miller, so you better make me earn this one back.” I throw it past her and pile it on top of my other things.

My mother is standing in my bedroom doorway watching me. I stomp to my closet and find my favorite pair of shoes. They’re boots, actually. “You got me these for Christmas, and since Texas winters are nonexistent, I hardly get to wear them. But it’s really awesome when I do get to wear them, so you better take them before winter comes!” I toss them one at a time into the hallway.

“Stop patronizing me, Clara.”

I hear a text sound off on my phone. My mother pulls it out of her pocket, reads it, rolls her eyes, then puts my phone away.

“Who was it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What did it say?”

“You would know if you hadn’t gotten wasted.”

Ugh. I walk to my closet and pull one of my favorite shirts off a hanger. Then another. “Better take these shirts. Take all my clothes, actually. I don’t need them. I can’t leave the house anyway. Even if I could, I’d have nowhere to go, because my boyfriend broke up with me on my birthday. Probably because my mother is crazy!” I drop an armload of clothes onto the hallway floor.

“Stop being dramatic. He didn’t break up with you. Go to bed, Clara.” She closes my bedroom door.

I swing it open. “We did break up! How would you know if we broke up or not?”

“Because,” she says, turning to face me with a bored expression. “That text was from him. It said, ‘I hope you sleep well. See you at school tomorrow.’ People who break up don’t text like that—or send heart emojis.” She starts to walk farther down the hallway, so I follow her because I need to know more.

“He put a heart emoji?”

She doesn’t answer me. She keeps walking.

“What color was it?”

She’s still ignoring me.

“Mom! Was it red? Was it a red heart?”

We’re in the kitchen now. I lean against the counter because I feel something speeding through my head. A whoosh. I grip the counter for balance, then burp. I cover my mouth.

My mother shakes her head, her eyes full of disappointment. “It’s like you printed off a checklist for ways to rebel and you’ve been marking them off one at a time.”

“I don’t have a checklist. But if I did, you’d probably take that from me, too, because I like checklists. Checklists make me happy.”

My mother sighs, folding her arms over her chest. “Clara,” she says, her voice gentle. “Sweetie. How do you think your father would feel if he could see you right now?”

“If my father were alive, I wouldn’t be drunk,” I admit. “I respected him too much to do that.”

“You don’t have to stop respecting him just because he’s dead.”

“Yeah, well. Neither do you, Mom.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MORGAN

Clara’s comment cut deep.

I realize she drank an entire bottle of wine on her own. Two of them were completely empty. But sometimes drunken stupors make people more honest than they normally would be, which means she truly believes I’m disrespecting her father.

It kills me that she thinks I’m the one in the wrong.

I hope this passes. Her anger, her rebellion, her hatred toward me. I realize she’ll never fully get over it, but I hope in the coming days, she can somehow find it in herself to forgive me. I’m sure she will once we’re able to sit down and have a conversation, but she’s still reeling from the realization that Jonah and I are intimately involved. To be honest, I’m still reeling from the realization.

I open her door one more time to check on her before going to my bedroom. She’s out cold. I’m sure she’ll wake up with a raging hangover, but right now, she looks peaceful.

I kind of hope she does have a hangover. What better way to ensure your child doesn’t drink again than for their first time to be an awful experience?

I hear my cell phone ringing, so I leave Clara’s door cracked and go to my bedroom. In all the times Jonah has called me, this is the first time I’ve allowed myself to be excited to hear his voice. I sit down and lean back against the headboard and answer it. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

It’s quiet for a moment, and I realize he probably had no pressing reason to call me other than just to talk. That’s a first. It’s exhilarating, feeling wanted.

I slide down onto my back. “What are you doing?”

“Staring at Elijah,” Jonah says. “It’s so weird how fascinating it is just watching a baby sleep.”

“It doesn’t end. I was just staring at Clara when you called.”

“That’s good to know. So things were better when you got home?”

I laugh. “Oh, Jonah.” I press my hand to my forehead. “She’s wasted. She and Lexie drank two and a half bottles of wine while I was at your house.”

“No.”

“Yes. She’s gonna regret it in the morning.”

He sighs. “I wish I knew what advice to give you, but I’m at a loss.”

“Me too. I’m calling a family therapist in the morning. I should have done it sooner, but I guess it’s better late than never.”