“Rhode Island is actually pretty small,” he says.

“Nebraska, then.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, you should definitely go home and go back to bed.”

I kiss him again, on the cheek. “I’ll give you a better kiss next time I see you. But I’ve been puking all night.”

“When will I see you next?”

I shrug. “I’ll be at school tomorrow, but I’m probably grounded for a really long time.”

Miller tucks hair behind my ear, hugs me, and then says, “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Thank you for putting up with me.”

When we get out of his truck, he gives me one final hug. It’s comforting, and on the drive home I think about his hugs. My dad’s hugs. Jonah’s hugs. They’re all great.

But if I’m being honest, nothing really compares to my mother’s hugs. Or her kisses. I don’t really remember a lot about last night, but I do remember her helping me in the bathroom. And for some weird reason, I remember she was in my bed, singing me a random Twenty One Pilots song.

And I remember her kissing me on the forehead, right before she told me she loved me. Even at seventeen years old, I still feel all the comforts of childhood when I’m sick and my mother takes care of me.

I woke up with my blanket and my sequined pillow. It made me smile, even through the headache. Even through my anger.

I wonder if I can somehow separate the anger from the love. I don’t want her actions with Jonah to have an effect on the way I feel about her. She’s my mother. I don’t want to hate her. But what if I won’t be able to forgive her?

But how do I even know that Jenny and my dad aren’t happy for my mom and Jonah? What if they somehow set this in motion from wherever they are?

What if my anger is interfering with that somehow?

I have a lot of questions. Most of them I know can’t be answered. It’s making my head hurt even more.

When I finally walk into the house, my mother is awake. She’s sitting on the couch with her laptop. Probably still applying for jobs. She glances up at me as I shut the door.

“You okay?”

I nod. “I thought I could do school, but I was wrong. I have a Nebraska headache.” I point toward my room. “I’m gonna go back to bed.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

MORGAN

I googled Nebraska headache when Clara got home this morning but couldn’t figure out what it meant. I thought maybe it was slang, but if it is, it must be brand-new slang.

I feel fairly productive today. I have a job interview for a secretary position at a real estate firm next week. Not ideal, because the pay is low, but it’s a start. I find the idea of selling real estate appealing, so I thought if I could get the job, I might get a taste for it and see if that’s what I want to study. I’ve been looking up ways I can somehow work and go to college at the same time. There are so many more options now than there were when I was eighteen. If I had the opportunity to take night classes and online classes when Clara was younger, I probably would have finished my degree.

I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, but in reality, this isn’t all Chris’s fault. I knew he wasn’t invincible. I could have easily gone to college part-time to prepare myself if something were to ever happen to him. And I’m honestly lucky he had a life insurance policy that’ll give me time to figure it out.

As I was looking through paperwork in the bedroom, I came across my birthday board, which Clara and I worked on the night before Chris died. I never put it back where I usually keep them because the next day altered everything. It somehow ended up under my bed. It reminded me that we still need to do Clara’s. I know she probably doesn’t feel like it, but it’s tradition, so when I hear her up and showering, I pull out the craft supplies and set them on the table. I make a charcuterie board and set it on the table next to her birthday board because I doubt she’ll feel like eating much, but she needs to eat something.

When she finally walks out of her room, I’m at the table on my laptop. She stares at her birthday board. I close my laptop, and surprisingly, she walks to the table and takes a seat without a fuss. She pops a grape into her mouth. We make eye contact, but neither of us speaks. She grabs a blue marker, and I grab a purple one.

She stares at her board—at all the things we’ve put on it over the years. I like it because her handwriting has evolved throughout the years. Her first goal was written in green crayon, spelled wrong. “Americun Gurl dol.” It was a want rather than a goal, but she was young. She eventually learned the difference over time.

Clara begins to write something. It’s not just one thing. It’s several things. When she’s finished, I lean forward and read the list.

I want my mother to see my boyfriend for who he really is.

I want my mother to be honest with me, and I want to be honest with her.

I want to be an actress, and I want my mother to support that dream.

Clara puts the lid back on her marker, pops another grape in her mouth, and walks into the kitchen to get a drink.

Her goals make me sigh. I can tackle the first one. I can pretend to tackle the second one. But the third one is tough for me. Maybe I’m too realistic. Too practical.

I follow her into the kitchen, and she’s pouring herself a glass of ice water. She pops two aspirin and swallows. “I know you want me to major in something more practical, but at least I’m not running off to Los Angeles without getting a degree first,” she says. “And I need to start looking at schools soon. I need to know what we can afford now that Dad is gone.”

“What if we compromise? What if you get a degree in something more realistic, like psychology or accounting, and then after you graduate, you can move to Los Angeles and audition for roles while holding a real job.”

“Acting is a real job,” she says. She walks back to the table and takes a seat, selecting a piece of cheese to eat. She talks while she chews. “The way I see it, my life is going to go one of three ways.”

“Which are?”

She holds up a finger. “I get a BFA in acting from the University of Texas. I try to become an actress. I succeed.” She holds up another finger. “Or, I get a BFA in acting from the University of Texas. I try to become an actress. I fail. But at least I followed my dreams and can figure out where to go from there.” She holds up a third finger. “Or. I follow your dreams, major in something I am absolutely not interested in, and spend the rest of my life blaming you for not encouraging me to follow my dreams.”

She drops her hand and leans back in her chair. I stare at her a moment, soaking in everything she just said. I realize as I’m looking at her that something happened. I don’t know when or if it was gradual or overnight, but something has changed in her significantly.

Or maybe something has changed in me.

But she’s right. The dreams I have for her life aren’t nearly as important as the dreams she has for herself. I grab my marker and pull her birthday board toward me. I write, “My dreams for Clara < Clara’s dreams for herself.”

Clara reads it, and it makes her smile. She takes another bite of cheese and starts to get up from the table, but I don’t want to be done yet. I feel like I may not get another opportunity to talk like this with her for a while.