“Clara, wait. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

She doesn’t take her seat. She grips the back of the chair—an indication she doesn’t want this conversation to last long.

“Last night, you said something to me, and I want to know what you meant. It might have been the alcohol talking, but . . . you blamed yourself. You said the wreck was your fault.” I shake my head in confusion. “Why would you think that?”

I see her swallow. “I said that?”

“You said a lot of things. But that one seemed to really upset you.”

Clara’s eyes immediately moisten, but she releases the chair and turns away. “I don’t know why I said that.” Her voice cracks as she walks across the living room, toward her bedroom.

For once, I can tell she’s lying.

“Clara.” I stand up and follow her. I reach her before she disappears down the hallway. When I spin her around, she’s crying. It’s heartbreaking, seeing her so upset, so I pull her to me, holding her, attempting to soothe her.

“I was texting Aunt Jenny when they had the wreck,” she says. She’s clinging to me like she’s scared to let go. “I didn’t know she was driving. One second, we were chatting, and then the next . . . she stopped responding.” Clara’s shoulders are shaking against me.

I can’t believe she thinks it’s her fault.

I pull away from her and hold her face in my hands. “Jenny wasn’t even driving, Clara. It wasn’t your fault.”

She looks at me with shock. Disbelief. She shakes her head. “It was her car. You told me . . . at the hospital, you said she gave Dad a ride.”

“I told you that, but I swear it was your father who was driving. He was driving Aunt Jenny’s car. I never would have told you that if I knew you would think it was your fault.”

Clara takes a step back, swallowed up in confusion. She wipes her eyes. “But why would you tell me that? Why would you say she was driving if she wasn’t?”

It hits me that I have no idea how to back up the lie I told her. And I have no excuse for it either. And I’m a terrible liar. Shit. I shrug, trying to make it seem like it’s less than it is. “I just . . . maybe I was confused? I can’t remember.” I take a step toward her and squeeze her hands. “But I promise I’m telling you the truth now. Your Aunt Jenny was in the passenger seat. I’ll show you the accident report if you don’t believe me, but I don’t want you thinking this was your fault for another second.”

Clara isn’t crying anymore. She’s looking at me with suspicion in her eyes. “Why was Dad driving Aunt Jenny’s car?”

“He had a flat.”

“No, he didn’t. You’re lying.”

I shake my head, but I can feel my cheeks reddening. My pulse is racing. Just let it go, Clara.

“Why were they together, Mom?”

“They just were. He needed a ride.” I turn to go back to the table. Maybe if I start cleaning, I won’t start crying, but when I reach the table, my fearful tears begin to pour out. This is the last thing I wanted. The last thing.

“Mom, what aren’t you telling me?” She’s beside me now, demanding answers.

I turn to her, desperate. “Stop asking questions, Clara! Please. Just accept it and never ask about it again.”

She takes a step back, as if I just slapped her. Her hand goes up to her mouth. “Were they . . .” There’s no color left in her face. Not even her lips. She sits down in a chair and stares at the table for a moment. Then, “Where’s Dad’s car? If it was just a flat, why did we never get it back?”

I don’t even know how to answer that.

“Why did you refuse to combine their funerals? They basically had all the same friends and family, so it made more sense, but you seemed so angry and kept demanding they be separate.” Clara covers her face with her hands. “Oh my God.” When she looks at me again, her eyes are pleading. She’s shaking her head back and forth. “Mom?”

She’s looking at me with fear.

I reach across the table. I want to shield her from this blow, but she’s running toward her bedroom now. She slams her door, and I’ll follow her in a second, but I need a moment. I grip the back of the chair and lean forward, trying to breathe slowly—to calm myself. I knew this would kill her.

She opens her bedroom door. I look up, and she’s rushing back to me, full of more questions. I know exactly how she feels, because I’m still full of questions.

“What about you and Jonah? How long has that been happening?” There’s an accusatory tone to her voice.

“We weren’t . . . the night you walked in on us. That was the first time we ever even kissed. I swear.”

She’s crying now. She’s pacing, like she doesn’t know what to do with all the anger. Who to throw it at.

She clenches her stomach and stops pacing. “No. Please, no.” She points at the front door. “That’s why he left Elijah here? That’s why he said he couldn’t do it?” Clara is gasping now between tears. I pull her in for a hug, but it doesn’t last. She pulls away from me. “Is Dad? Is Jonah not Elijah’s father?”

I feel like my throat is so constricted noise can’t even slide up it. I just whisper, “Clara. Sweetie.”

She sinks to the floor in a heap of tears. I lower myself and put my arms around her. She hugs me back, and as good as it feels to be needed by her right now, I’d give anything for this not to be happening. “Did you know? Before the wreck?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Did Jonah?”

“No.”

“How did you . . . when did you find out about them?”

“The day they died.”

Clara hugs me even harder. “Mom.”

She says my name with such a guttural ache it’s like she’s needing something she knows I can’t give her. A comfort I don’t even know how to provide.

She pulls away from me and stands up. “I can’t do this.” She goes to her room and comes back with her purse and her keys.

She’s hysterical. I can’t let her drive a car like this. I walk over to her and take her keys out of her hand. She tries to snatch them back, but I don’t let her have them.

“Mom, please.”

“You aren’t leaving. Not when you’re this upset.”

Clara drops her purse in defeat and covers her face with her hands. She just stands there, crying to herself. Then she slides her hands down her face and looks at me with imploring eyes, dropping her arms to her sides. “Please. I need Miller.”

Those words coupled with that look in her eyes—it all shatters me. It feels like my soul has been stomped on. But somehow, even beneath all the pain, I understand. Right now, I’m not what she needs. I’m not the solace she’ll find the most comforting, and even though it feels like the death of a huge part of our relationship, I’m grateful to know there’s someone out there who gives her that besides me.

I nod. “Okay. I’ll take you to him.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CLARA

Miller has a line of customers when I walk into the theater. As soon as he looks at me, I can tell he wants to jump over the counter. He looks worried but helpless. He holds up four fingers, so I nod and walk to theater four.