Chapter 7 Claire
CLAIRE
In the five weeks since Cassidy moved back home, she’s only been up before seven a handful of times. I’m not sure this—her sneaking in just after six—should count in the responsible adult category.
But that’s mostly me being bitter that she inherited all the fun, carefree genes in the family.
That I’m up early, obsessing over a guy I haven’t seen in six years, while my sister is returning from a date.
Based on her messy hair and swollen lips, she and Josh didn’t spend all night discussing “job leads.”
“Jesus, Claire,” Cassidy huffs, doing a double take when she spots me slouched at the kitchen table.
“Morning,” I say mildly, sipping more coffee.
Cassidy groans, grabbing a mug out of the cabinet before taking the chair opposite me and reaching for the pot I brewed an hour ago. She pours a full cup, swallows a hearty sip, and then slumps back in the chair. “Sorry for getting home so late.”
“It’s fine. I saw your text when I woke up. I take it the, uh, evening went well?”
“It was amazing,” Cassidy gushes. “Incredibly romantic. Why did I ever break up with him?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t offer up the obvious answer.
Cassidy and Josh dated in high school while she was tethered to staying in Arlington.
As soon as graduation rolled around and that string snapped, there was nothing that could or would keep Cassidy in town.
She has the same wanderlust Mom has, except Cassidy takes it literally while Mom travels to fictional worlds.
“The timing wasn’t right for you guys,” I say reasonably. “And if you’d stayed together, then you wouldn’t have Tommy now.”
“That’s what Josh said,” Cassidy tells me.
Josh was always my favorite of Cassidy’s boyfriends.
He’d play soccer with me in the yard and always brought Mom flowers when he came over.
I’m relieved, although unsurprised, to hear he still sounds like a more-than-decent guy.
This is the happiest I’ve seen my sister in a while.
And it would be good for Tommy, who’s getting older and has a shortage of positive male role models, to have a guy around.
I’m impressed by—envious of—Josh’s apparent ability to move past the feckless way Cassidy broke his heart.
Because you can think you’ve moved past someone, forgiven and forgotten, and have it blown to bits by reality.
I’ve known Otto Berger was in Boston for six days, been in the same building as him for hours, and I still have trouble looking at him.
Since avoidance hasn’t been helping, I’ve spent most of the past hour reading articles about Kluvberg’s current season, including coverage of the dive that tore Otto’s shoulder and necessitated surgery.
There’s a clip that I can’t bring myself to watch, but I read every article recapping the moment, including the official statement FC Kluvberg released, stating their starting goaltender would be out for the remainder of the season.
There was no mention anywhere that he’d be recovering in Boston.
The details don’t help. I’m still dreading tomorrow’s practice. The admiring giggles in the locker room. The extra energy required to not only avoid Otto, but also make it appear unintentional.
“Is Mom awake?” Cassidy asks, sipping more coffee.
I shake my head. “She was up late, working.”
Cassidy sighs, turning her head to stare out the transom window that overlooks the fenced backyard. Patches of snow have melted, brown grass peeking through. Signs of spring’s approach.
The squirrel feeder installed shortly after Cassidy left for college stands just outside the window. Mom was convinced one squirrel—I forget what she named it—returned every morning.
I wonder if Mom remembers the name. It bothers me that I can’t. Like I’m letting down the one person who’s always been there for me.
Dad left.
Cassidy left.
Mom stayed.
My phone screen lights up with an email notification. It’s spam, a sale at a store I rarely shop at, but reminds me of the text—We need to talk about your mother—sitting unanswered.
“You told Dad?” I try to keep the accusation out of my tone—I really do—but some sneaks in anyway.
Cassidy’s fingers tighten around the ceramic mug, answering for her, before she says defensively, “He asked how she was.”
“Doesn’t mean he deserves to know.”
My sister sighs. “Look, I know you have your issues with him—”
I snort. Loudly. Issues don’t even begin to cover the tattered state of my relationship with our father.
“But he’s not a bad person,” Cassidy continues.
“Debatable,” I mutter.
Mark Caldwell does the bare minimum to ease his conscience, but never shows up when it’s inconvenient.
“He’s paying for Little Red Wagon,” she tells me, confirming my assumption.
“Shelling out for private preschool doesn’t make him a saint, Cassidy.”
She taps her fingers on the mug, shaking her head. “And what has holding a grudge gotten you, Claire? He can afford to give Tommy things I can’t. So what if it’s out of guilt?”
“You can make whatever decisions you want for you and Tommy. I’m asking you to leave Mom out of it. And to not discuss me with him either.”
“How else is he supposed to know what’s happening? You won’t talk to him.”
Exactly, I think. He won’t.
Cassidy sighs. “He was upset, Claire. Sad. He watched Granny Lou go through it.”
“So did Mom,” I snap.
“I know. I’m just saying… Dad wants to help.”
I reach forward and open my laptop, closing out of all the tabs except one, spinning it so Cassidy can see the website displayed on-screen. “I don’t need his help.”
She leans forward to survey the Echo Glen website. Whistles under her breath. “Wow. I thought you were exaggerating.”
“When do I ever exaggerate?”
“Good point.” Cassidy stands, walking over to the microwave and setting the mug inside.
We both watch the two minutes count down.
“I remembered to buy your milk yesterday,” Cassidy says, grabbing a carton of two percent out of the fridge and adding a splash to her now-steaming cup.
“I saw. Thanks.”
She’s avoiding the topic at hand, same as she’s done ever since I told her Mom’s diagnosis. Being the one always forced to lead the difficult conversations? Exhausting.
Finally, Cassidy returns to her seat, scrolling further down the site.
“I have to go sign some paperwork tomorrow afternoon,” I say. “If you want to come with, you can see it in person.”
“I have two interviews, but I’ll see if I can—holy shit. This place costs eight grand? A month?”
I nod. “It’s considered one of the best facilities on the East Coast. Mom and I discussed it; she wanted to join their waiting list as soon as possible, so that’s what we did. It’s rare for them to have an opening.”
Cassidy leans back in her chair, propping her bare feet on a neighboring one. “Of course you planned ahead. So responsible.”
Responsible isn’t a dig. It’s not a compliment either. Mostly an acknowledgment—of how different we are.
“I can’t keep asking Lydia to come over. My season is about to start. I’ll be traveling soon, and you…”
Cassidy lifts her left eyebrow. “And I what?”
“Are you staying…for good?”
Cassidy drops eye contact, blowing on her steaming mug.
“I-I’m not sure yet.” She slumps forward, cupping her chin in her palm.
“I… It feels like I failed at leaving, and now I’m failing at being back too.
I don’t want to keep moving Tommy around.
Now that he’s old enough for school, that’s not fair to him.
I want him to know Mom, before…and Dad. They’re his only grandparents.
But I can’t keep living here, rent-free, draining my savings.
I’m an adult, living in my childhood home. ”
“So am I.”
“It’s different. You moved in to take care of Mom. And you’re, like, a local celebrity. Everyone I run into asks about you.”
I laugh. “I am not a local celebrity. And you and Tommy should stay. Once Mom moves… This house is way too big for one person.”
“You’re keeping the house?”
“You thought I was selling it?” I ask, confused.
Cassidy nods at my computer. “How else can Mom afford that?”
“She has savings.”
“Ninety-six thousand dollars a year kind of savings?”
“And income from her royalties. I’m handling it.”
“You mean, you’re paying for part of it. Mom wouldn’t want that.”
“Mom didn’t want a lot of things that are happening anyway. And…” I clear my throat. This is the first time I’m saying it aloud, and the words are harder to force out than I expected. “This is probably going to be my last season playing. Starting next winter, I should be making more—”
“Why?” Cassidy interrupts.
“Why what?”
“Why are you quitting?”
I bristle at the unflattering phrasing. “I’m retiring.”
“Oh, please. You’re twenty-seven.”
“Sports have a very different timeline than—”
“Mommy!”
Tommy runs into the kitchen and barrels toward Cassidy, throwing his arms around her.
“Morning, my bug,” she says, kissing the top of his curls. “How did you sleep?”
“Good. Aunt Claire made me waffles for breakfast. I ate them in my room while playing with dinosaurs!”
Tommy beams at me. I wink at him.
“That sounds awesome, bud,” Cassidy says, setting him down. To me, she mouths, Thank you.
Tommy’s cheerful chatter chases away the tension lingering in the kitchen.
But it’ll be back.