Chapter 11 – Miles
ELEVEN
MILES
“So Claire Donovan, huh?” my mom asks later that day when I stop at her coffee shop for a quick check-in disguised as a coffee break. I try to stop in a few times a week so I don’t start to worry her, but this time, I regret it instantly, forgetting that the gossip mill runs rampant in this town and always makes a stop at Seaside Coffee. “Interesting that I had to hear about that from someone other than my own son, isn’t it?”
I sigh, weighing my options. I could leave right now and avoid this interrogation, but that would just delay it. And honestly, it’s better we talk about this than Paul or the house. If I direct this conversation correctly, I might be able to avoid her asking about why I took on a renter, something that would just give her undue stress.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy. She needed a place to stay, and Helen sent her my way,” I say.
“Sure, sure. And I’m sure your willingness to house her has nothing to do with the way you always looked at her?”
My head moves back at that.
“Like she’s a pain in my ass?” My mom doesn’t argue but gives me a look that I’ve seen a million times over. One that says you can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to your mother . “She’s a fucking headache,” I grumble eventually, and my mom just shrugs.
”Sometimes a headache is exactly what you need to loosen up.” It’s a reminder of Claire’s insistence I have more fun, and with it, a mental image of her happy, yellow list echoes in my mind.
So does the sad, hurt look she gave me this morning, twisting the knife in my gut.
“You know, Grant was in here,” she starts, and my jaw tightens, realizing that’s where the leak is from. I add punching him in the face to my never-ending to-do list. “And he thinks that there’s some kind of chemistry between you two that you should act on. And you know what? I agree.”
I blink at her a few times because I must have entered some other timeline, and I’m the only one who understands reality.
“She’s Paul’s ex,” I say slowly, as if she’s forgotten. Mom waves her hand in my direction as if that’s a non-issue.
“She was always too good for him, and even Paul knew it.” My eyes go wide, and she rolls hers as if I’m being dramatic for no reason. “Oh, come on, you knew it too.”
I did, but I never would have said that out loud, much less to our mother .
But since we’re on the topic, maybe I can get more information on how that all went down, or at least Paul’s twisted side of it.
“Do you know what happened?” I ask, trying to play it off.
Mom shakes her head but answers with a heavy sigh all the same. “You know how your brother is. I have to read between the lines with that one. But from what I got, she left to follow him to LA, and then he, well, you know. Was Paul.” I raise my eyebrows at that, definitely understanding how Paul can be. “He said she started nagging at him and”—her fingers move in air quotes as if she doesn’t believe whatever it is she’s going to repeat—“wouldn’t stop bitching, so he dumped her.”
I have to fight the instinct to tighten my jaw at the thought of Paul saying that to her because my mom will read into every reaction. But the truth is, the idea of my brother saying that about Claire makes me see red.
“So she stuck up for herself, and he didn’t like it,” I say, knowing that’s what Paul always says when someone asks for him to be semi-responsible or treat them with respect.
Mom shrugs. “That’s what I think. But what do I know? Has she said anything to you about it?”
I sigh and shake my head. I don’t tell my mom I haven’t taken the time to ask, much less that I’ve spent the week she’s been living with me, either judging her or ignoring her.
God, I’m a fucking asshole.
“I always liked that girl. A lot of fun, but super smart. I kind of always hoped she would help get Paul’s head out of his ass, but I also knew he would fumble a good girl like her.” I turn to her, surprised. “You know, she always looked at you with stars in her eyes…” She lifts an eyebrow as if I’m going to fill in with some new information or, better yet, a confession of love.
“Stop looking at me like that, Mom. That is never going to happen,” I say, needing to nip my mom’s hopeful expression before her mind goes any further.
“Why not? She’s sweet,” she says, aghast that I wouldn’t even consider it.
See what I mean? Why has everyone lost every ounce of common sense?
“She’s six years younger than me and insane and constantly getting into trouble.” My mother stares at me for a moment, and I continue to explain. “She fell off a bar top at Surf the other day and then went into the freezing cold ocean. I had to go in after her.”
My mom cringes, picturing the biting cold, but then shrugs.
“So she likes to have fun. Is it in a way where it hurts other people? Does it make it so she can’t be relied on or trusted?”
I give that thought amount before I sigh and shake my head. “She used to nanny for her older brother’s kid, and Helen gave her the head lifeguard position, so she has to be semi-responsible. But she’s the youngest of four kids, so she’s been babied her whole life.”
“You know, I know because it was just you, me, and Paul that you had to grow up pretty fast. I always regretted not giving you the freedom to be a kid, to be a dumb teenager,” she says, a hint of regret in the words.
I got my first job at twelve as a junior lifeguard because I wanted surfing lessons and a surfboard, and my mom couldn’t afford it. I never stopped working when I realized it could help lessen the burden my mom held as a single parent, but I never saw that as a bad thing. It taught me to be hardworking, to save, and to be responsible.
In contrast, Paul got an allowance from Mom by the time he was in high school since the coffee shop was up and running, and he never had a job all through college. He never saved a dollar in his life, obviously, since he goes through cash like water.
Claire, on the other hand, clearly knows how to save, I remind myself, but I don’t want to hear that right now.
“That has nothing to do with anything, Mom.” She shrugs as if agreeing to disagree. “I think she needs to grow up.“
“Why?” Mom asks, head tipping to the side with interest.
“What?”
“Why? Why does she need to grow up?”
“Because…” I pause because when she asks outright like that, I can’t exactly think of a good reason. The same uncomfortable guilt I felt in the kitchen this morning moves over my skin, making it feel like I need to wash it off.
Why does Claire need to grow up?
Aside from eating junk as a large chunk of her diet, she’s not living some grandly unhealthy life. She isn’t hurting anyone, isn’t causing trouble other than the harmless kind. She isn’t racking up debt that I know of or taking advantage of people.
She’s just…enjoying her life.
Is that so wrong?
The question tears at me a bit because if the answer is no, there’s nothing wrong with her living her life the way she wants to. That also means I’ve been unfairly judging her, and I don’t like the way that makes me feel, the way it makes me the bad guy in this situation.
Especially when I realize she has never once held my judging her against me. Instead, she jokes with me, flirts with me, and tries to help me find ways to loosen up.
Which is just another example of the sunshine and joy that is Claire Donovan.
“Looks like you might have some things to think about, kiddo,” Mom says with a smile. “Like I always told you, just because someone is different doesn’t make them wrong.”
I grumble a response, and she laughs, but all the while, my mind is reeling, and guilt churns in my gut.
Someone walks into the shop, and Mom winks at me before standing from the table we’re sitting at and walking behind the counter to help the customer. I stay for a bit longer before I say goodbye and head out to my car.
I sit there for a while, staring at my phone and trying to decide what to do next, all the while painfully aware of what an ass I’ve been. I took a shitty morning out on her, and she didn’t deserve that.
Sorry. I was a dick earlier.
Text bubbles arise almost instantly, then disappear, then appear again, my heart rising and falling with each change. It’s like I’m a teenager waiting for some girl to call me back.
So fucked, Miller. You are so very fucked.
Yeah, you were.
There’s nothing wrong with having fun. No one actually has anything figured out, and if they say they do, they’re all lying. You’re just honest about it.
Plus, a world full of grumpy assholes trying to make ends meet would be a pretty miserable place.
She doesn’t reply instantly, and I keep staring at my phone, more responses coming to mind. Most of them I manage to stop from saying, but one makes it through my raised guard.
The world needs more Claires in it.
That one, she responds to too quickly.
Even yours?
I don’t answer for a long time, trying to figure out just what to say, how to respond, if I should respond. Then I realize I have to get back to the shop, so I type a response without thinking too hard and hit send.
Especially mine.
On my way home from work, I make a stop at the grocery store. Claire isn’t around when I get home, so I set my purchases on the counter before grabbing a pen and the yellow paper on the fridge.
When I leave to take a shower, I leave six different kinds of cereal in brightly-colored boxes on the counter, and the Miles and Claire’s list of things to have fun on top.
At the bottom, I added an item.
Have a fun breakfast with Claire.