Chapter 33
Jamison
Iwake up, reaching across to the other side of the bed, feeling for Claire but coming up empty. Rubbing my eyes, I scan her room, only to find she’s not there either. I slide my jeans over my underwear and head toward the bathroom.
I swish with mouthwash I find on the sink, and check my reflection.
I look surprisingly rested considering I haven’t showered, and I’m in desperate need of a cigarette.
I guess spending all night either talking — or not talking — to Claire, is somehow more refreshing than sleeping alone with my tormenting thoughts.
Opening the bedroom door, I’m hit by the smell of coffee and the sound of a quick tap tap tap.
Claire, who somehow looks more beautiful in the morning, is sitting on the couch with her legs crossed like a pretzel and her laptop perched on top.
Her face is serious, but bright, as she stares intently at the screen.
“Good morning,” I say, leaning on the door frame. She looks up at me quickly and twitches like I caught her off guard.
“Now that’s the reaction I was looking for,” I joke.
“No, no!” She slams her laptop shut. “Sorry! I was just kind of…in the zone.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, walking towards the kitchen. “With what?”
I look back to see her crack open her screen and type out another stream of taps before shutting it again.
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt you.” I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot into the extra mug she left sitting on the counter, then hold it out to her.
She grabs her cup off of the coffee table and takes a sip. “No thanks! This is already my second cup.”
I look at the time. It’s still early. “How long have you been up?”
“Just an hour or so. Woke up feeling…” I join her on the couch just in time to see her cheeks flush pink. She looks at me side-eyed. “Inspired, I guess.”
I sip my coffee, the steam, and her confession both hitting me warmly. “To write?”
She leans back against the couch. “Mhmm.”
She sounds relaxed, but her stare, currently fixated on her Is It Friday Yet? coffee mug tells a different story. “Can you at least tell me what type of writing it is?”
She plays with the screen of her laptop, lifting it open just an inch, then lowering it shut, open-close, open-close, clearly uneasy.
“Well, it’s nothing yet,” She brings her mug to her mouth, presumably giving herself extra time to respond. Speaking into the cup before the liquid touches her lips she adds, “But eventually I hope it becomes my first novel.”
My eyes grow wide, impressed, but her floodgates instantly open. She begins rambling, over-explaining the whole idea.
“I know, it’s crazy. I mean I’ve never written anything before.
Well, anything real. Like, for anyone besides myself.
I just, I don’t know, I’ve seen the impact that books can have on kids, and I thought maybe I could write something that might make a difference to someone someday.
” She takes a deep breath. “It’s silly.”
“It’s not,” I say almost instantly. Her gaze, which avoided me throughout her whole explanation, snaps to mine.
“It’s not?”
I twist my forearm so my childhood hero is on full display. “It’s not.”
She finally relaxes into the cushions, a soft smile spreading slowly across her mouth.
“I read a lot growing up," I say. "Still do actually. Books can help you escape, you know?”
"I do," she says tilting her head curiously. She squints her eyes like she wants to ask a question, but I lean over and press a kiss to her temple, leaving the conversation there.
“So, what’s your plan for the day?” I ask.
“I have to go to my parent’s tonight. We do dinner every Thursday.”
“It’s Sunday,” I say dryly. She smiles and carefree Claire is back.
“Correct, but they’re going away for the Fourth of July weekend, and this was the only night they could do it. Dad has to work late to get ahead before they leave and mom has a bake sale and karaoke fundraiser this week or something.”
“Wait, at the same time?” I ask.
“What?”
“The bake sale and karaoke. Is it at the same time?” I know these church groups get crazy, but the thought of someone singing off-key with a mouth full of muffin seems a little too wild, even for them.
“Oh, no, two separate nights.”
“Ahh. Makes way more sense.” She places her laptop and mug on the table, shifting her legs to the side.
“So, anyway, dinner tonight,” she repeats.
I nod in understanding but in reality, I can’t relate at all. Weekly dinners with your parents? Just dinner with your parents? What’s that like? I try to look unbothered, but my expression must betray me.
“I’m sorry,” Claire says, putting her hand on my knee. “I didn’t mean to babble on about my mom and dad. That must be hard to hear.”
Out of nowhere I'm annoyed at myself that she feels like she has to take care of my feelings. “It’s fine, Claire. I don’t just fall apart whenever someone talks about their parents.
You have them. I don’t. The end.” I shut it down quickly, the subject and the lack of nicotine leaving me suddenly unsettled but she doesn’t take the hint.
“So, they aren’t around at all?”
It’s a fair question, considering I’m not one for details.
Still, it’s not something I really feel like talking about, now or ever, but especially now as I feel myself growing restless.
I shift in my seat trying to get comfortable until I realize it's not the couch making me uneasy. I need a goddamn cigarette.
“I never knew my dad.” I lead with the easiest of the two, figuring the best way to get past this conversation is through it. Talking about an actual stranger is way easier than talking about someone who became one.
My dad was one link in the chain of losers that dragged my mom down. From what Jackson told me when I asked, he found out she was pregnant with me and split the next day. Bred from a real fucking winner.
“I saw a picture of him once — on the obituary I found in my mom’s bedside drawer. She sent me in for a lighter and I left with the only information I ever learned about my father.” I take a sudden interest in the last bit of coffee that swirls in my mug, channeling my agitation elsewhere.
After a silent moment passes, Claire clears her throat. “And your mom?” It comes out practically a whisper.
I finish the last sip and stand to refill it and to avoid sitting still.
“She died. Three years ago.” I walk towards the kitchen, my back to her.
“I hadn’t seen her for a while. And she wasn’t really around before that.
” I sound casual like I’m telling her the weather, but inside, the blood in my veins begins to bubble.
“What about the pineapple pizza story?” she says dimly from the couch.
I should be touched that she remembers, but at the same time that she speaks, my blood boils over. I hit the heels of my hands on the granite and whip my head around to her, “I was like four when that happened, Claire.”
I wince as I turn away from her again, hearing the harshness in my tone. There’s a moment where she doesn’t respond, and I panic thinking of all the ways I’m already fucking this up. Walking away, snapping at her — why would she stick around when a simple conversation leads to something like this?
“And what about after that?” Her voice is thick, and I hate that I’m the reason. I speak the next words reluctantly, my voice still gruff, the weight of each word heavy in my chest.
“I was in and out of foster homes for nine years, Claire. Nine. There was no after that.” I reach for the handle of the coffee pot, like a lifeline. Anything to focus on besides my confession.
Before I make contact, Claire’s arms are wrapping around my bare waist, her head resting on my back, her breath causing goosebumps on my skin. She squeezes me like the pressure of her arms can push all of my broken pieces back together.
And maybe they can.
I instantly relax, the temperature of my insides cooling from her touch alone.
I cross my own arms over hers before turning without breaking her embrace.
Only now that I’ve moved, do I feel the dampness where her cheeks once brushed against my spine.
A wave of guilt washes over me as I realize my biggest fear — I’m afraid that my brokenness will end up breaking her too.
I rest my chin on top of her head. “Fuck, Claire, I’m sorry.”
She lifts her chin and I pull back to see her face. Her brow is creased, but her amber eyes are cloudy, tears streaking her perfectly pink cheeks.
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She searches my face like she’s looking for visual understanding. My throat constricts and my jaw tightens, my body’s reaction to the lump that is forcing its way up my chest. If only she knew how wrong she was.