34. Clara
Chapter 34
Clara
T he drive to my uncle’s house is so brittle a cough could snap my mom and me in half. Polite, Clara, be polite, but not a doormat. Don’t let her stomp all over you . “So are Jessa and Clark going to be there today?”
My mom clicks her tongue at me. “Of course your cousins are going to be there. I hear they’re both bringing their partners, too. It’s a pity Bryce couldn’t be here with us.”
I tried to fix things with my mom yesterday, but she was having none of it. According to her, I “messed up a good thing with a boy who was going to be a doctor. Couldn’t I be just a little more flexible? Must I always get my own way?”
Her words ring in my ears, and all I want to do is to tell them the truth: that Bryce was a pedophile, a stalker, and an abuser. But I know my mom won’t believe me. I’d just be looking for attention, for sympathy, when really, we all know I’m the problem .
I could tell my dad. But then I’d be pitting them against each other, and without me in the house to run interference, it would get bad for my dad quickly. I think mom having a target for her frustrations that isn’t physically in the house with her is good for their relationship.
So I’m protecting him by not telling them the complete story. He loves her, and sometimes I think she loves him too, but I never want what they have. Never.
I stare out the window, the houses getting bigger and nicer the farther we get from home. God. I want to be anywhere but here.
Mom’s potatoes, salad, and buns share the seat with me. My job is to keep them from sliding off every time my dad takes a turn at high speed. I have my mittens to protect me from the potatoes’ 400-degree heat, while a cutting board protects the seat.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out, my heart lifting when I see a text from Jansen.
Happy Thanksgiving, beautiful! I hope you’re eating all the best turkey!
I grin. He hasn’t forgotten me. He’s just busy. I need to keep repeating that to myself until I believe it. I don’t like being left out of the loop—it’s bringing out all the weird clingy bits of myself that I thought were created by Bryce’s manipulations. Now, I’m not sure if he created them or just fostered them .
Either way, I’m getting needy. And achingly lonely. And the only solution I want is apparently a lifetime commitment to a group of guys who like to rob people.
Happy Thanksgiving! Do you do the tofurkey thing at your house?
We swing around a corner, and I barely keep the potatoes from flying. My mom huffs in the front seat. My dad chuckles. “Whoops. I should have let you know that was coming, mija. My bad.”
“All good, Dad. The potatoes are safe.”
My phone buzzes again.
Nope. We’re a roasted-mushrooms-and-garbanzo-bean kind of family.
He sends along a picture of himself with a girl with the same green eyes and blond hair, a spoon in her hand as she tries to whack Jansen over the head with it. They’re both obviously laughing, and I start to tear up. What would it be like to have a sibling? To not have to go to these things alone?
“Last turn, Clara-girl,” my dad calls, and I brace the potatoes once more as we whip into the drive of my cousins’ stunning brick colonial.
The hustle and bustle of family moves me through the house to the kitchen, the potatoes finding a spot beside a bowl of sweet potatoes and a green bean casserole. My aunt, uncle, and cousins all hug me, the way you hug a stranger you’re supposed to know, and I get introduced to the two recent additions. A glass of wine is pushed into my hand, as it’s a “special occasion” and I’m the only one in the house not old enough to drink.
The sunroom is reserved for football, so the pre-dinner conversation is in the living room. I wish I were still young enough to disappear into the basement and play video games by myself. Not that I’m any good, but it was nice to not have to socialize.
I’m not following the conversation, just smiling where appropriate, nodding, wishing I were anywhere else, when I overhear my mom holding court on the other side of the room. “Oh, how lovely, Jessa, that you found yourself a lawyer. Clara, you know, is dating a med school student, if you’d believe it. It’s a little on the rocks right now. You know how holidays are tough on relationships, but I’m sure it will work itself out soon.”
I get up, moving toward their group. My aunt cuts in. “Oh, a doctor. And in med school? Are you sure he wasn’t just pre-med? I don’t feel like graduate students usually have much to do with undergrads, especially at the U of M. Maybe at a private university, like my Jessa at Northwestern, but there? It’s much too big.”
I slide up behind my mom’s chair. “No, he was definitely in med school. We met while he was still an undergrad. However, we broke up months ago. We’re not getting back together. Ever.”
“Clara, don’t be curt,” my mom says, waving a hand at me.
“Then don’t lie, Mom.”
“Clara Grace McElroy! Do not use that tone with me! ”
“Mom, if you don’t make stuff up, then I won’t have to call you out on it. This isn’t a competition. They’re family. What do they care about who I’m dating? They should care about me. What I’m up to, what my plans are, who I’m becoming. Not who I’m dating. This isn’t the freaking 1800s. I’m not defined by the men I’m with.”
My mom surges to her feet, her hand snatching my ear as she drags me out the front of the house. My dad stands up to follow, but I wave him off as involuntary tears fill my eyes.
Once we’re out in the front yard, my mom lets loose. All the words, the recriminations, the rage, it all flies at me.
And for the first time, I don’t cower. I don’t ask for forgiveness.
I’m numb to it.
She winds herself down, running out of words in the face of my silence. “If you can’t behave, I don’t think you should even be here.”
I smile, and my mom’s self-righteous rage flickers. “Are you sending me home without my supper, Mom?”
“No, I’m asking you to stay out here and think about what you’ve done. Once you’ve collected yourself, you can come back in and have a civil dinner.”
I throw my hands out, spinning in a circle. “Am I not cool and collected?”
“Clara Grace, I will not have you back talking me in front of my family.”
I shrug. “I’m done hearing about Bryce, Mom. Done. Every time from here on out you bring him up, I will shut that shit down hard. ”
She grinds her teeth, her face red from yelling, her curls lumpy where she ran her hand through them, breaking up the hairspray. “So what, then? I can’t talk to my family about my life?”
“No, Mom. You can’t make shit up about my life.”
We stare at each other across the blacktop, the wind cutting through my sweater dress, my calves frozen above my booties.
I look away first, but I don’t cry. I don’t give in. I’m not even sure I know how anymore. “You know what, Mom? If I’m such a disappointment, I’ll just go.”
“Clara, you’re so overdramatic.”
I shrug. “I’ll get my purse and get out of your hair. Tell Dad I love him.”
I walk past her, stepping into the house just far enough to retrieve my coat and purse from the front hall.
My mom is still in the driveway, her arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “Clara, this is juvenile.”
I pull on the capelet I got with Walker, yanking on my mittens and hat, wishing I’d brought something warmer. “Maybe,” I say, before walking away, down the driveway, down the street, away, just away.
Because I’m done. Completely done.
My dad calls twice, leaving a voicemail when I don’t pick up, but I don’t want to hear his excuses. He chooses my mom. He always does. I never got that chance.
I make it to the nearest shopping center, the coffee shop sign saying it’ll be open at 8 p.m. for Black Friday shoppers. My phone says it’s not quite 4:30 .
If Emma were closer, I’d call her, but she’s at her family farm, so that’s not going to work. I pull up a rideshare app, but the prices are stupidly high. There are too few drivers and too many people flying in at the last minute. Opening the group chat with the guys, I think about asking for help there, but really, would they care?
Jansen would be here in a heartbeat. I know that. But he’s also out in the boonies at his stepdad’s house.
I’m not sure where the rest of the guys live, but either way, they’re all bound to be busy with their families. There would be no good reason for them to come and get me.
Maybe I can walk back to Dinkytown. I don’t feel like Edina is super far, right? Putting in the address on my phone, it tells me it’s a little over ten miles. I glare at the cute booties I wore. That’s a long run, but it’s doable, just not in heels. But a three-and-a-half-hour walk in freezing weather? Yeah, that doesn’t sound ideal.
With a sigh, I follow the wobbly blue line toward Dinkytown.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzes.
Hiya Sugar. Just eating some sweet potato pie and thinking about you.
I grin reading RJ’s text. He’s thinking of me. God. Why do I feel like crying?
Eat an extra piece for me !
My stomach grumbles as I hit Send, and I’m doubly pissed now that I realize I have nothing but oatmeal and peanut butter back at the house. Hopefully, they taste good together.
I finally make it to Minneapolis, the residential areas smaller and the shops more frequent. Up ahead, I see a bar with the Open light turned on, and I almost weep. I don’t have the money for this, but I’m cold, I’m angry, and I can deal with the budget issues later.
I’m just settling in with a coffee with Bailey’s and some French fries when my phone buzzes again. This one is from Trips.
Sorry so late. Your per diem from Chicago should be in your account.
Happy Thanksgiving
How did he put money in my account?
I chuckle as I realize RJ probably has better access to my accounts than I do.
I open my banking app and I drop my fry onto the plate. “Holy fucking shit,” I whisper.
The call is live before I realize what I’m doing. Calling Trips on Thanksgiving? He’s going to be livid.
“Hello?” The hum of a crowd clouds the dead air.
I fiddle with my mug, suddenly realizing what a dumb choice this was. “Um, hey. You know what, never mind. Have a nice Thanksgiving.” I go to hang up, but his snicker makes me pause. “Clara, why are you calling?”
“Are you sure you sent the right amount of money? I mean, I got a free vacation out of it.”
A door clicks on his end, the background noise disappearing. “You provided cover for Walker, as well as acted as our liaison with our fence. I think you more than earned what I gave you. The guys agree.”
“You all decided together?” The crowd of old guys watching the football game roars behind me—touchdown.
“I suggested an amount, and they all concurred. Clara, where are you?”
“Oh. Um. I’m at a bar. Somewhere on France Ave. I’m not really sure.”
There’s a long pause. “Is this a case of a burned turkey kicking you out of the house?”
“No, not exactly.”
Dead air hovers between us, and I know he’s waiting for me to tell him why I’m here when I should be tucked safely at a table, gobbling up mashed potatoes and gravy. I break before he does. “I’m on my way back to the house.”
“I thought you were staying home over the weekend.”
I glare out the window at the streetlights, bright against the early night. “I’m not anymore. Although I probably should go get my stuff. Do you think I could borrow someone’s car?”
“Fuck. Clara, are you walking back to the house right now?”
I swallow a bit of my spiked coffee, debating what to say. “Maybe.”
“Damn it, Clara. You have all of us at your fucking beck and call and you’re walking back? Seriously? ”
“I’m a big girl. And now that I have money in my account, I can call a rideshare. Don’t worry about me. Have a nice Thanksgiving, Trips.”
I hang up before he answers. Immature? Yup. But I’m not ruining anyone else’s Thanksgiving.
My phone rings, but I ignore it. It’s followed by a text, then another. I don’t check them until I finish up my fries. One missed call and two texts from Trips.
Call me back
You have ten minutes
A time limit. How original, Trips. I check the timestamp—two minutes left. Taking a few sips of my coffee, I wait until I’m almost out of time before calling back. I’m not brave enough to find out what would happen if I missed his deadline. Not today.
“God fucking damn it, Clara. I’m sending someone to come get you.”
“No, Trips. I’m not ruining anyone else’s Thanksgiving.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. “I won’t bother RJ or Jansen, don’t worry.”
I stop, my mind jumping to all the things he’s not saying. “Trips,” I start, but a vaguely familiar voice cuts in from the background.
“Archie. You know the deal. ”
The sound turns muffled, like Trips is pressing the phone against his chest. “Of course, Father. Just wishing a friend a happy Thanksgiving.”
“One minute, Archie.”
“Yes, sir.”
There is a long beat before I can hear Trips’ breathing on the other end. “If I could come, I’d be there in a heartbeat, Clara.”
He clears his throat, and I don’t know how to answer. “Thanks,” I say, as lame as possible.
“Is it okay if I tap into RJ’s tracking app?”
I laugh. “Let me just tell you the name of the place, Trips. I’ll stay put. I promise.”
Giving him the info, he promises to send Walker, then hangs up without saying bye.
The receipt under my empty mug flutters with every rush of cold air from the front door, making me grateful that I’m getting a ride. Even if Walker doesn’t want to see me. Even if I miss him so much it feels like a spot disturbingly close to my heart is seeping blood into my chest cavity.
He said we’re done. And I won’t force someone to be with me if they don’t want to.
Is he hurting as much as I am?
I’ve zoned out, worrying, when a hand settles on my shoulder. I leap up, spinning around, Walker backing away, a small smile on his face. “Hey, just me. ”
“Oh. Hi.” My hands flutter around before I force them into the pockets of my capelet. “Sorry you had to come get me. I told Trips I could find my own way back, but you know how he can be.”
He reaches around me, scooping up my purse, hat, and mittens, and then heading for the door. “It’s no problem. I was glad to have an excuse to disappear.”
I trail after him, out the door and down the street to his car, bright orange under a streetlight. Do I push? No, not on this. Not yet. “Then I guess I’m glad to be your excuse?”
He chuckles, opening my door, putting my purse and things inside before turning to me. “You’re never an excuse, Clara, you’re always a reason.”
With that cryptic set of words, he goes to his own side and cranks on the engine, while I climb in, the heat a blessing.
“So where to, princess?”
I take in his dress shirt, his hair tamed, his knuckles dry and cracking. His smile is there, but his eyes are tired. This is no mask. He’s run out of them.
“Would you mind swinging by my parents’? I want to grab my stuff and go back home.”
He turns to me, not pulling out into traffic. “When did our house become your home?”
It’s now or never. No masks, no faking, or joking, or coming at things sideways. “It’s where I feel safe. With you guys. It’s home.”
He hands me his phone, and I type in my parents’ address. “It’s my home too,” he whispers.
“Am I part of your home, Walker? Because you’re part of mine. ”
He’s silent, following the navigation, his hands strangling the steering wheel.
I hold my breath, block after block, knowing whatever comes next, it’s final. I didn’t use the words that I’m pretty sure I’m feeling, but I set my beaten heart in front of him and he damn well better decide if he wants to heal it or grind it into goo. Because those are the only two options left.
At a red light, he shifts to face me. “I don’t know how, Clara. I can’t be second best, second choice, not in this. I can’t sit here, waiting for you to pick someone else, someone better.”
My poor bruised heart clenches tight. “Is that how you feel?”
He grimaces, glancing at the light. “Sometimes, yeah.”
The light changes, and he signals us off the road, pulling into a parking lot.
Throwing the car into park, he grips the steering wheel. “I don’t know if it’s you, or me, or just this weird mess we got into, but I can’t be less than. I can’t look around and feel like I’m just the backup, the one that isn’t good enough for every day, but only for sometimes. I just, I can’t, Clara.”
Swallowing back tears, I try to meet him where he is. “Do I make you feel less than? That was never my intention. I like you, Walker. If I’m honest, I more than like you.”
His face hovers in shadows as he turns to me, invisible with the streetlight behind him. “I don’t know. I just, I’ve never done this kind of thing before, the sharing. And it’s hot as fuck, but I just, I’m not as fun as Jansen, as smart as RJ, or as driven as Trips. I’m just, well, me. And you deserve the best, Clara. What if that isn’t me? ”
My hands are on his face before I can think, my lips pressing against his, putting all the fear, the ache, and the honest-to-God love I feel into the kiss, trying to make him understand. He shifts, softening, but not diving in, not accepting, not believing.
I pull back, locking eyes with him. “Walker, you’re one of the best men I’ve ever met. You’re a damn virtuoso with a #2 pencil, you can recognize art from masters hundreds of years gone by the shade of green they use, you can take off and put on masks so fast it’s blinding—and I want to see you in all of them. You know how to enjoy a moment, to savor time, taste, color, to savor the whole goddamn world. You’re my anchor. Without you, I’d be adrift. But with you, Walker? I can see a path forward, a place for me to stand in this fucked-up world and become something . I need you, Walker. And I miss you every moment we’re apart.”
He looks away, and all I want to do is shake him, but I wait, holding on, desperate in stillness.
His voice, when it comes, is broken. “I miss you, too.”
“Then why are we apart? Am I too clingy? Too much?” I tug on my sleeves, scared of the answer.
He swallows, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “God no, never, Clara. You’re not the problem. Not at all.” His fingers brush my bottom lip, leaving tingles in their wake, before he pulls back to himself, staring out the windshield. “I just, I need to back off and give the other guys a chance. You should get to pick the best of us, not just settle for the first guy you fell into bed with.”
“And what if I don’t pick?” The question lingers, something I’ve been thinking about, wondering if it’s even possible .
Walker shakes his head. “You have to, Clara. It’s the way things work.”
“Why? All of us, together? We rewrote history once already, keeping Trips out of jail. If we can do that, why should a social construct like monogamy apply to us?”
“Clara—“
“You said it’s hot, the sharing. I think so too. What if, I don’t know, I had more than one boyfriend? Because I want to be your girlfriend, Walker.”
He looks at me, hope lining his gaze. “I want that, too.”
“Then let’s do it. Walker, do you want to be my boyfriend?”
He chuffs. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Clara.”
“Why the fuck not? I like you. You like me. We both find sharing hot. Done. Settled. Who cares what all those people out there think? They’re the ones who measure useless expectations and propriety. And what is all that, anyway? It’s bullshit trying to keep us in line, trying to keep us from growing, from shattering out of their rules into gloriously imperfect, fully formed people , Walker. What was it you said about art? That it’s the imperfections that make it beautiful? I want beauty, not rules. And you’re a pro at beauty. Please. I need you to make this mess at least a little prettier. I’m going to make it a fucking disaster without you.”
He stares down where my knees are halfway over the center console, my hands having slipped down, cradling his neck. I press my forehead to his. “Fuck them, Walker. Be with me. I choose you. No matter what, know that I choose you. And no one else can ever take you away from me. You’re mine, Walker Lee.”
We sit in the half light of an abandoned parking lot, our breaths mingling. And I wait.