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Obviously, I know it’s a fake, but I couldn't have guessed why. "Alright." I nod. "And you still carry it because..."
"Because if you look at my other ID, you'll see that I don't turn twenty-one until March."
I had noticed the IDs had different birth years, but I hadn't bothered to do the math. Underage drinking is hardly a drop in the bucket compared to the atrocious things I've done, but if that’s true, how is she in the same classes as Rhea? "Rhea turned twenty-one months ago."
"Good for you for knowing that. Do you know how we celebrated?" Anger is cutting into her tone, a bitter venom now that I’m challenging her. "We had a party at our place. We invited half of the junior class, and we both got so wasted that we missed the rest of the week's classes." Claire laughs. "But I know you brought it up because you want to know how I ended up rooming with Rhea at the same age when I should have been graduating high school. Right?" She crosses her arms and doesn't wait for me to answer. "The last family I ended up with... they were shitty. I hated it so much, I couldn’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel. And I was sick of being kicked around like the trash no one wants to clean up, moving homes and schools and entire towns every time someone got sick of me. So, I stole pills from the bitch and took a knife from the block on the counter, and I tried to kill myself." She says it flatly, as if that's just a decision one makes as easily as what they have for breakfast. "But I couldn't even do that right, Remy. I was such a fuckup that I couldn't even kill myself. Didn't cut deep enough, I guess."
Her words are raw, and her eyes have taken on a troubling chaos. They reflect the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, and I realize all at once that she is a sponge. Not only do her eyes show the world around her, but she too is a product of the circumstances she finds herself in. Rhea gave her friendship and love, so Claire reciprocated it. But I’m not Rhea. I don't have anything good to give her.
I've known for years that being tied to me is like having a lead anvil tied around your neck. It’s why I broke Monica's heart with every measure of certainty. Claire isn't Monica; She’s worse. I thought that this girl was light, but she’s just a mirror reflecting the light my sister gave her. I can't drag Claire into my darkness if I don't want her to become darkness itself.
But she isn't done talking, and I'm not going to make her stop.
"My social worker, Addie, she's the one who was there when I woke up in the hospital," Claire says. "She's the only person who's been constant in my life until Rhea. She managed to get me out of the psych watch they were trying to force on me, and she suggested I emancipate myself to get out of there. So, I did. I got with my school principal, and took all the state exams to graduate early, and Darrington had already offered me the scholarships, so Addie called and asked if I could be moved up the admissions list. I went to Darrington a year earlier than I was supposed to because if I went back to just trying to survive, I wouldn't have lived." Her hands have been trembling around the gun, but now when I look, she's holding it steady between us. "I can give you a play-by-play of my entire life if you want that, Remy."
"No," I say. Guilt claws at the back of my neck, but I can't let her see it. I can’t let myself feel it. Whatever I had expected from her, it wasn't that. "That's not necessary."
"Are you sure? Because I'm not." She laughs bitterly. "It's like you want me to be hiding something, like you want me to have an ulterior motive so that you can punish me for it."
She’s right. I am looking for a reason to push her away. I simultaneously want her to keep her distance and want her. It’s a maddening tango. "Tell me what happened to your birth certificate."
Her silence reinforces the look of confusion on her face. Her lips open and then close. "What do you mean?"
"There seems to be no birth certificate on file for Claire Monroe. Not just in your school records but anywhere. Surely you needed one when you applied to Darrington, especially if you're using financial aid."
She lets go of a frustrated sigh. "My social worker did that for me. She sent all of the paperwork since I was locked in the hospital.” Claire shakes her head, her lips pressed tightly together like she’s being careful about what else to say. “I'm sure it just got misplaced."
I narrow my eyes on her. "Have you ever seen it?"
That gets a laugh from her, though it’s more confused than amused. "What?"
"Have you ever actually seen your birth certificate? Or have you just taken the word of all these people who passed you along to the next person? Do you know your name is Claire Monroe because that's what your mother named you or because that's what you've been told?"
I’m pushing her. I've been doing it since I met her, scantily-clad in my bedroom. I wanted to put the pressure on, to watch the house of cards crumble and reveal whatever she’s hiding underneath. I've been so convinced that there is something she’s hiding that I've never stopped to consider what would happen if I pushed her so hard, only to find out that there are no secrets buried under that sweet exterior. But I've watched her bare her soul to me, forced her to tell me more than she’s comfortable with, and now she isn't just hurt.
I see the shift in her, the crack in her spirit that exposes all of the insecurities she's been hiding from everyone... including herself. It’s achingly obvious for a moment before she covers it with a scoff.
"You know what, Remy?" She blinks through the tears that are starting to carve a path down her cheeks. Her eyes turn to the gun in her hand, and a lightning bolt of panic tears through me. Not because I fear her turning it on me, but because she just told me she'd tried to kill herself once. And I've pressed her even harder, grinding her between my demands and a wound that will never fully heal.
"Claire." I shake my head, trying to find words to make her understand I wasn’t trying to hurt her. But she doesn't see it as she turns the gun in her hands, letting the sunlight glint off of it. Her eyes flicker up to mine, defeated, and the look of hopelessness there knocks the breath out of my chest.
Chapter twenty-three
Claire
"If you're really that scared of me, maybe you should do something about it." I press the gun into his hands the way he did to me. His fingers are nowhere near the trigger, but if he wants to, he could reach it and drive a bullet straight into my stomach. It would likely be over pretty quick and probably wouldn't even make much of a mess. I tilt my chin up so that he can see that I’m not bluffing.
Maybe Remington Boudreaux likes head games, but I don’t. I may not be an open book, but I’m not going to great lengths to hide anything from him. I’m not a spy sent to infiltrate his home, not an assassin working to gain his favor. I’m not looking for anything from him that he doesn’t want to give me. But maybe he likes to play with his food.
His lips are so close. The air around us smells like salt; It’s so thick that I can taste it.
The storm clouds are falling fast around us, the sky darkening with every passing second. I can feel the boat rocking as the waves start to intensify, but I plant myself firmly on the deck, squarely in front of him, and wait. I’ve just put him in check—time to see whether he attacks like a wild dog or quietly backs down.
If he pulls the trigger and it’s immediate, the last thing I'll see is his eyes. They’re so much like Rhea's... a kaleidoscope of warm colors that remind me of leaves before they fall in autumn. My favorite season, autumn is proof that there is beauty in decay. It’s why I’ve never been afraid of death—life is so much more painful than it could ever be.
Remy moves so quickly that I don't know what’s happening until the gun clatters on the table. I don't have an opportunity to do anything, to register relief or disappointment, because in the next minute, he sweeps me up in his arms.
I respond without even thinking of it. I wrap my legs around his waist as he crashes into me, one hand on my ass to hold me against him and the other threading through my hair, pulling me into him so that I can't escape. As if I would want to.
