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Aunt Clara sits silently next to me, staring out the window, her expression ghostly. It’s like she’s deflated.
Everything that makes her Aunt Clara has drained out, now that she’s given up the core of her life.
It’s not right.
None of this is fucking right.
And I don’t know what to do about it, as long as she’s keeping her lips so stubbornly sealed about why this is even happening.
I cast a few frustrated glances at her, start to say something, and stop.
I don’t know if I want to yell, beg, accuse, cry, or just fucking give up and let it be.
So I’m not expecting her to abruptly say, “You’re still angry at Charisma.”
“What?” I blink at her before turning back to traffic. “Of course I’m angry at Charisma. She tried to—”
“That’s not why you’re angry.” Clara smiles sadly.
“The hell it isn’t.”
“August.” She watches me knowingly. “You hate liars. Please don’t lie to yourself.”
“I . . .”
I recoil, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I stare at the taillights ahead of us. I’ve been so out of it I didn’t even realize we were no longer behind Deb. She must have merged into the turn back to Little Key a few blocks back.
Why am I so angry at my dead ex-wife?
There’s no point in it. I can’t even tell her if I knew—
Oh.
Well, that’s it, isn’t it?
“I’m angry at her for dying,” I admit. I feel like I’m spitting words at my reflection in the windshield. “There was no reason. No reason. We could have been normal divorced people. We could’ve said we were sorry it went wrong and gone our separate ways. I know I wasn’t husband of the year. I know. I know we weren’t right for each other. But instead of talking about it, she had to fucking go and get sucked in with those lunatics, and then—”
I cut myself off, pounding my fist on the steering wheel.
“I wish she was alive.” Why is there a knot in my throat? “I wish I’d handled it right. I wish we’d settled our shit and gotten on with our lives, but we didn’t. And I’ve been blaming myself for that, and that’s wrong. All because I blame her. I blame her for what she did, and she’ll never be here again for me to tell her to her face.”
It comes out in a snarling rush, leaving me winded.
Clara watches me with her usual patience.
I’m reminded of when I was a little boy and she’d watch me screw up my face, trying like hell not to cry when I was hurt and angry. And she’d always coax my feelings out until I was an angry little mess, ranting about how mean the kids at school were, when all I wanted was a friend.
“No, she’s not,” Clara agrees gently. “But you’re still here. You’re alive. You’re here to admit that to yourself. To heal, now that you’ve acknowledged your real feelings.”
“I don’t know if I’m capable of healing.” My lips twist bitterly.
“I know someone who thinks you are,” Clara points out. Just the softest reminder of Elle is a knife to the gut—hurt, longing, regret. “You don’t have to forgive me, August. I did what I did for my own reasons, and I know it hurt you. I’m sorry for that. You have no idea how much. But there’s still a chance she might forgive you.”
The vehicle goes quiet as I pull up outside her modest little two-story house in Laurelhurst. The same place I used to call home.
For some reason, I vaguely remember when I ran a background check on Elle. Before she moved to her grandmother’s cottage on Queen Anne Hill, her parents had owned a home in Laurelhurst.
If life hadn’t taken us on wildly different paths, we might have grown up practically next to each other.
