I stopped and got flowers—tulips, her favorites—and I grab them before turning off the rental car and getting out. My steps slow as I approach her headstone, my heart in my throat. I’m not sure why I’m here but this was the only place I could think to go.
“Hey,” I say, looking down at the well-maintained grave.
Clara Mullins
March 31, 1983 – August 17, 2004
Someone brought flowers not long ago, pretty pink roses, and I realize with a start that her birthday was last week.
And I forgot.
It’s the first time I’ve ever forgotten. I normally spend the day either blackout drunk or too busy to think straight. This year, I did neither.
Because I was happy.
Singing for the greatest rock band in the world.
Falling in love with an amazing woman.
Thinking about the future for the first time in nineteen years.
Then I went and fucked it all up.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I sink down on the cold ground, grateful that at least it’s not snowing. I absently start arranging the tulips in the same vase with the roses.
“I know, I haven’t been back to visit,” I say quietly. “I just couldn’t bring myself to come. Like maybe if I avoided it, you’d come back to me. Stupid, right? I’m sorry, honey. I should have come sooner.”
“Why?” The soft female voice scares the crap out of me, and I jump, whirling around.
The woman standing there is familiar.
Oh, shit.
Clara’s mother, Nina.
“Nina.” I slowly get to my feet. “You scared me.”
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says quietly, slowly reaching out her arms.
Then she pulls me into a tight hug and I let her.
It feels so good. I haven’t seen her in almost nineteen years and I’m suddenly ashamed of it.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper.
“I’ve missed you too.” She steps back and stares up at my face. “You look terrible, Ross. What’s happened?”
“So much.” I shake my head. “I’m a hot mess.”
“Still?” Her eyes are filled with sympathy.
“I thought…” I stop and swallow, trying to gather my thoughts. “I thought I was good and then I found out that Thomas Bancroft is my friend’s father.”
“Ah.” She nods. “You didn’t know?”
“No. And I didn’t react well when I found out.” Somehow, I wind up pouring out the whole story. She listens without saying anything, letting me vent as I describe the good, the bad, and the ugly.
“Why would you react that way?” she asks finally.
