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The one who kissed her first.
The one who called her into my bedroom, and told her to shut the door, then pushed her down and rolled on top of her.
Sure, Clementine has been a non-stop temptation, even teasing me outright some days—like with that hose. Jesus, I thought my hard-on would never go away that morning.
But I nudged us along too. Iwantedit to happen.
God forgive me, I still do.
“Up in five, Duke,” a bartender calls on his way past my booth, and I nod and tuck my phone away, glad to get back to the piano.
The piano is simple. It makes sense.
And when I play it, I can shake off this creeping feeling—that I’m messing things up beyond repair.
* * *
The lamps are on in the back yard when I get back. It’s evening, pink-skied and warm, with lazy insects bobbing over the foliage, the shadows getting deeper between the leaves. The pool glitters over by the stone wall, gator-free, and someone’s been swimming today. There’s a towel slung over the nearest wrought iron chair, damp-spotted and twisted.
“You’re late,” Meg calls from her spot on a patch of grass. She’s crunching through a set of sit-ups, her tanned skin slick with sweat, one of my old football shirts knotted at her navel. “Your gig finished hours ago. Is this psychological warfare?”
She scowls at a spot over my shoulder as I approach, and she’s working hard, muscles flexing. Pushing herself, trying to sweat out any unpleasant emotions like she always does.
“No.” My boots come to a stop on the stone path. I scratch my beard. “Just went for a walk downtown to clear my head.”
Meg huffs. “Well, I could’ve done that for you. Aimed a leaf blower in your ear.”
My mouth twitches. I can’t help it.
And bless everything, because Meg looks up at me and rolls her eyes—then smirks.
Thank. Fuck. I’m not a perfect father, far from it, but the two of us have always rubbed along well. We’ve always been a team, united against any troubles, and I can’t stand having any kind of gulf between us. Lord knows her mother spared no thought for either of us over the years, but we’ve always gotten by together.
But Meg’s smile fades as quickly as it came. She jerks her chin at the picnic table, hissing through her teeth as she counts sit ups. “Thirty eight… thirty nine… look there. Forty.”
I wander over, my steps heavy. Birds flutter in the tree branches overhead, cooing to each other as they settle down for the night.
A purple notebook rests on the wood. It’s so light as I pick it up. Delicate in my hands.
The cover flops open, and the pages flutter, covered in neat handwriting: shopping lists and recipe ideas and pages and pages of algebra.
And diary entries. Lots of diary entries.
My name catches my eye. More than once.
“What is this?”
Why am I asking? I already know. Because that’s Clementine’s neat handwriting, and it’s not like Meg would ever do math for fun. My thumb rubs against the corners of the pages as I skim, my gut twisted with longing. Where is she?
“Some assigned reading for you.”
Hell no. I slam the notebook closed, ashamed of myself for holding it open for so long, and of Meg for even suggesting such a thing. Should’ve tossed the notebook back down as soon as I saw Clementine’s handwriting, not scanned it to see my name, over and over and over…
How many times did she write about me? What did she say?
I swear, I skimmed ten pages, and found my name on all of ‘em.
“I’ve read it,” Meg says, with zero guilt. “Or parts of it, anyway. A page or two. Just enough to figure out how Clem feels. It’s not like she’d ever tell me otherwise, and I figured I got a free pass when she boned my dad.”
