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Boned? Really?
Who raised this kid?
“That’s not how it works and you know it. Even if you’re mad at Clem, you’ve got no right—”
“Oh, whatever.Shecan be mad at me for this when she gets back. You just focus on the fact that she’s been in love with you for years.”
“I…” Gets back? From where? “Wait. Years?”
“Yes,” Meg gusts out, collapsing onto her back. Her stomach rises and falls with each ragged breath. “I had to check. I knew it’d kill you if she didn’t feel as much as you do, but god in heaven: if this morning was bad, reading some of the stuff Clem wrote wasn’t much better. Hoo-ee. She’s a horny little thing.”
Wait.
No, I can’t process that.
But Christ, how long has Meg known? Have Clem and I been moping about pining for each other since we met, and all the while my daughter hasn’t cared?
“So it doesn’t bother you.” I fold my arms over my chest, not quite believing this. “You’re totally fine with me dating Clementine. A girl your age.”
“If she’ll have you.” Meg gives me a dirty look, and it’s only a little undercut by her sweaty hair flopping in her eyes. “You were shitty to her this morning, and you haven’t spoken a word to her since. Maybe she’s not into that, genius.”
“Meg.” Staring at my daughter, I’ve never needed a straight answer more. Everything rests on this moment. The whole rest of my life, wobbling on a knife edge. “Just tell me honestly. I need to know. Are you okay with it?”
Her mouth twists. My chest aches.
The pool filter burbles, and the leaves whisper in the honeysuckle breeze.
“I am now,” my daughter says at last, choosing her words carefully. “I noticed that you two liked each other a while ago, and honestly, at first I hated it. Like, throw up in my mouth, set everything on fire,hatedit.”
“I get the picture.”
Meg shrugs, my football shirt rubbing on the grass. Guess I can forgive her a few stains, today of all days. “But the more I thought about it, the more I came around. You’re both good people, so I know you’d treat each other well, and you’d both have company when I’m in Scotland. And this way, we get to keep Clem a while longer. Maybe forever.”
Forever.
I’d give my left lung to keep Clementine that long.
“But I have some conditions.” Naturally. “One: a bedroom lock.”
“And learning to knock,” I point out.
Meg rolls her eyes and keeps counting on her fingers. “Two: no funny business in our dorm room. That is a hard limit for me.”
“Done,” I say quickly. I don’t exactly want to roll around on Clem’s rickety twin bed either—even if Meg didn’t share the room, I’d probably smash that frame to pieces.
“Three: no referring to Clementine as my step mom. Ever. It’s super weird, and I’m two months older than her.”
“Agreed.”
“Okay, then.”
A long pause stretches between us. I wait, but Meg’s done counting. She groans as she flops onto her front, pushes up to kneel, and chugs from her water bottle so fast that it spills down her chin.
Such a goof.
Such a good daughter.
“Where’s Clementine?” I ask, my throat all choked up with love. “You didn’t scare her off, did you?”
