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“This is my...” I suddenly have no ideawhathe is. “Jack.”
She laughs, and I hope I can zip through this moment and into a less embarrassing one.
“Jack, meet Clara. My sister.”
Fourteen
“Let me grab that for you,” Jack says. He starts hauling Clara’s concerningly large suitcase up the stairs before she can object.
Clara’s eyes follow Jack, and she gives me a sly grin. “That’s Jack? The Jack you were telling me about? The guy whose place you’re living in, aka your boss? The cat dad?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Wow, that isnotwhat I was picturing when you said the wordscat dad.No wonder you didn’t want to leave.”
I elbow her in the side. “Quit ogling my boss!” I grab her by the arm and tug her up the steps alongside me.
Clara sighs. “If you insist.”
When we reach the top step, Clara launches herself at me, wrapping me in a tight hug.
“I missed you, Rainey.” She sounds as if she’s about to cry. Clara never cries. I haven’t seen her cry in years.
I hug her back, but don’t squeeze too tight. I’m worried I’ll break her because she is obviously fragile right now. “I missed you too.”
I have no idea what’s going on. Spontaneous visits are not Clara. Skipping school is not Clara. Displays of vulnerability are not Clara. At least, that hasn’t been Clara for a long time. I have no idea who this person is, but whoever she is, I’m worried about her.
I stand there until Clara pulls away. She wipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands, and I glance at Jack, who gives me a hesitant look from the doorway.
“Come on.” I put my arm around Clara’s shoulders and steer her into the flat.
“Did you just get in?” I ask. “You’ve got to be hungry or tired or something.”
She waves a hand. “All of it. I’m all of it.” She looks at Jack. “Thanks for the help, Cat Dad,” she says, and plops onto the yellow couch.
Ploppingis another thing my sister doesn’t do. But here she is, curled up on her side and tucking a couch pillow beneath her head. I’ve never seen her so uninhibited around someone she doesn’t know.
I stare at her, unsure what to do. I’m used to being the hot mess. Clara is the one with the pep talks and motivational mantras. I’ve never read a Brené Brown book, and I’ll never need to because all I have to do is be around Clara for a week to pick up on the highlights of whatever the latest self-help fad is.
I don’t know what to say, because I have no idea what’s wrong. And there is very obviously something wrong, because Clara shouldn’t be here. She should be in school.
Food. That is the obvious first step here. “I’ll be right back.”
I gesture for Jack to follow me into the kitchen.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I say, voice hardly above a whisper as I haphazardly open and close cabinets, hoping to find snacks. You’d think I’ve never stayed here a day in my life. Plates. Bowls. Ieven open the microwave door and find a bowl of soup I heated up yesterday and forgot about. I pretend I don’t see it and shut the door again.
“Are you all right?” Jack asks.
“No idea.” I open the fridge and stare inside it, but I keep forgetting to actually look at what’s there.
Jack strides across the kitchen to another cabinet and throws a tube of Pringles my way.
“She’s not acting like herself. I invited her to come, but she never said she was coming. She’s supposed to be in school. She doesn’t have a break until the end of March.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
