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And I pretend to not see the way her face falls in the corner of my eye.
When it’s time for takeoff, I buckle into a seat as far away from them as I can manage. I stare at the wall in front of me just so I don’t have to look at the sadness in Willow’s eyes.
She doesn’t try to speak to me. It’s like she knows something’s wrong.
Fuck.She probably thinks it’s something to do with her when that’s so far from the truth.
The actual truth? She looks too much like her mother. And she looks way too much like the little girl who poisoned Michael Little and framed my brother into a life sentence.
Once we’re leveled out, I unbuckle and look around for something to busy myself with that doesn’t involve interacting with them.
Willow inches toward me. “Demmy?”
“Clara.” I don’t look up. But I sense her attention focusing on me. “Why don’t you take Willow into the bedroom. Put on a movie there.”
It’s the closest to “nice” I’m able to manage right now.
When Willow suddenly bursts into tears, I feel like absolute shit. I want to take it back, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
Clara shoots me a quick glare and wraps her arms around her daughter. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go snuggle up with a movie, hm? That sounds like fun.”
But Willow is inconsolable. She just sits there, looking at me and crying.
I just sit here, trying to act like what’s on my laptop screen matters more than the broken heart of a five-year-old little girl who used to think I was her hero.
Clara picks her up and rubs her back, humming a soft lullaby as she carries her back into the bedroom and closes the door behind them.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel worse than shit.
Several long, achingly silent minutes later, Clara reemerges and walks over to me. “I hope you’re fucking proud of yourself,” she whispers. “Do you feel better? Or do you want to give her a puppy and kill it in front of her, too?”
I ignore her. Let her throw her little tantrum and tire herself out. Maybe she’ll take the hint and go back into the bedroom and away from me.
But Clara’s having none of it. She shuts my laptop right in my face and leans in close. “I’m talking to you, asshole.”
Fuck this shit.
I shove my chair out from under me and tower over her. “Watch it.”
“No,youwatch it.” She meets me nose-to-nose, not an ounce of fear in her furious eyes. “I want an answer. Do you feel better now that you’ve made my daughter cry?”
“She’ll get over it.”
“Fuck you.”
I clench my fists at my sides. Not because I have any inclination to raise a hand against her—I’m just at the end of my patience. “Go back into the bedroom. I don’t want to see your face until we land.” I turn and walk away, or as much as the cabin’s limited space will allow.
Clara follows me, her voice crackling with emotion as the anger gives way to her own heartbreak. “What the hell is wrong with you? Is this all because of some stupid dream?”
“No. It’s because of some stupid memory you’ve suddenly rediscovered about murdering someone and framing my brother.”
She scoffs. She actually fuckingscoffs. “Do you hear yourself? Do you actually hear yourself right now?”
“Yes. And it’s the first time in a while I’m actually listening to the voice of reason in my head!”
Clara freezes mid-step. And then she laughs, exasperated, and throws her hands in the air. “You don’thavea voice of reason! If you did, you’d realize how fuckingstupidthis is!”
