Regretting You

by Hoover, Colleen

  My shoulders shrink a little at her comment. I sigh, thinking about my father. “Mine wasn’t. He was the greatest.”

  Lexie pauses her steps. “Clara, I’m so sorry. I’m a dumbass.”

  I step back and grab her hand, pulling her forward with me. “It’s fine. But you’re wrong about Jonah. He’s like my dad. He’s one of the good ones. He loves Elijah too much to just up and abandon him like this.”

  We make it another five feet before Lexie stops again, pulling me to a stop with her. I turn around, my back to the parking lot, my eyes on her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t look right now, but Miller just pulled up next to your car.”

  My eyes widen. “He did?”

  “Yes. And I need you to take me home, but I don’t want to make it awkward if he’s wanting to talk to you, so I’m going back inside the school. Text me when it’s safe to come out.”

  “Okay.” I’m nodding, my stomach full of nerves.

  “Also, you’re full of it. You are so into him. If you use the word inconsequential one more time in reference to him, I’ll slap you.”

  “Okay.”

  Lexie walks back toward the school, and I take a breath. I spin around and head for my car, pretending not to notice Miller’s truck until I’m at my driver’s-side door. His windows are up and his truck is running, but he’s just sitting in it, staring ahead with a sucker hanging from his mouth. He’s not even paying attention to me.

  He probably doesn’t even know he parked next to me, and here I am assuming it was deliberate. I feel stupid.

  I start to turn around and open my car door but stop short when he unlocks his passenger door.

  That’s when he lazily turns his head and looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to get in his truck.

  I contemplate it. I like the way I feel around him, so even though I know I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being able to summon me into his truck with one simple look, I get in his truck anyway. I am that pathetic.

  When I close the door, it feels as if I’ve trapped a live wire inside the truck with us. The silence between us only makes the feeling more noticeable. I can actually feel my heart beating from my stomach all the way up to my throat, as if my heart has swollen to fill my entire torso.

  Miller’s head is resting against his seat, his body is facing forward, but his eyes are on me. I’m looking at him much the same way, but I’m not as relaxed. My back is straight against the leather of his seat.

  He does have air-conditioning, despite what I assumed last time I was in his truck. It’s on high, and it’s blowing my hair into my mouth. I flick the vent closed and then pull a strand of hair away from my lips with my fingers. Miller’s eyes follow my movements, lingering on my mouth for a moment.

  The way he’s looking at me is making it really difficult to inhale a proper breath. As if he can tell I’m having a physical reaction to just being in his presence, his eyes fall even more to my heaving chest, albeit very briefly.

  He pulls his sucker out of his mouth and grips his steering wheel, looking away from me. “I changed my mind. I need you to get out of my truck.”

  I’m dumbfounded by his words. And also very confused. “Changed your mind about what?”

  He looks at me again, and for some reason, he looks torn. He drags in a slow breath. “I don’t know. I feel really confused around you.”

  He feels confused around me? That makes me smile.

  My smile makes him frown.

  I don’t even know what’s happening right now. I don’t know if I like it or hate it, but I do know that whatever it is that makes me feel the way I do when I’m around him is a feeling that can only be fought for so long. He’s looking back at me like he’s almost at the end of his fight.

  “You really need to figure out your shit, Miller.”

  He nods. “Believe me. I know I do. That’s why I need you to get out of my truck.”

  This entire interaction is so bizarre I can only laugh about it. My laugh finally makes him smile. But then he groans and grips his steering wheel with both hands, pressing his forehead against it.

  “Please get out of my truck, Clara,” he whispers.

  I should hate that he’s battling some sort of moral struggle right now. I like this feeling—thinking he might be attracted to me—a lot more than thinking he hates me.

  I try to keep Shelby at the forefront of my mind. Knowing he has a girlfriend that he loves and cares for keeps me from climbing across this seat and kissing him like I want to. But I know I’m not doing anything to help prevent him from having the same urge, because I’m still sitting in his truck, despite him asking me to get out no less than three times.

  I might even make it worse when I reach over and pull his sucker out of his grip. “Miller?” He tilts his head, still pressed against the steering wheel, and stares at me. “You’re confusing me too.” I put his sucker in my mouth and grab the door handle.

  Miller keeps his head tilted just enough so that he can watch me exit his truck. As soon as I shut the door, he locks it, then puts the truck in reverse like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

  I get into my car, fully convinced that Aunt Jenny was wrong about one thing. She said girls were more confusing than guys. I don’t believe that for a second.

  I back out of my parking spot after Miller is gone. When I pull onto the road, my phone rings. It’s Lexie.

  Shit. Lexie.

  I answer it. “I’m sorry. I’m turning around.”

  “You forgot me.”

  “I know. I’m the worst. Coming back now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MORGAN

  Two years, six months, and thirteen days. That’s how long Chris’s life insurance was supposed to last in a worst-case scenario when I did the math. But adding an infant into the mix is going to throw us into poverty level. I can’t get a job if I have an infant. I can’t afford day care if I get a job. I can’t sue Jonah for child support because he’s not even the father.

  When Elijah begins to cry, I pile the paperwork together and go tend to him. Again. I thought Elijah was nothing like Clara was at this age, but I’m beginning to think I was wrong. Because all he’s done for the last few days is cry. He naps occasionally, but he’s mostly been crying. I’m sure it’s because I’m not familiar to him. He’s used to Jenny, and he hasn’t heard her voice in a while. He hasn’t heard Jonah’s since Sunday night. I’m doing the best I can at pretending this will turn out okay, but I’m starting to worry it won’t, because Jonah hasn’t responded to a single one of my texts.

  Jonah very well may not come back. And do I blame him? He’s right—I’m the one related to this baby by blood. Not him. It’s as if Elijah is more my responsibility now. Despite being on the birth certificate, Jonah really doesn’t have an obligation to raise a child who was created by my sister and my husband.

  I was hoping the two months Jonah has spent with Elijah would be enough to form that unbreakable bond between parent and child and that he’d come to his senses and show up, apologetic and heartbroken. But that didn’t happen. It’s going on day four and here I am, possibly about to raise a newborn in the midst of this chaos.

  Last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it while I sat in the living room, holding Elijah as he screamed his head off for an hour straight. I actually started laughing hysterically in the middle of all the screaming. It made me wonder if I was going crazy. That’s how they always depict crazy people on television. Laughing in dire situations, when they should be reacting more appropriately. But all I could do was laugh, because my life is complete and utter shit. It’s shit. It. Is. Shit. My husband is dead. My sister is dead. Their illegitimate child has been handed over to me to raise, when my own daughter barely speaks to me anymore. I’m not qualified for this.

  And I can’t even escape this shit life to watch television because the damn TV is still broken.

  “I should call them.”

  “Call who?”r />
  I spin around, shocked to find Clara home. I didn’t even hear her walk through the door.

  “Call who?” she repeats.

  I didn’t realize I said that out loud. “The cable company. I miss television.”

  Clara shakes her head as if she wants to say, Cable is so outdated, Mom. But she doesn’t. She walks over and takes Elijah from me.

  There are two cable companies in this town, but I get lucky and call the one we actually have an account with first. I’m on hold forever before I finally get an appointment confirmed. When I hang up, Clara is looking up at me from her position on the couch.

  “Have you even slept yet?”

  I’m assuming she asks this because I’m in yesterday’s clothes and I haven’t brushed my hair. I can’t even remember if I brushed my teeth. I usually do it before I go to sleep and as soon as I wake up, but I haven’t done either of those things, because Clara is right. I haven’t slept. I wonder how long someone can go on no sleep.

  Apparently for Elijah, it’s seven hours, because that’s how many have passed between his last nap and this one.

  “Call Jonah and tell him to come get his son. You look like you’re about to break.”

  I avoid responding to her comment, lifting Elijah out of her arms. “Can you run to the store and grab some diapers? I only have one left, and he needs changing.”

  “Jonah can’t bring you more?” Clara asks. “Isn’t that his responsibility?”

  I look away from Clara, since she’s staring at me like I’m water and she can see right through me. “Cut Jonah some slack,” I say to her. “His world has been turned upside down.”

  “Our worlds were turned upside down too. Doesn’t mean we’d abandon an infant.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. He needs time. My wallet is in the kitchen,” I say, continuing to avoid throwing Jonah under the bus, no matter how much I want to.

  Clara takes my money and leaves for the store.

  When it’s just me and Elijah, I lay him on the pallet I made for him. He’s finally asleep, and I have no idea how long it’ll last, so I take advantage of it and use the time to go to the kitchen and rinse out his bottles.

  He hasn’t had breast milk since Jenny died, but he seems to be taking to formula pretty well. It just makes for a hell of a lot of dishes.

  I’m scrubbing one of the bottles when it happens.

  I start crying.

  Lately, when I start crying, I can’t turn it off. I cry with Elijah at night. I cry with him during the day. I cry in the shower. I cry in my car.

  I have a perpetual headache and a perpetual heartache, and sometimes I just wish it would end. All of it. The whole world.

  You know your life is shit when you’re handwashing baby bottles, praying for Armageddon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CLARA

  There are several routes I can take to get from my house to the grocery store, or my house to the school, or my house to basically anywhere in town. One of them is the main road through the center of downtown, which is the shortest way. The other is the loop, which is out of my way, but even still, it’s the only road I’ve taken to get anywhere for almost two weeks now.

  Because it’s the only road that takes me right by Miller Adams’s house.

  The city limit sign has moved a little more, and I can see now why he’s moving it in small increments. Unless you’re looking to see if it’s been moved, it would be hard to notice a twenty-foot shift every week. I’ve noticed, though. And it makes me smile every time I see it in a different spot.

  I drive this way in hopes he’ll be on the side of the road again, and I’ll have an excuse to stop. He’s never out here, though.

  I continue my drive to the grocery store to get diapers, even though I have no idea what kind of diapers or what size to get. Texts to my mother when I arrive at the store go unanswered. She must be busy with Elijah.

  I open my contact for Jonah. I stare at it, wondering why my mother wouldn’t call him for diapers. I’m also curious as to why she’s had Elijah for as long as she has.

  I could tell she was lying to me when she said he just needed a break. I could see it in her eyes. She was worried. She’s hoping a break is all he needs.

  But what if Lexie is right? What if Jonah decides not to come back for him?

  If that’s the case, it’s one more thing to add to the long list of tragedies I’m responsible for. Jonah is stressed because he lost the mother of his child and has no idea how to raise him alone, and none of this would be happening if it weren’t for me.

  I need to fix whatever is going on, but I can’t do that when I don’t know what, exactly, is going on.

  I decide not to call Jonah. I put my phone in my pocket and leave the store without buying diapers, and then I drive straight to Jonah’s house because Aunt Jenny isn’t here to give me answers and my mother certainly isn’t being honest with me. No better way to get answers than to go straight to the source.

  I can hear the television when I approach Jonah’s front door. I breathe out a little bit of relief, knowing if the television is on, he probably hasn’t skipped town. Yet. I ring the doorbell and hear rustling inside of the house. Then footsteps.

  The footsteps fade, as if he’s walking away, attempting to avoid his visitor. I start beating on the door, wanting him to know I’m not going away until he opens this door. I’ll go through a window if I have to.

  “Jonah!” I yell.

  Nothing. I try the doorknob, but it’s locked, so I knock again with my right hand and ring the doorbell with my left. I do this for a full thirty seconds before I hear footsteps again.

  The door swings open. Jonah is pulling on a T-shirt. “Give a guy a second to get dressed,” he says.

  I push open the door and move past him, entering his house without permission. I haven’t been here since a week before Jenny died. It’s incredible how fast a man can let something go to complete shit.

  Not that it’s reached the point of disgusting, but it has definitely reached the point of pathetic. Clothes on the floor. Empty pizza boxes on the counter. Two open chip bags on the couch. As if he’s embarrassed by the state of his house, which he should be, he starts to gather trash and carry it toward the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He steps on the trash can lever, and the lid pops open. I think his plan was to drop the trash into the trash can, but it’s too full for that, so he releases the lever and sets the trash on the kitchen counter with a pile of other trash. “Cleaning,” he says. He takes the lid off the trash can and begins to tie the bag shut.

  “You know what I mean. Why has my mother had Elijah since Sunday?”

  Jonah pulls the bag of trash out of the can and sets it next to the kitchen door that leads to the garage. He pauses for a moment and looks at me, as if he might actually be honest with his answer. But then he shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  I am so sick of hearing those words. It’s as if adults assume that being sixteen prevents a person from understanding the English language. I understand enough to know that there’s nothing in the world that should keep a parent from their child. Not even grief.

  “Are you even concerned about him?”

  Jonah looks offended by my question. “Of course I am.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “I’m not in a good place.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Neither is my mother. She lost her husband and her sister.”

  Jonah’s response is flat. “I lost my best friend, my fiancée, and my son’s mother.”

  “And now your son lost you. That seems fair.”

  Jonah sighs, leaning against the counter. He looks down at the floor, and I can tell my being here is making him feel guilty. Good. He deserves to feel guilty. And I’m not even done yet.

  “Do you think you’re hurting more than my mother?”

  “No,” he says instantly. Convincingly.

  “Then w
hy are you putting your responsibilities on her? It’s not like you’re grieving more than she is, and now you’ve dropped your kid off with her, like your grief is more important than what she’s going through.”

  Jonah takes in what I’m saying. I can see it sinking in because he looks guilt ridden. He pushes off the counter and turns away from me, like my presence alone is making him feel remorse.

  “Elijah rolled over last night,” I say.

  Jonah spins around, his eyes darting back to mine. “Did he really?”

  I shake my head. “No. But he will soon, and you’re going to miss it.”

  Jonah’s jaw hardens. I can see the shift in him seconds before it happens. “What the hell am I doing?” he whispers. He rushes to the dining room table, swiping up a set of car keys. He begins to head for the garage door.

  “Where are you going?”

  Jonah pauses, then faces me. “To get my son.”

  He opens the garage door, but before he leaves, I call after him. “I’ll stay and clean your house for fifty bucks!”

  Jonah then walks back through the living room as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He takes out two twenties and a ten and hands the three bills to me. Then he does something unexpected. He leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. When he pulls back, he’s staring at me with an intense expression. “Thank you, Clara.”

  I smile and shake the three bills in my hand, but I know he isn’t thanking me for staying to clean his house. He’s thanking me for knocking some sense back into him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MORGAN

  I’m in the laundry room, rewashing the few outfits I have of Elijah’s when I hear the front door open and close. Clara must be back from the store with diapers. I’m still crying. Big surprise. I wipe at my eyes before turning on the dryer and heading back into the living room.

  When I round the corner, I pause.

  Jonah is standing in my living room.

  He’s holding Elijah. Cradling him against his chest, kissing him over and over on top of his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear him whispering. “Daddy is so, so sorry.”