Regretting You

by Hoover, Colleen

“That’s why I’m here. So you can be with me.”

  “I want you in more ways than this.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, working out what that would mean. Even in all of Chris’s infidelity, I still feel guilty that I’m here, in Jonah’s bed. Kissing him felt so good when I wasn’t thinking too hard about it. It’s the best feeling I’ve had in a long, long time. But now that he’s forcing me to look at where this will lead, I just feel miserable again.

  I look him directly in the eye. “You’re telling me you’re willing to ruin every memory my daughter has with her father. Yet in the same conversation, you’re asking me to be with you in more than one way? To fall in love with you?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m not asking you to fall in love with me, Morgan. You already love me. I’m just asking you to give that a chance.”

  “I do not love you.” I roll toward the other side of the bed, away from him. I need to leave.

  I start to stand, but he grips my arm and pulls me back to the bed, onto my back.

  I press my hands against his chest to push him away, but he’s on top of me now, staring down at me with a familiar look in his eyes. I’m instantly still. I’m weak beneath that stare. He’s looking at me like he was in that picture. Full of heartache.

  Or maybe this is what Jonah looks like when he loves something so much it hurts.

  I suddenly don’t feel an urgent need to leave. I relax beneath him, into him, around him. I suck in air when he lowers his mouth to my jawline, dragging his lips slowly up to my ear.

  “You love me.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t. That’s not why I’m here.”

  He kisses me, just below my ear. “You do,” he says. “You’ve just done an excellent job at hiding it, but you’ve said it in every silent conversation we’ve ever had.”

  “There’s no such thing as silent conversation.”

  He’s looking into my eyes in a way no man has ever looked at me before. Then, he dips his head and rests his lips against mine. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it. I love you too.” When his lips close over mine, there’s an intensity in his kiss that makes me lose myself.

  There’s something about being Jonah’s first choice—maybe even his only choice—that makes every look he gives me and every touch and every word he speaks reach me on a level Chris never could. A level I feel so deep in my soul it makes me ache beneath all the satisfaction his kiss brings.

  When he settles himself between my legs, I moan into his mouth and pull him closer to me.

  I forget everything. The only thoughts I have are of this moment. How rough his hands are as they pull off my shirt. How soft his lips are when they meet my breasts. How effortless his movements are as he slips out of his jeans. How in sync our gasps are when we’re finally skin to skin. How intense his eyes are when he begins to push into me.

  It’s a completeness I’ve never experienced before.

  It’s as if he knows exactly where to touch me, how soft, how firm, where I want his lips. He feels like a professor of my body, and I feel like an inexperienced student, cautiously touching him, unsure if my fingers or my lips can even come close to making him feel how he’s making me feel.

  I press my mouth against his shoulder and whisper, “I’ve only ever been with Chris.”

  Jonah is deep inside me when he stops suddenly and pulls back. Our eyes meet, and he smiles. “I’ve only ever wanted to be with you.”

  He kisses me tenderly, and that’s how it continues—him kissing me, moving gently in and out of me until I can no longer keep silent. I pull him closer so I can bury my face against his neck when it happens.

  I finish first, an explosive moment of emotions and pleasure and years of suppression finally coming to the surface. My body is trembling beneath him, and my nails have raked their way down his back when he groans against my cheek, shuddering on top of me.

  I expect it to end here, with him catching his breath and then rolling off me with a sigh. That’s how the last seventeen years of sex with Chris always ended.

  But Jonah isn’t Chris, and I need to stop comparing them. It’s unfair to Chris.

  Jonah is gently cradling the side of my head as we continue to kiss. This doesn’t feel like it’s over yet. This thing between me and Jonah. Now that I’ve had this side of him, I don’t know how I can go on without it.

  That scares me, but I’m too satiated to stop his mouth as it moves over mine, across my jaw, finally coming to rest against my chest, where he calmly lays his head. We spend the next few minutes waiting for the current to settle between us.

  He slides his hand down my stomach and begins to run his finger lazily over my skin. “I’ll do it.”

  I feel my breath catch.

  Jonah lifts up onto his elbow, hovering over me. “I won’t tell Elijah. If you promise me you won’t put a stop to this—that you’ll eventually tell Clara you want to be with me—I won’t tell Elijah.” He brushes back my hair and looks at me with eyes full of sincerity. “You’re right. Clara deserves every great memory she has of Chris. I don’t want to take that from her.”

  I feel a tear slide into my hair as I look up at him. “You’re right too,” I whisper. “I do love you.”

  Jonah smiles. “I know you do. That’s why we’re naked.”

  I laugh. He pulls me on top of him, and I realize as I look down at him that I’ve never felt like I belonged with another person more than I belong with Jonah Sullivan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CLARA

  “Let me get this straight,” Lexie says. She kicks her feet up on the coffee table, nearly knocking over one of the bottles of wine. “Your mom is sleeping with Uncle Teacher?”

  I hiccup. Then nod.

  “Her dead sister’s fiancé?”

  I nod again.

  “Wow.” She leans forward and grabs more wine. “I’m not drunk enough for this.” She takes a swig straight from the bottle. I take it from her, not because I think she’s gone overboard but because I don’t know that I’m drunk enough for it either. I take a sip, then set it between my legs, gripping the top of the bottle.

  “How long do you think it’s been going on?” she asks.

  I shrug. “No telling. She’s over there right now. We have that app, and that’s where she is. Over there. With him.”

  “Bastards,” she says. After that insult leaves her mouth, she suddenly grows animated, hopping up from the couch. She stumbles but catches herself. “What if your mother and Jonah caused the wreck so they could be together?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m serious, Clara! Do you not watch Dateline?”

  I motion toward the television. “We don’t have cable anymore.”

  Lexie begins pacing the living room, a little wobbly but successfully. “What if this is a conspiracy? I mean, think about it. Your dad and Jenny were together when they died. Why were they together?”

  “My dad had a flat tire. They work in the same building. Jenny was giving him a ride.” They’re dead because of my texts to Aunt Jenny, but I keep that thought to myself.

  Lexie narrows her eyes and snaps her fingers, like she just solved the case. “Flat tires can be staged.”

  I roll my eyes, grab my fork, and take another bite of the cake sitting on the coffee table. It’s the saddest birthday cake I’ve ever seen. No one has even cut a slice from it. There are just huge chunks of cake missing from the top and sides. I speak with a mouthful. “My mom is a terrible person. But she’s not a murderer.”

  Lexie raises an eyebrow. “What about Uncle Teacher? He hasn’t been around that long. Do we even know where he’s been? There could be a trail of dead bodies in his wake.”

  “You watch way too much TV.”

  She stomps over to me and bends over, coming face to face with me. “True TV! I watch crimes that have actually happened! This stuff happens, Clara. More often than you think.”

  I shove a bite of cake in her mouth to shut her up
.

  It was unnecessary, though, because as soon as the front door opens, Lexie and I both clamp our mouths shut at the sudden presence of my mother.

  Lexie slowly begins to lower herself to the coffee table. “Hello, Morgan,” Lexie says, doing everything in her power to appear sober. It might have worked if she wasn’t lifting her legs and stretching her back into an awkward position on the coffee table as she tries to hide the bottles of wine from my mother. Her entire body is stiff and contorted now. I appreciate her efforts, but she overestimates my mother’s stupidity.

  My mother closes the door and stares at us with disappointment. She can see the empty bottles on the table, despite Lexie’s attempt to sprawl out in front of them. Lexie forgot I’m also holding a bottle in my lap. Can’t very well hide that at this point.

  My mother’s eyes fall on me. “Really, Clara?” Her voice is flat. Unsurprised. It’s as if nothing I do could disturb her at this point.

  “I was just leaving,” Lexie says, pushing off the table. She begins to walk toward the door, but my mother holds out her hand.

  “Give me your keys.”

  Lexie’s head rolls back with a groan. She pulls her keys from her pocket and drops them in my mother’s hand. “Does that mean I can stay the night?”

  “No. Call your mother to come get you.” She looks at me. “Clean up this mess.” She takes Lexie’s keys to the kitchen.

  Lexie pulls out her phone.

  “Really? You’re just going to leave me here with her? She could be a murderer,” I whisper.

  I don’t really think that, but I also really don’t want to be alone with my mother like this. When she’s angry, it doesn’t scare me. But right now, she just looks annoyed. That kind of terrifies me. It’s out of character, which means I don’t know what comes next.

  “Uber will be here in two minutes,” Lexie says, sliding her phone back into her pocket. She walks over to me and hugs me. “Sorry, but I don’t wanna stay for this one. Call me if she murders you, ’kay?”

  “Fine,” I say, pouting.

  Lexie walks outside, and I look at the coffee table, grab the bottle of wine that isn’t quite empty yet, and I finish it off. I get the last swig down when it’s ripped from my hand.

  I look at my mother, and maybe it’s the alcohol. It might be the alcohol. But I hate her so much I don’t even know if I’d be sad if she died. Every time I look at her now, I wonder about their affair. Did it start before her sister got pregnant? Was she still sleeping with Jonah while accompanying Jenny to all her sonogram appointments?

  I always thought my mother was a terrible liar, but she’s a better liar than anyone. She’s better than me, and I’m the actress in the family.

  “So,” I say, very casually. “How long have you and Jonah been fucking?”

  My mother is forced to blow out a calming breath. Her lips thin with anger. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt worried she might slap me, but I take a step back because she looks pissed enough to slap me right now. “I’m done with this behavior, Clara.” She picks up the other wine bottle and the red SOLO Cups Lexie and I started with. When she stands up straight, she looks me in the eye again. “I would have never done that to Jenny. Or your father. Don’t insult me like that.”

  I want to believe her. I kind of do believe her, but I’m drunk, so my judgment is impaired. She walks to the kitchen, so I follow her. “Is that where you’ve been?”

  My mother ignores me as she begins pouring what little is left of the wine down the drain.

  “What were you doing at Jonah’s . . .” I snap my fingers, trying to think of the word for the things people live in. Words are hard right now. “House!” I finally say. “Why were you at his house just now?”

  “We needed to talk.”

  “You didn’t talk. You had sex. I can tell. I’m an expert now.”

  My mother doesn’t deny my accusation. She throws the empty bottles of wine in the trash, then finds the last bottle of wine in the kitchen and uncorks it, then pours it out in the sink.

  I point my hands toward her, clapping. “Thinking ahead, I see. Good job. Good Mom.”

  “Well, I can’t really trust you with much of anything at this point, so whatever it takes.” When that bottle is empty, she tosses it in the trash, then walks back to the living room. She swipes my phone off the table. I follow her down the hallway, even though I keep bumping into the wall with my shoulder. Words are hard, but walking is harder. I eventually just place my hand on the wall and balance myself until I get to my room. My mother is inside, gathering things.

  My television.

  My iPad.

  My books.

  “You’re grounding me from books?”

  “Books are a privilege. You can earn them back.”

  Oh my God. She’s taking away everything that brings me any semblance of happiness. I stomp over to the corner where I tossed my favorite throw pillow this morning. It’s purple and black sequined, and I like drawing shapes in it with my fingers. Sometimes I draw cuss words. It’s fun.

  “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “This pillow brings me a lot of joy too. Better take it away.”

  She snatches it out of my hand, and then I look for something else I like. I feel like we’re in an upside-down Marie Kondo episode. Does it spark joy? Get rid of it!

  My earbuds are on my nightstand, so I grab them. “I like these. I can’t even use them because you took my phone and my iPad, but I still might be tempted to put them in my ears, so you better take them!” I toss them into the hallway, where she’s setting all the other stuff. I grab my blanket off my bed. “My blanket keeps me warm. It’s really nice, and it still smells like Miller, so you better make me earn this one back.” I throw it past her and pile it on top of my other things.

  My mother is standing in my bedroom doorway watching me. I stomp to my closet and find my favorite pair of shoes. They’re boots, actually. “You got me these for Christmas, and since Texas winters are nonexistent, I hardly get to wear them. But it’s really awesome when I do get to wear them, so you better take them before winter comes!” I toss them one at a time into the hallway.

  “Stop patronizing me, Clara.”

  I hear a text sound off on my phone. My mother pulls it out of her pocket, reads it, rolls her eyes, then puts my phone away.

  “Who was it?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What did it say?”

  “You would know if you hadn’t gotten wasted.”

  Ugh. I walk to my closet and pull one of my favorite shirts off a hanger. Then another. “Better take these shirts. Take all my clothes, actually. I don’t need them. I can’t leave the house anyway. Even if I could, I’d have nowhere to go, because my boyfriend broke up with me on my birthday. Probably because my mother is crazy!” I drop an armload of clothes onto the hallway floor.

  “Stop being dramatic. He didn’t break up with you. Go to bed, Clara.” She closes my bedroom door.

  I swing it open. “We did break up! How would you know if we broke up or not?”

  “Because,” she says, turning to face me with a bored expression. “That text was from him. It said, ‘I hope you sleep well. See you at school tomorrow.’ People who break up don’t text like that—or send heart emojis.” She starts to walk farther down the hallway, so I follow her because I need to know more.

  “He put a heart emoji?”

  She doesn’t answer me. She keeps walking.

  “What color was it?”

  She’s still ignoring me.

  “Mom! Was it red? Was it a red heart?”

  We’re in the kitchen now. I lean against the counter because I feel something speeding through my head. A whoosh. I grip the counter for balance, then burp. I cover my mouth.

  My mother shakes her head, her eyes full of disappointment. “It’s like you printed off a checklist for ways to rebel and you’ve been marking them off one at a time.”

  “I don’t have a checklist. But if I did,
you’d probably take that from me, too, because I like checklists. Checklists make me happy.”

  My mother sighs, folding her arms over her chest. “Clara,” she says, her voice gentle. “Sweetie. How do you think your father would feel if he could see you right now?”

  “If my father were alive, I wouldn’t be drunk,” I admit. “I respected him too much to do that.”

  “You don’t have to stop respecting him just because he’s dead.”

  “Yeah, well. Neither do you, Mom.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MORGAN

  Clara’s comment cut deep.

  I realize she drank an entire bottle of wine on her own. Two of them were completely empty. But sometimes drunken stupors make people more honest than they normally would be, which means she truly believes I’m disrespecting her father.

  It kills me that she thinks I’m the one in the wrong.

  I hope this passes. Her anger, her rebellion, her hatred toward me. I realize she’ll never fully get over it, but I hope in the coming days, she can somehow find it in herself to forgive me. I’m sure she will once we’re able to sit down and have a conversation, but she’s still reeling from the realization that Jonah and I are intimately involved. To be honest, I’m still reeling from the realization.

  I open her door one more time to check on her before going to my bedroom. She’s out cold. I’m sure she’ll wake up with a raging hangover, but right now, she looks peaceful.

  I kind of hope she does have a hangover. What better way to ensure your child doesn’t drink again than for their first time to be an awful experience?

  I hear my cell phone ringing, so I leave Clara’s door cracked and go to my bedroom. In all the times Jonah has called me, this is the first time I’ve allowed myself to be excited to hear his voice. I sit down and lean back against the headboard and answer it. “Hi.”

  “Hey,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

  It’s quiet for a moment, and I realize he probably had no pressing reason to call me other than just to talk. That’s a first. It’s exhilarating, feeling wanted.

  I slide down onto my back. “What are you doing?”