SEVENTEEN

JESSE

A princess-cut solitaire with a white gold band.

After conferring with the jeweler for more than an hour, after examining dozens of rings, after receiving an education on shapes and inclusions and levels of clarity, I found The One. It was simple and elegant and I could immediately imagine it on Claire’s finger, Claire stealing glances at it throughout the day.

I made a down payment and asked the jeweler to hold on to it for me. It would take several months to pay off and I didn’t want to deplete my bank account because I would have rent payments due soon and there could be a gap between my move and when my paychecks started coming in. I needed to be smart about my money for a while, but I didn’t want to leave town without crossing this one item off my list.

Even so, the jeweler insisted I take it with me. She could wrap it right up and it would be ready for just the right moment—a ring that beautiful deserved to be worn by the woman it was intended for.

It felt like a pitch straight from their dialogue samples. I wasn’t quite ready to propose, I explained. Claire and I—we were just starting to work our way back to something greater than we were before. It was new, I would be relocating, and I didn’t want to risk it being lost or damaged while I waited for that perfect moment. She acquiesced, and I walked out of the store with the receipt in my wallet.

But it turns out I didn’t need to worry about money because on my way back to the house my cell phone rang. It was Cathy—Realtor Cathy. An email arrived from another firm, an offer from the couple who’d come by for their second showing the previous week.

Did I want to come to the office and go over the details?

“I’m actually on my way back to the house. They’re decorating for tomorrow’s wedding,” I explain.

“Oh! That’s right,” she says. “Well, we can go over everything on the phone, if you’d like. Considering the work that needs to be done, it’s a very strong offer. It’s a bit under the listing price, but they’re not asking for closing costs or any kind of renovation expenses to be covered. That might change if they find something during the inspection, but we’ll address those requests as they come.”

“How much was the offer?”

“One point one. Like I said, it’s about two hundred off the listing price, but it’s strong when you consider the features and the upgrades the average homebuyer in your price range is looking for,” she adds.

The thing is, I’m not offended by the lowball offer. I know the house needs work. I know it’s going to take a special person to want to come in and drop more than a million dollars on a fixer-upper. A month ago I would have said yes immediately. Without hesitation. But now. . . .

“Can I have a night to sleep on it?”

“We can always put in a counteroffer,” Cathy says. “These things are negotiable.”

“Yeah, that’s worth considering, but I’d like to have this evening to think about it.”

“Absolutely,” she says, forcing a lift in her voice. But all I hear is disappointment. She wants approval. My signature. She wants to seal this deal. And not that I blame her. I called her in to list the house I inherited from my dad after his heart attack. She’s done everything I needed her to do and more. So why can’t I say yes to the one point one, or counter back at one point two? Why do I need to think about it? This is exactly what I wanted.

Isn’t it?

Vans and trailers line the street in front of my house. In addition to the decorator’s suppliers the landscapers are here, mowing and weed-eating and working on the bushes. People move in and out. Everyone in a hurry.

The For Sale sign is gone, which itself seems a fitting metaphor—no longer needed because the perfect buyers already have an offer on the table and are waiting for a response. I park at the end of the street and walk to the house. The transformation is already happening—has been happening for weeks. With the trees gone in front, more of the house is visible. The exterior colors are more vivid now that it’s been pressure washed. The windows sparkle. The lawn is manicured. Light floods the interior thanks to the new paint colors. It doesn’t even feel like my home anymore, to be honest. It feels like something new. Something better.

“Oh my gosh. Thank God you’re back!” Claire cries. Tables and chairs are going up, and stacks of boxes fill the foyer. The house bustles with workers. She weaves between them, meeting me at the door. “My mom has totally flaked on me today,” she says, waving her phone for confirmation. “Of all days. Her stylist was running behind and now she’s trapped at her hair appointment, mid-color, and Nolan’s school is letting out in like, twenty minutes.”

“So let me go pick up Nolan,” I say.

“You don’t mind?” she asks.

I can’t help but laugh. I laugh at the expression on her face—how unsure she seems that I would say yes—as if it’s putting me out—when she knows I’d do anything for her. When there’s a ring in a box at a jewelry store uptown with her name on it. A down payment already made. I laugh because if I ask her to marry me one day, I’m also asking to be like a dad to Nolan, and that might even mean adopting him one day as my own. I think I can pick him up from school.

“No, Claire, I don’t mind.”

She exhales relief. “You are a lifesaver. You have no idea. And not that I can’t leave, but you know how Mia is, and Lynette is watching, and this space has to be perfect.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll go right now.”

“Let me put the address in your phone.” She types in the school name and pulls up the directions. “I’ll call to let them know you’ll be picking him up. I don’t think they’ll have a problem with it—Mrs. Thomas already knows you—but take a note and my ID just in case.” She rifles through her purse, removes a notepad and pencil, and writes a message to the teacher giving me permission to pick up Nolan. She hands me her license and her keys. “Take my car, too.”

“Car. Keys. Hastily scribbled instructions. They’re going to think I have you held hostage.”

“Maybe Sunday,” she teases. “Seriously. Call me if you run into any issues.”

“We’ll be fine. Back before you know it.”

“Thank you, Jesse. I owe you.”

I want to argue that I owe her way more than she could ever owe me—that the only reason my house has transformed like this is because she stepped in. The only reason I am feeling better about my life is because she walked back into it. That I’m falling asleep faster and waking up earlier, ready to face whatever the day brings, and it’s all because of her. But she’s already with Deb, who is supervising the placement of the chairs and tables, trying to maximize space.

I head across the lawn, avoiding one of the workers edging the grass at the street. I unlock Claire’s car and climb in, adjust the seats and the mirrors, and attach my phone to one of those little clips she has in her vent.

The drive to Nolan’s preschool is quick. They haven’t let out yet, but a line snakes around the building, so I ease into it and try not to laugh because I am in a carpool lane picking up a kid. And not just any kid, but a kid whose mom I adore—a kid I adore. I came home for a few weeks and my whole world turned on its end. I don’t even recognize myself anymore, and I’m glad.

The line isn’t moving, so I fiddle with the air conditioning and the radio, and that’s when I see the white folder wedged between the seat and the console. I check the line—still not moving—and pick it up. The title reads “Bryant Hall,” with Claire’s name and a class number printed on the cover.

If it’s personal I won’t read it, I decide. I’m not a snooping around kind of guy. But a picture of my house is on the first page, so I keep turning. Table of contents. Site description. Potential renovations. A new floor plan. Event strategies. Marketing strategies. Costs and projections.

It’s Claire’s project. She finished it. She turned my house into an event space. I skim through the renovations list. It’s divided into phases. Phase one is the interior—knocking out walls to make the rooms larger and adding a small office upstairs for an on-site manager. The second phase is a complete overhaul of the backyard. Potential ceremony space for small weddings and party space for outdoor events. The third phase is a kitchen renovation and what it would take to turn it into a commercial kitchen for on-site catering.

Jesus. The interior renovations, maybe. But the numbers on the kitchen upgrade make my head spin. I flip a few pages to the marketing section. Birthdays, family reunions, small weddings (one hundred guests or fewer), small receptions, retirement parties, graduation parties, holiday parties.

I can’t imagine anyone, other than Mia, I guess, wanting to use my house to host their event, but Claire has a list of market predictions and trends and the desire for a space like mine is only increasing as couples move weddings away from churches and companies schedule more off-site meetings, lunches, and retreats. Every source is cited.

And then I see the numbers—the various incarnations of what a typical year might look like in terms of scheduled events. Potential gross earnings. Expenses—including marketing, maintenance, and an okay salary for the manager.

Profit.

The line is moving now. Kids swarm the space under the school’s awning, and teachers work to get them loaded into cars. I shove the folder back between the seat and console and put the car in drive, inching forward as cars pull away. I keep Claire’s note and license on the passenger’s seat, but it turns out it’s not needed. Mrs. Thomas greets me brightly and says she got Claire’s message. Nolan dumps his bookbag on the backseat and barely holds still while she buckles him into his car seat.

He wants to tell me everything, chattering almost non-stop, his brain firing in quick succession. Counting by tens, reciting his numbers in Spanish, talking about the plants they’re growing in his classroom, that he got to be line leader this week, and he only had one crayon taken away from the board because he was talking to his friend Grayson out of turn.

At the stoplight, I text Claire.

I have Nolan. Can I bring you lunch?

A few seconds later, a reply: Thank you! No lunch. We’ve ordered in.

“They’re labeled,” Claire says on our way inside as she hurries past. “Grab whatever you want. Hey, baby!” she tells Nolan. “Pick out a sandwich for lunch. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“All right, Nolan. What do you want?” I ask, picking through the sandwiches on the table in the foyer.

“Chicken nuggets,” he says.

“No chicken nuggets today,” I tell him. “We’re having sandwiches.”

“Peanut butter and jelly,” he replies.

I study the wrappers. There’s a mix of turkey and cheese, ham and cheese, and roast beef, but no peanut butter and jelly. “Looks like you have three choices. Ham, turkey, or roast beef.”

“Ham.”

I grab two packages marked ham and cheese, one for each of us. “Do you need any ketchup, mustard, or mayonnaise?”

“No, thank you.”

I pick up a couple of packs of mayonnaise for me and two bottled waters, and we step around a young girl unpacking a case of silver candlesticks—polishing them before placing them on the stairs—to one of the tables set up in the dining room, away from where workers are moving in and out. I unwrap Nolan’s sandwich and open a bottled water for him.

“Gross!” he says, poking at the bread. “It’s brown!”

“Because it’s wheat bread. It’s good for you.”

“I hate wheat bread.”

“Those are some strong feelings for bread, little man.” But my ham and cheese is on white, so I trade with him.

“I can’t eat lettuce,” he says.

“Why not?”

“It’s gross.”

“Is everything gross today?” I ask, laughing.

But I take a plastic fork to the shreds of lettuce—scraping them off—until he’s left with cheese and ham. He takes a tentative bite, his nose wrinkling as he chews. Then I watch him spit out the bite onto the wrapper, open the sandwich and pick off every piece of ham. I add the two packs of mayo to my sandwich and start eating. Claire passes by a few minutes later.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?”

“Good,” Nolan says.

“He removed everything but the cheese. He’s eating what amounts to a cheese and bread sandwich.” I grab the ham from his wrapper so it won’t go to waste.

“Welcome to parenthood.” She smiles, runs fingers through my hair. It feels like heaven—her touch—and I have to force my eyes not to close, my body not to fall into hers. “My mom will be here to get him in about an hour. Did everything go okay with pick-up? They didn’t hassle you did they?”

“No trouble at all.”

“Good. They can be pretty obnoxious about their approved lists.”

“Claire,” Deb calls. “We have the table setting ready.”

“Perfect,” she replies. “All right, you guys. Nolan, stay out of trouble, okay? GiGi will be here soon.”

I hate that she hurries off because I want to tell her about the offer on the house. I want to know what she thinks about the number. I want to ask if it’s a good idea or if I should wait now that the house is fully listed. We’re just now moving into peak selling season. Maybe I should play hardball and counter higher. But the part of me that wants her opinion knows that it wouldn’t appease the dread that settled into the pit of my stomach the moment I heard there was serious interest. An actual offer. A decision to make.

Claire and Deb stand talking over a fully decorated table. The rest of the tables are in position, most covered in white tablecloths with light purple accent pieces. This one is loaded with place settings and silverware, plates and folded napkins, and tall silver candlesticks. There is some pointing and nodding and occasional tweaking, and soon they are all replicating the design on other tables. Half a dozen women work both indoors and out. A few men hang gauzy white curtains on the front porch and strings of round lights from the center of the rooms outward. Chairs are unloaded onto the lawn.

Nolan finishes half of the bread and cheese sandwich and leaves the rest. He’s full, he assures me. I gather our trash as he slips away from the table and goes into the front living room to see Claire. I take the moment to throw away some of the garbage lying around. The landscapers are packing up.

“Nolan, sweetie, I can’t. Not right this minute,” she tells him.

“Hey. Let’s go check out the swing out back,” I say.

“Thank you,” Claire says. “I’m so sorry. My mom will be here soon.” I don’t know who she’s apologizing to. Me, for having to keep an eye on Nolan unexpectedly, which I don’t mind. Deb and the decorators because he’s in the way. But he’s happy to hear about a swing because he tears out the back door and is halfway across the yard before I even reach the porch. I help him onto the tire and tell him to hang on tight. We start slow—small, steady pushes—but he insists we go higher. And higher. And soon he’s laughing. I study my backyard between pushes, calling to mind the plans Claire had drawn up for her project. The pergola at one end of the yard, enough seating for one hundred and fifty (or so) guests. The large patio at the other end, perfect for a barbecue or dance floor.

After a few minutes Nolan tires of swinging. He’s ready to get down. He runs circles around the yard, racing from one side of the fence to the other. Sweat pools at my back despite the shade from the tree.

My phone dings with a new email message.

“You’re red in the face, little man,” I call. “Let’s go inside and get some water.” I check my inbox. It’s a message from human resources. I have a few online training classes to take by the end of week one of orientation. I scroll through the list. Diversity training. Sexual harassment training. Insider Trading. Should be fun. There is also a missed email from Cathy. She sent the offer, encouraging me to call or text her with any questions—that she’s happy to discuss. I open the attachment and the back door for Nolan at the same time. We return to our table in the dining room and to our bottled waters. Workers still move back and forth, but the front living room is almost finished, and several have moved on to the den. I skim through the information, paying careful attention to numbers and inspection dates and potential closing dates. A letter from the bank is also attached. They’re good for the loan amount.

After fees and commissions, I could walk away with just over a million dollars in August. One million dollars. I could pay cash for a nice house away from the beltline and still have plenty of money to live on. If I didn’t find a job immediately after my internship I wouldn’t have to stress about money. I could start my own company. If I invested wisely, I could grow that money and have plenty left to take care of a family.

I’m curious if Cathy thinks countering the couple’s price is in my best interest. I know it’s common to go low with a first offer. I dial her up. The line rings as Nolan slips out of his seat and runs into the living room.

“Hey Cathy, it’s Jesse. I got your email,” I say, following him into the den. He’s already with Claire. She rubs his sweaty forehead. “I still want a night to sleep on the offer, but I was wondering what a counteroffer might look like, in this situation.”

I wave to Claire to get her attention and point to my phone. She nods, and I move to the kitchen, where it’s quieter.

Cathy agrees that, even with the work that needs to be done, the offer is low, especially for this area. Sale prices are increasing every year. Because it’s so close to the city she can’t see—even in a recession—the prices flatlining. Or dropping, for that matter. In the next decade, they’re anticipating a twenty-five percent increase in home prices within a two-mile radius of the downtown area. The house, essentially, is an investment.

“One point two would be a nice middle ground,” she says.

It sounds reasonable enough, and I’m about to open my mouth to tell her this when the air around me is torn in two by a thundering crash.

Shattering glass.

From inside the house.

My stomach tumbles to my knees, a surge of anxiety turning my skin to ice.

I thank Cathy, then race to the front living room.

“Oh my God!” Claire cries as I burst through the entryway, her face ashen—as colorless as I’ve ever seen it.

We reach Nolan at the same time—Nolan, who is sitting in a pile of broken glass—splintered pieces of varying shapes and sizes, glittering shards that want to catch every ray of light in the room.

It takes a moment for the shock of the fall to wear off, but then he sees his hand.

It is wet and glistening red, soaked in blood.

He shrieks, and tears begin to stream down his contorted face.

The glass and porcelain crunch beneath my shoes as I lift him up and out of the fragments and carry him into the foyer, my heart hammering in my ears.

“Towels! In the drawer by the sink,” I tell the girl closest to the kitchen door. Everything stops, a crowd gathers—dozens of eyes wide as saucers staring at us.

“Oh my God. It’s everywhere! Where is it all coming from?” Claire cries, her voice edging on hysterical.

The girl returns with a stack of dish towels. “It’s his hand,” I tell her. I examine the gash on his palm, pulsing blood. I can’t see any glass in the wound. I wrap the towel around it and squeeze tightly, lifting his arm above his head. “Check his other arm and his legs,” I tell Claire. She searches his body. Nolan cries harder.

“Just a couple of scratches, I think. I don’t know!”

The towel saturates faster than we expect.

“That’s not going to stop,” Deb says, as if reading my mind.

“He needs stitches,” I agree.

“Take him to Hamilton General,” Deb says. “The children’s emergency room. It’s ten minutes up the road. I’ll call and tell them you’re on your way.”

“I am so, so sorry, Deb,” Claire says.

“No, Claire, we are fine here,” she insists. “Take care of your family. We’ll see you in an hour or two.”

“Let’s go,” I say, scooping up Nolan.

“My keys! My phone. My purse,” Claire says, still hanging on to the towel wrapped around Nolan’s hand. “My purse is white. It’s in the cabinet by the microwave.” Another worker rushes into the kitchen, and we hurry across the lawn toward Claire’s SUV. The worker meets us at the car door as Claire straps Nolan in. I take the purse and keys, climb into the driver’s seat, and turn the engine.

Claire is barely in and buckled before I’m pulling out into the street, ignoring the neighborhood speed limit and not quite pausing for stop signs.

“I’m so sorry, Nolan,” Claire says. “We’re going to let the doctor look at this, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

“It hurts!” he whines.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I don’t even know what happened! It’s like I turned my back for a minute and he was gone! What were you even doing? You know not to play around breakable things! God. It’s still bleeding!” The words come out rapid-fire. She doesn’t give him time to answer.

“Keep it elevated,” I tell her. “And Nolan, take some slow, deep breaths. Try counting in threes. Breathe in . . . One . . . Two . . . Three. And breathe out. One . . . Two . . . Three. Help him, Claire. It’ll calm his heart rate, and his blood won’t pump so fast.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Logic?” I reply.

Claire keeps his arm in the air, and they practice breathing and counting in threes. It’s not just helping Nolan, but Claire, too. Now that they’re both focusing on their breaths, the tension in the car diminishes and I can pay attention to traffic, cutting around the city until we reach General.

The drive is a familiar one, and when I blink I am in Buzz’s car, navigating these streets, desperate to find the Emergency Department even though my seventeen-year-old hands won’t stop trembling. Because I left school as soon as the call came—that I was needed. Immediately.

It’s Sean.

I follow signs until Children’s Emergency comes into view, and pull under the awning.

“Go ahead and take him in. I’m going to park. I’ll find you in a few minutes.”

She unbuckles him, they get out of the car, and she carries him inside, even though it looks like he’s almost as big as she is.

I pull the car around to the parking lot, take a ticket at the machine, find an empty space, and exhale for what feels like the first time since the accident happened. I search my phone contacts, but all I have is Claire’s cell number and her home number. I don’t know where her mother was getting her hair done or if she’s finished by now, so I call the house. Claire’s father picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey, Mr. Tyndall, it’s Jesse Bryant. I need your wife’s cell number. There was an accident today at the house, and Nolan cut his hand. Claire is with him now at Hamilton General. We think he’s going to need stitches.”

“Oh my goodness,” he says. He gives me the number and thanks me for calling. I dial Mrs. Tyndall next. It rings, so I know it’s not shut off, but goes to voicemail. I try again. Maybe she’s still at her hair appointment. Maybe she’s on the road and can’t answer. But a little voice in the back of my mind says maybe she’s ignoring me. She saw my name on her screen and refuses to answer.

I send her a text message.

Nolan cut his hand. He and Claire are at Children’s ER.

Ten seconds later, the phone rings.

Told you, the voice in my head says.

“Jesse? What happened?” she demands to know.

“We’re not sure. Nolan was playing where they were decorating for the reception and he fell into one of the tables. He went down with the tablecloth and plates and silverware, and we think one of the glasses cut his hand. It wouldn’t stop bleeding so we came to Hamilton General to get looked at.”

“How does that even happen? Who was watching him?”

Why does it surprise me that, as soon as the story is told, she looks for someone to blame?

“We were all watching him,” I say, feeling a knot of anger simmering in the pit of my stomach, my voice bordering on defensive. “But it’s chaos over there right now.”

“You can’t let boys out of your sight for a second! If there’s trouble they will sniff it out!” Her words are clipped and sharp, ready to kill the messenger. And something about her tone, who she’s directing it toward. . . .

“We’re talking about Nolan,” I remind her. “Not me or my brother or my family.”

“Things like this do not happen when children are being supervised appropriately,” she says, matter of fact.

“Then maybe you should have thought about that before you decided getting your hair cut was more important than picking up your grandson from school. Because Nolan was only with us today because we were trying to cover for you. You’re right. This shouldn’t have happened, because he should’ve been with you!”

She goes silent on the other end, and I worry she’s hung up, but the seconds are still ticking on the screen.

“Look,” I finally continue, trying to remain calm, “we could have all done things a little differently today, but this isn’t anyone’s fault. It was an accident. Nolan will see a doctor any minute and he’s going to be fine. But his clothes aren’t, and Claire has to get back to work as soon as they’re done. So forget, for two seconds, who you’re talking to. Put whatever it is you’re holding against me and my family aside and focus on Claire and Nolan. I called because I knew you’d want to know, and that you would find a way to get here as soon as you could. So when you do come, bring them both a change of clothes, please. They’ll appreciate that. And while you’re at it, leave the drama at home. Claire works hard. She loves Nolan, and she’s beside herself right now. Don’t make this worse for her than it already is.”

A familiar wave of anxiety washes over me as I step through the hospital doors. The smell is both septic and sweet, and as my hands start to tremble I have to remind myself that this is okay. I’m okay. Claire and Nolan—they’re okay.

I don’t see them in the waiting room, so I ask the receptionist.

“They just took him back,” she tells me. “Are you the father?”

“Uh, no. I’m the um, friend. Boyfriend, I guess,” I stammer. Because I don’t know how to classify me and Claire and what’s happening between us, yet. The down payment made on that engagement ring already seems a million years ago. “I drove them here.”

“Well, we can only let immediate family back,” she explains. “You can have a seat in the waiting area.”

Great. I grab a chair by the window. The room is warm and colorful, sunlight streaming in. There is a play area. A huge fish tank in the center of the room with all kinds of bright fish and coral. It’s nothing like the adult emergency department—overcrowded with its sterile walls and horrible news.

A vision flashes. Me running past those doors. Slamming my fist against them. I can almost feel the spike of pain all over again, the two fingers broken that day. Until a nurse happened along, saw my bloodied knuckle and signed me into the ER, too, and it hit me that somewhere down the hall my brother was lying on a bed, body covered, already gone. I see Claire, racing down that hallway, demanding I tell her Sean was okay, crumpling to the floor as she learns the boy she loved wasn’t coming back to her. There were no words then. There are no words now.

My phone is a worthy distraction. Headlines and scoreboards. A few social media pages. Buzz is at some techie-con in Southern California. I “like” a few of his photos and feel guilty for not having spoken to him since before I moved back home. Before Nolan. Before Claire.

Soon someone is moving toward me—Mrs. Tyndall—and even though more than a dozen empty chairs are scattered around the room, she picks the seat beside me and sets a gym bag on the floor between us.

“They won’t let me back,” she announces.

“Me, either.” I’m not in the mood for conversation, and especially not with Claire’s mom, given how she feels about me, but I’m also not in the mood for a fight, and I’m not interested in holding a grudge. I just want Nolan to be okay. For Claire to be okay. For me to figure out what to do about my house. My move to Haleford, now less than a week away. And Claire. And Nolan. Because I don’t think I can do this—leave them behind.

“I brought an extra change of clothes for both of them and some snacks. I thought they might be hungry.”

“Thanks.”

Silence. “I have granola bars if you’re interested,” she says.

It might be a peace offering. “I’m good, but thank you.”

A sigh. “You know, Jesse, I worry about Claire. I saw how she was after your brother. . . .” She doesn’t say the words. “And having to watch her go through that. . . . She was just a baby herself, having a baby. She’s worked so hard to get her life on track. She’s accomplished so much, and she’s still so young. And you’re still so young,” she adds.

“I’m not my brother,” I tell her. “And I love Claire. I’ve never loved anyone but Claire. I don’t even know how to. Other girls have dumped me because I could only love Claire. She has always been this shadow in the background, even when I didn’t want her to be. I’ve tried to move on. Believe me. And I’ve been miserable the whole time. Something happened that day you moved into the neighborhood—the very first time I saw her. It was like . . . I knew. I knew somehow, some way, we were supposed to end up together. And, trust me, this isn’t how I wanted the story to play out. And I know I’m only twenty-two, and I don’t know what the future holds, but I love Claire, and I’ve stopped trying to fight it.”

“Your soul’s recognition of its counterpoint in another,” she says. It sounds like a direct quote.

“Yeah. Only she couldn’t see it right away, which made it even harder. I’ll be honest, Mrs. Tyndall, I have no clue what I’m doing. But I would do anything for Claire and Nolan. And, to be honest, I’m not sure how you could want much more than that. I don’t know what my parents said or did the last time you saw them, but I will apologize on their behalf. My mom wasn’t her best self during that time. She was never okay again after Sean died. It’s not an excuse, and it doesn’t change what happened, but I hope it’s a start.”

“I understand,” she finally says. “We’re very sorry for everything you’ve been through, as well. You’ve experienced so much heartache in such a short amount of time. And so young. I’m sorry.”