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“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Just don’t pity me, okay?”

I feel my face fall at her request. “I would never pity you.”

Needing to hold her, I hook my leg over her hip and throw my arm around her waist, bringing her impossibly close to me, my gut warning me whatever she says isn’t going to be easy, but I want to be here for her.

For a moment she puts her palm to my cheek before resting it on my waist, and for some reason it feels like she’s comforting me instead of the other way around.

Her throat bobs, and I wait for whatever bomb she’s about to drop.

“My birth mom was raped.” I admire her eye contact as she tells me what has to be the most heartbreaking thing to ever come out of someone’s daughter’s mouth. “She was sleeping at a friend’s house, and a friend of a friend was over and made his move.”

She averts her gaze, and I realize she still hasn’t delivered the final blow.

“It’s how I was conceived.” Her eyes fill with unshed tears as she tries to hide the emotions in her voice. “And because of that, I don’t sleep away from home. Well, I haven’t.” She pauses, her gaze stuck on mine. “Until now.”

My chest tightens for a plethora of reasons, namely because I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to know those details about your conception. It can’t be an easy thing to come to terms with, especially for a child.

I brush my knuckles along her cheek. “How old were you when you found that out?”

At this she closes her eyes, and my heart breaks for her. “I can’t remember not knowing,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s the reason I was put in foster care. She couldn’t—” Her voice cracks as she buries her face in my neck.

“Shhh, sweetheart.” I try to soothe her, grazing my fingers up and down the knobs of her spine, my mind filling in the blanks, my heart absolutely shattered for the baby who paid for a mistake she never made. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

A muffled groan sounds throughout the room before she peers up to look at me, her watery green eyes doing nothing to hide her pain. “You really should’ve stuck to your no depressing talk rule.”

I feel a sad smile tug at my lips as I run my thumbs under each of her eyes, wiping away the tears. “I’ll listen to you talk about absolutely anything if it means I get to know more about you.”

“Such a smooth talker,” she teases, her soft smile turning serious all too quickly. “I’m sorry for crying. I haven’t gotten that emotional about it inyears.”

“Hey.” I hold her head in my hands, ensuring all her focus is on me. “I want to know everything about you. If that comes with tears more often than not, then so be it.”

She mirrors my actions. “You know the same goes for you, right? If you ever want to talk about Lola, I’ll always listen.”

The mention of Lola feels like squeezing lemon juice into a paper cut, but unlike all the other times, where I hide behind a fake smile or lie my way through a conversation, I kiss Clementine, grateful that for once someone sees me. It’s a strange and yet refreshing feeling to have someone know that sometimes everything isn’t okay.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling my eyes sting, grateful for this unexpected gift of a human who makes me want to open old wounds and ensure that this time they heal properly.

Her eyes narrow. “For what?”

I press my lips to hers. “For being you.”

20

CLEM

Iwake up as soon as the sun rises high enough to peek through the blinds. Working out with Arlo more often than not has ruined my ability to sleep in, even after the late night we had. I slowly climb out of the bed, careful not to wake up Zara. I head to her bathroom and quickly rummage through my duffel that I eventually brought in from Remy’s car.

Finding my toothbrush, I quickly wash my face, brush my teeth, and tie my hair up on top of my head. I notice a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and reach for it, not wanting to wash the remnants of last night off any part of me just yet.

I wrap it tightly around me and am glad to see Zara still peacefully curled up around her pillow. Grabbing my cell, I walk back into the bathroom to grab my AirPods and then quietly make my way down to the kitchen.

Making myself at home, I start to look through the fridge, hoping to find something to put together for breakfast. The beauty of growing up and fending for myself is I can pretty much cook a meal out of nothing. But when I spot the full tray of eggs, a full bottle of milk, and a sealed package of bacon, I’m grateful I don’t need to think too hard.

Slipping the AirPods into my ears, I press shuffle on one of my most recent indie rock playlists and let the music keep me company as I cook. I find pots and pans in a large drawer under the microwave, pull out the two I need, and set them up on the stove.

Finding a medium-sized silver mixing bowl, I do a quick sweep of the rest of the kitchen, piling up salt, pepper, bread, and a few utensils in my arms. Lining them all up on the counter, I start by cracking four eggs into the bowl. Then I add salt, pepper, and milk, and whisk it all together.

I turn on two burners and begin heating up the pans, filling one with bacon and the other with the eggs. When they’re both hot enough, I scramble the eggs over the heat, and quickly switch off the burner as I search high and low for some lids to stop the eggs from going cold and the bacon from spitting at me.