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And I want, so desperately, to know what comes next.

Unfastening my mouth from hers, I bring my lips to her ear, wishing we weren’t surrounded by all this loud music.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess. “But I really want to do that again.”

Zara takes the lead now, her lips on mine, hands gliding down my back and resting on my backside. She squeezes and caresses my ass, pressing me into her as my tongue slides past the seam of her mouth, eager to taste her.

With the faint taste of tequila still clinging to our lips, our tongues move in tandem, the kiss deep, the need evident. When Zara’s thigh slips between my legs again, purposefully grazing against me, the pulse in my aching clit becomes my new heartbeat. Rapture replaces rationale.

Ineedmore.

More of her. More of this. More of whatever it is that’s making me feelsogood.

Zara pulls back from the kiss, her chocolate-colored eyes searching mine. “Want to get out of here?” she shouts.

Wordlessly, I slip my hand into hers and lead the way, pushing through the crowd, not caring about anything but reaching that exit. As soon as we step out into the cool air, she tugs on my arm until I’m pressed against her, her mouth on mine.

“I’ve got a hotel room,” she murmurs against my lips. “Spend the night with me?”

There is no way for her to know just how much weight her question holds or that I don’t ever sleep anywhere but my bed—and thankfully, she will never know, because tonight isn’t about Clem and all her hang ups.

Tonight I’m Clementine, and Clementine is hers.

3

ZARA

SIX MONTHS LATER

“Are you coming home for dinner?” I ask before taking a quick sip of my do-it-yourself iced coffee.

“No,” Raine says while stuffing the last bit of her grilled cheese sandwich into her mouth. “I’m closing tonight, so I won’t be home till around ten.”

“I love it when you work late,” I lie. “I’m always up for a night of no cooking.”

Not for the first time, nostalgia wraps itself around my heart and squeezes. We’ve been in Los Angeles for almost six months and I’ve yet to find my groove. I thought the most obvious changes—new job, new friends, new house—would be the hardest things to adapt to. But it turns out watching your daughter learn how to fly in order to leave you, is not at all how I thought it would be.

I thought I’d prepared myself. I thought the excitement of watching the girl I raised blossom into a beautiful young woman would override the anticipated sting of becoming an empty nester.

But every day is more bittersweet than the one before.

I had Raine when I was sixteen, and I’ve now lived with her for more years than I’ve lived without her. I’m at that age where I can see how my world will always orbit around her but hers would no longer consist of just me.

And it shouldn’t. Logically I know that, but my head and my heart are still trying to find a place where both grief and pride can coexist. Where I can still mourn the loss and change of my old life, yet eagerly want to watch Raine immerse herself in her new one.

“Dad said to call him if you’re free this morning,” she informs me.

I glance at my cell on the counter. “Does he have an issue calling me himself?”

“He said something about not wanting to annoy you, but I don’t know what that even means, and I’ve got to go, or I’m going to be late to class.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, babe.”

My eyes follow her as she putters around the house, picking up her bag and water bottle, slipping her arms into her jacket, and tying her long brown hair into a top knot on her head. It’s always surreal watching her—a literal carbon copy of myself—perfectly executing the independence I’ve spent my whole life instilling in her.

“Have a good day,” I call out.

She raises her hand up in a wave before walking out the door, and I take it as my cue to start getting ready for the day. I don’t start work till midday, but as always, there are one hundred errands to run and a never-ending list of things I refer to as “life and house admin.”