Page 115 of Between the Lines

But dating also sounds a lot like puttingClairefirst. My heart can’t fathom being number one, but I’d put myself at number two if it meant giving her that first spot.

forty-six

claire

I haven’t been homesince I moved in with Penelope. It’s only been a few weeks, but this isweird.

From the outside looking in, everything just seems off. The winding curves of the neighborhood seem more jagged, the colors of the houses more muted. Even the Christmas decorations seem haphazard. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality where this is still the house I grew up in, and yet, everything’s a little to the left.

I approach the front door and hesitate.

What’s the protocol here? Do I knock? I still have a key. I know the garage code. I shift the large tote of gifts for my siblings and the cookies I baked fresh last night and rap my knuckles softly three times against the front door. After a minute or two, it swings open.

When Michael opens the door, clad in Christmas pajamas I haven’t seen before, something in me relaxes. Iknowthat the tension was in anticipation of seeing my parents. It only wanes a little.

“Oh. Hey. We’re eating cinnamon rolls.”

That’s all I get. He presses the door open, then glances down at his phone as he heads into the kitchen.

I check the time on the hallway clock. I’m ten minutesearlyfor the time my mom set.

They started without me.

I swallow a lump the size of Texas, adjust the bag on my shoulder, take a deep breath, and follow my brother inside. In the kitchen is a picturesque scene that I hesitate to disturb.

A family in matching Christmas pajamas, frosting cinnamon rolls while they share laughter and the holiday spirit. For a moment, my chest tightens, breath catching in fear thatI don’t belong here anymore.

But then Harper lifts her head from where she’s devouring her cinnamon roll, her chipmunk cheeks tinted pink, and stares at me wide eyed before darting from her chair.

“Claire’s here!”

The chair topples over, and she slips on her too-long plaid pants, but scurries into my awaiting arms. A torrent of emotions rushes up my throat, clogging it briefly as I make a futile attemptnotto cry. But as soon as she saysI missed you, I can’t stop it. Tears stream into her cute little bob, and I squeeze her tightly, only releasing her when I feel the brute impact of Ryan slamming into me with a hug. I welcome him in and kiss the top of his head, responding to his,Hiya, Claire,with a tearfully smiley,I missed you, buddy.

Ryan leaves first, returning enthusiastically to his cinnamon roll, and is quickly replaced by a toddling Oliver. My little man. I scoop him into my arms and inhale the still lingering toddler shampoo scent. When I pull back, he squeezes my cheeks in his chubby fists and says, “We go to the library, Cwaire?”

“Not today, buddy. Santa came! Should we finish your cinnamon roll and open presents?”

At the mention of cinnamon rolls and Santa, he hoists himself off my lap and returns to his booster seat. Harper, still propped on my thigh, plays with my hair, twisting two pieces around one another.

Because I told her that I’d teach her to braid, but then I left.

“Can we go to the library soon, Claire? Mommy can’t take us.”

The quietness of her words echoes, like she knows too young that this should be kept between us.

Can’t, or won’t?

It echoes loudly, guilt clogging my heart as I carefully take the snarls of my hair from her fingers, part it into three, and braid the strand hand over hand while I answer.

“I’d love to take you to the library, Harps. I’ll see what I can do.”

We finish the quick braid, and I kiss her forehead right over her bangs, help her stand, and then stand myself, brushing crumbs from my leggings as I go.

Luckily, there’s still a few cinnamon rolls left by the time I bend to hug my father, kiss my mother’s cheek, and take the seat that was once mine at the kitchen table. I’m not sure if it still is. I sit mechanically, wondering if this chair will swallow me whole.

“We’re about ready to start opening gifts,” Mom says, taking empty plates to the counter. I have to will the muscle memory to stop me from helping.

“But Claire’s gotta finish her cimmamin roll!” Ryan insists. Bless him, because I sure don’t have the guts to say it.

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