Page 41 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Clay, why did you really leave?” Her voice was steady but I could see the hurt buried in her eyes. “Was it just because you thought I cheated? Why didn't we ever talk about it?”

I sighed. “It wasn't just about you,” I said, my throat tightening. “There was...so much more.”

“Like what?” she pressed.

“Michael.” The name felt like a shard of ice in my mouth. “After we took that boat out, after…fuck, after he fell in. After he died right in front of us, I don’t think I saw a way forward.”

Her hand found mine this time, gripping it tight. “Oh, Clay.”

“Everything changed that day,” I admitted, feeling the old pain mingling with the warmth from her touch. “We shouldn't have taken that boat. I was too cocky, I thought we were invincible.”

“Clay,” she whispered, squeezing my hand tighter. “You can't blame yourself for what happened.”

“Can't I?” It was a whisper, a question meant more for myself than for her. “I was supposed to have his back. He was my twin, for fuck’s sake.”

“Stop it.” Her voice cut through my self-pity. “Accidents happen. You couldn't have known.”

“Maybe.” I finally faced her, seeing the determination in those deep brown eyes. “But he died, Grace. And part of me died with him.”

Her fingers traced the lines of my palm, a silent support. “And so you left?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely above a gravelly murmur. “I left because every corner of this town, every glance in the mirror showed me a life Michael would never get to live. So I bailed—on you, on Dad, on everything that reminded me of him.”

“Clay...” she didn't finish, but her eyes said it all. They held a depth of understanding that made the tightness in my chest loosen ever so slightly.

“Guess I thought if I put enough miles between me and Silver Ridge, I could outrun the guilt.” I shook my head, a bitter laughescaping me. “Turns out, your own head is one hell of a place to get lost in.”

“Sierra did what she did because we were all broken, Grace. And my dad…fuck, he was even worse.” I reached up and squeezed the bridge of my nose, wincing. “He even told me he wished I was the one who died.”

She gasped. “He said what?”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the smoldering coals. “Yeah. One night, he was deep into a bottle of whiskey, and out it came. Felt like a punch to the gut.”

“Clay, that's...” she trailed off, struggling to find the words. “Nobody should ever have to hear that from their parent.”

“Welcome to my world,” I said with a dry chuckle, devoid of any real humor. “It's why I couldn't stay here, couldn't be the person everyone needed me to be.”

Grace's hand found mine again, her grip firm and unyielding. “You were just a kid, Clay. You didn't deserve any of that.”

“Didn't stop it from happening, though.” I glanced at her, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “But I guess we've both had our share of tough breaks.”

“More than our share,” she agreed, squeezing my hand.

I took a deep breath, the weight of years heavy on my chest. “And that's why I had to leave...and why I had to let you go,” I confessed. “I had to get away from him, from everything about the life I'd had before Michael died. I hoped the army could be my escape and my redemption. But it turns out, they were neither.”

Grace was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. When she spoke, her voice was soft but steady. “I understand why you left, Clay. I don't blame you. It's just...”

“Go on,” I urged, turning to face her more directly.

She met my gaze, her eyes a pool of empathy and lost chances. “I just wish things could have been different for us, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” I ran my other hand through my hair, feeling suddenly restless. “I do too, Grace. Every damn day. You know, you were...”

I trailed off. I didn’t know if I was ready to say it, wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear it.

The love of my life.

“I was what?” she pressed.

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