Page 18 of Brazen Mistakes

Meals, a roof over your head, all those ridiculously expensive running shoes.

All those meets your dad drove you to. Cheered you on at.

All those medical bills with your knee. All the physical therapy appointments.

And this is how you repay us?

Shit. This is so much worse than I thought it would be. I’d hoped that eventually, my mom might apologize, understand that what she did was wrong. That love can’t be earned, measured and doled out like so many peas on your plate.

I’m so fucking dumb. Of course she won’t say sorry. Nothing is ever her fault. It’s always mine or my dad’s fault. Her clients and her friends. The other drivers on the road and the idiots in the parking lot.

My phone continues to buzz, and I can’t look away, my heart pounding in my chest.

I had to lie to my brother yesterday. I said you had the flu.

You made me a liar, Clara.

And you’ve made your father cry.

I’m dialing before I can stop myself. It picks up on the third ring. “Clara-girl?”

My dad’s voice is ragged. My mom wasn’t lying. Tears threaten, but I hold them back. “Merry Christmas, Dad!” I say, forcing cheer where I feel none.

“Merry Christmas, mija. How are you? Doing anything special today?”

“Not today, but I had a big feast with Walker and Trips on the day before Christmas Eve. Those two will be back any minute, and I’m sure we’ll do something fun.”

“Excellent. I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

“How about you?”

The pause is long, and my heart clenches in my chest.

“I miss you. But I understand why you stayed away.”

Silence follows that statement.

“Dad—” I say, but he cuts in.

“No, Clara. I wasn’t done. Not really. I just need, or I want, to say that, well, I’ve had some time to think, and I don’t know. I guess, Dios mio, I’m struggling with my words here, Clara.”

“I think I get it, Dad.” Swallowing back my fear, I try to parse out what he’s not saying. “You’re sorry that you didn’t notice how bad things had gotten with Mom sooner, right?”

“Yeah. That.”

“What about how bad things have gotten between you and Mom?”

He sighs. “Your mom loves hard. And she hurts easy. Don’t worry about me.”

Of course I worry about him. I’d be foolish not to. My phone buzzes a few more times in my hand—my mom continuing her recriminations.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Clara-girl.”

We sit in awkward silence, neither of us knowing how to continue this conversation. It’s too heavy for Christmas. But it needed to happen. The back door unlocks, and I twist in time to see Trips marching past with a bag slung over his broad shoulders. “I’ve gotta go, Dad. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

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