SUNDAY NIGHT
Nolan arrived Sunday around six.
I heard the garage door open.
A few seconds later, he walked into the kitchen.
He looked tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He set his keys on the counter.
“Can we talk?”
I nodded.
He sat across from me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said:
“I handled Friday badly.”
“Yes.”
“I should have waited.”
“Yes.”
“I shouldn’t have told Mom you wanted me to go.”
“No.”
He looked down.
“I was afraid she’d blame you.”
I leaned back.
“That’s the part you still don’t understand.”
“What?”
“You weren’t protecting me.”
He frowned.
“You were protecting yourself.”
He didn’t respond.
“You didn’t want your mother angry at you. You didn’t want your father disappointed. So you made me responsible for the decision.”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
He had stopped thinking about what happened to me because he had become so focused on keeping everyone else comfortable.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Nolan looked surprised.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
He opened it.
Sierra stood outside.
She was holding an envelope.
“Can I come in?”
Nolan stared at her.
“What are you doing here?”
She looked at me.
“I owe Claire the rest of the story.”
Nolan’s expression changed.
“Sierra, don’t.”
She walked inside anyway.
She placed the envelope on the table.
“I found this in Mom’s car.”
