My forehead touches the door. If I had been older, less wounded, perhaps I would have noticed how proud she was in the way her shoulders lifted a fraction higher. But I was raw. First she left, then Tate, and their abandonment wrapped my heart in granite. I wouldn’t allow anybody to hurt me again. So I snorted at her and tossed the chip back. It hit her cloth bag and fell soundlessly to the floor, where it looked like nothing more than a small and useless token.

Ninety days? You’ve been gone for five years, and you think I’m going to give a fuck about ninety days? I wasn’t frozen anymore; I was filled with a heated rage that had spread outward from my core, tingling my fingers and toes. All I could think about was every time she wasn’t there when I’d woken from a nightmare shaking and crying, the details she’d missed, like the time I kissed Tate and threw up because he tasted like chewing tobacco, or the first time I shaved and nicked every bony part of my knees, or when Tate broke my heart, all of it adding up to a towering height that wobbled in the air between us.

Claire, Dad said in the same low warning tone he’d used for the bear he scared out of our lobby when I was seven. He was ready to welcome her with open arms. I was not. I shut my mouth and folded my arms, stared at my mom.

She’d held my gaze for a long moment, her eyes soft, but her body caved inward like I’d punched her. Then she’d bent over and picked up the token, gray hairs threaded thickly through the length of her ponytail. When she stood up she nodded, the token grasped in her hand.

Alice, Dad said from behind me, plaintive, forgiving, gentle. My spine straightened at the weakness in it, and I balled my hands into fists. She would not hurt him again. I wouldn’t allow it this time.

Mom had held up her hand. She’s right, Vance. It’s too soon. Claire, sweetheart, it doesn’t need to be today or tomorrow or even next year. But one day I’ll make it up to you. I swear I will.

Then she’d taken in a deep breath and given me a smile that reminded me of Saturday mornings when the buttery scent of cinnamon rolls filled our apartment. I’d had to steel myself against a sudden urge to invite her inside, but I didn’t relent. Her apology had come too late. I was nearly an adult, heading off to college soon, and I didn’t need her anymore. We didn’t need her anymore.