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Back Memories in the Drift Save as PDF
Chapters (39)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. CHAPTER ONE
  6. CHAPTER TWO
  7. CHAPTER THREE
  8. CHAPTER FOUR
  9. CHAPTER FIVE
  10. CHAPTER SIX
  11. CHAPTER SEVEN
  12. CHAPTER EIGHT
  13. CHAPTER NINE
  14. CHAPTER TEN
  15. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  16. CHAPTER TWELVE
  17. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  18. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  19. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  20. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  21. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  22. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  23. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  38. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  39. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I move around him, but in the small space, my shoulder brushes against him, and I nearly crumple to the floor, longing to touch him, hug him, anything but this desperate sadness that makes me feel frozen and alone.

“You t . . . t-old me, Claire.” His voice is warm, soft, and dripping with what I know is pity. I hate it.

I turn to face him, eyes narrowed, because this I remember. “No, you’re wrong. I never told you. You’re married, Tate. I wasn’t going to ruin that for you. And I didn’t need you anymore. I could do it on my own, I . . .” Shame slithers across my skin.

“You t . . . t-old me afterward.”

“Oh.” My spine rounds forward. I told him. Afterward. And I can’t remember that. My vision blurs, but it doesn’t stop my hand from flying across the page of my notebook. I need to remember this; I need to remember everything. My hand aches.

“Claire.” His voice is sad, plaintive, and he tries to touch my forearm like he wants me to stop writing, but I shake him off, at once hating and clinging to the notebook in my hands because it’s the only thing I can depend on, my buffer against the unknown.

“I should have told you before, but now it doesn’t matter because she’s gone and I’m”—I speak through my teeth—“now I’m me and it’s better this way.”

I step into the hallway and hurry to the elevator, and when the doors close, I let my knees give way and sink to the floor, still writing, wiping tears off my face to keep the paper dry.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

The elevator door opens, and I step into the hallway just as my phone buzzes. Shower then Lunch with Sefina. I look around, unsure—this isn’t my floor; I see the number twelve by the elevator. Dad’s floor. I’m shaky and breathing too fast and trying to read my notes over and over. I told Tate about the baby, and he’s in Whittier. Mom lives in Whittier and everyone knows. A growing confusion winds through my body, wraps around me, and all I want is to be comforted by the booming timbre of Dad’s voice, to see his bearded face, to talk to him.

His apartment door is unlocked, so I walk inside. “Hello?” The air tastes of burned toast. I smile. It’s a smell that has probably become ingrained in every porous surface in his apartment. Dad and burned toast: his one culinary skill.