and as soon as the door closes, I burst into sobs. I cover my mouth with both hands, wanting it to stop. I don’t want to be sad. Or angry. I just want to be numb.
I see something out of the corner of my eye, so I look at the house next door. Mrs. Nettle is peeking out at me from behind her living room curtains, watching me as I cry.
She’s the nosiest neighbor we’ve ever had. It makes me angry that she’s watching me right now, probably getting pleasure from seeing me in the middle of a panic attack.
When she moved in three years ago, she didn’t like the color of grass in our yard because it didn’t match the grass in her yard. She tried to petition the homeowner’s association to force us to replant our yard with alfalfa rather than Saint Augustine.
And that was just the first month she lived here. She’s gotten so much worse since then.
God, my random anger at my eighty-year-old neighbor is making it even harder to breathe.
My heart rate is so fast right now I can feel it pounding in my neck. I put a hand on my chest just as Jonah returns with the water. He takes a seat next to me, ensuring I take a sip. Then another. He places the glass on the table between us.
“Lean forward and put your head between your knees,” he says.
I do it without question.
Jonah inhales a slow breath, intending for me to mimic it. I do. He repeats it about ten times, until my heart rate has slowed down significantly. When I feel less on the verge of a heart attack, I lift my head and lean back in the patio chair, attempting to refill my lungs with air. I let out a long sigh, then glance next door. Mrs. Nettle is still staring at us from behind her curtain.
She doesn’t even try to hide her nosiness. I flip her off, which works. She snatches the curtains shut and turns off her living room light.
Jonah makes a small sound in his throat, like he wants to laugh. Maybe it is funny, seeing me flip off an eighty-year-old. But there’s no way I could possibly find it in me to muster up even a modicum of laughter right now.
“How are you so calm?” I ask him.
Jonah leans back in his chair with a sidelong look in my direction. “I’m not calm,” he says. “I’m hurt. I’m angry. But I’m also not as invested as you, so I think it’s natural for us to have different reactions.”
“Not as invested as me?”
“Chris wasn’t my brother,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Jenny wasn’t someone I’ve been married to for half my life. They’ve cut you deeper than they’ve cut me.”
I look away from Jonah because his words make me want to wince. I don’t like that description. “They’ve cut you . . .”
It’s the perfect explanation for how I feel, but I never imagined Jenny and Chris would be the ones to make me feel it.
Jonah and I don’t speak for a while after that. I’m no longer crying, so I should probably go inside now that I’m in the clear. I’ve been trying to hide my emotions from Clara. Not the grief. The grief is natural. I don’t mind being sad in front of her. But I don’t want her to sense my anger. What Jenny and Chris did is something I never want Clara to find out. She’s gone through enough.
No telling how she’d lash out if she uncovered the truth about them. She’s already lashed out enough with behavior that is so unlike her.
“Clara left Chris’s funeral early. I found her at the movie theater getting high with that guy. Miller Adams. The one you claimed was a good kid?” I don’t know why I threw in that last part, like it’s somehow Jonah’s fault.
Jonah releases a sigh. “Wow.”
“I know. And the worst part is I don’t even know how to deal with it. Or how long I should ground her for.”
Jonah pushes himself out of the chair, coming to a stand. “She’s suffering. We all are. I doubt it’s something she’d have done if it were under different circumstances. Maybe give her a pass on her behavior this week.”
I nod, but I disagree with him. A free pass would be appropriate for something milder than doing drugs. It’s more appropriate for something like breaking curfew. I can’t just let it slide that she left Chris’s