Page 29 of Tourist Trap

I stand there for a long beat waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, I stand there long enough for my alarm to go off on my phone, reminding me to get out the door for work.

As I turn, he finally starts. “Claire?—”

I shake my head, reaching down to grab the bag I packed this morning. “I gotta get going. To work, the place where I’m going to just be a giant child and save lives. Later, Miles.”

And even though I think I hear him say my name again before he mumbles a curse under his breath, I don’t look back. Instead, I slip out the door, desperate to get away from him and his suffocating judgment.

ELEVEN

MILES

“So Claire Donovan, huh?” my mom asks later that day when I stop at her coffee shop for a quick check-in disguised as a coffee break. I try to stop in a few times a week so I don’t start to worry her, but this time, I regret it instantly, forgetting that the gossip mill runs rampant in this town and always makes a stop at Seaside Coffee. “Interesting that I had to hear about that from someone other than my own son, isn’t it?”

I sigh, weighing my options. I could leave right now and avoid this interrogation, but that would just delay it. And honestly, it’s better we talk about this than Paul or the house. If I direct this conversation correctly, I might be able to avoid her asking aboutwhyI took on a renter, something that would just give her undue stress.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy. She needed a place to stay, and Helen sent her my way,” I say.

“Sure, sure. And I’m sure your willingness to house her has nothing to do with the way you always looked at her?”

My head moves back at that.

“Like she’s a pain in my ass?” My mom doesn’t argue but gives me a look that I’ve seen a million times over. One that saysyou can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to your mother. “She’s a fucking headache,” I grumble eventually, and my mom just shrugs.

”Sometimes a headache is exactly what you need to loosen up.” It’s a reminder of Claire’s insistence I have more fun, and with it, a mental image of her happy, yellow list echoes in my mind.

So does the sad, hurt look she gave me this morning, twisting the knife in my gut.

“You know, Grant was in here,” she starts, and my jaw tightens, realizing that’s where the leak is from. I add punching him in the face to my never-ending to-do list. “Andhethinks that there’s some kind of chemistry between you two that you should act on. And you know what? I agree.”

I blink at her a few times because I must have entered some other timeline, and I’m the only one who understands reality.

“She’s Paul’s ex,” I say slowly, as if she’s forgotten. Mom waves her hand in my direction as if that’s a non-issue.

“She was always too good for him, and even Paul knew it.” My eyes go wide, and she rolls hers as if I’m being dramatic for no reason. “Oh, come on, you knew it too.”

I did, but I never would have said that out loud, much less to ourmother.

But since we’re on the topic, maybe I can get more information on how that all went down, or at least Paul’s twisted side of it.

“Do you know what happened?” I ask, trying to play it off.

Mom shakes her head but answers with a heavy sigh all the same. “You know how your brother is. I have to read between the lines with that one. But from what I got, she left to follow him to LA, and then he, well, you know. Was Paul.” I raise my eyebrows at that, definitely understanding how Paul can be. “He said she started nagging at him and”—her fingers move in air quotes as if she doesn’t believe whatever it is she’s going to repeat—“wouldn’t stop bitching, so he dumped her.”

I have to fight the instinct to tighten my jaw at the thought of Paul saying that to her because my mom will read into every reaction. But the truth is, the idea of my brother saying that about Claire makes me see red.

“So she stuck up for herself, and he didn’t like it,” I say, knowing that’s what Paul always says when someone asks for him to be semi-responsible or treat them with respect.

Mom shrugs. “That’s what I think. But what do I know? Has she said anything to you about it?”

I sigh and shake my head. I don’t tell my mom I haven’t taken the time to ask, much less that I’ve spent the week she’s been living with me, either judging her or ignoring her.

God, I’m a fucking asshole.

“I always liked that girl. A lot of fun, but super smart. I kind of always hoped she would help get Paul’s head out of his ass, but I also knew he would fumble a good girl like her.” I turn to her, surprised. “You know, she always looked at you with stars in her eyes…” She lifts an eyebrow as if I’m going to fill in with some new information or, better yet, a confession of love.

“Stop looking at me like that, Mom. That is never going to happen,” I say, needing to nip my mom’s hopeful expression before her mind goes any further.

“Why not? She’s sweet,” she says, aghast that I wouldn’t even consider it.

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