Page 100 of Tides That Bind

I’m so sorry for thinking we could pull off the Dirty Dancing move. I get ambitious when I drink. I hope I didn’t hurt you.

The hurt I feel isn’t a pulled back or strained bicep. It’s not even the way I’m finding myself aching for Harper.

No. The pain I feel is that I’ll never let myself have a chance to act on it.

I put my phone down and look over at Lucas who gives the Ketch-Up bottle a big shake before flipping the cap open and squeezing a more than hefty amount on his plate.

“Dude.”

Lucas looks at me, the hot dog that apparently is a vessel for the condiment held in mid-air. A drop hits his plate and he frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” I laugh. “Carry on.”

I grab the serving dish from the table and head back to the grill to load burgers. “We have more buns?”

“In the kitchen.” Harper balances a large bowl of saladeveryone will just push around their plate and not really eat. She’s got a bag of chips stuffed under her arm and a packet of napkins stuck into the back pocket of her jean shorts I try hard not to stare at.

I take the chips and bowl, but leave the napkins.

“I’ll get them.”

I place the stuff on the table. Taking the steps up to the back porch by two, I fly into the kitchen, my eyes wanting to scan the countertops but settle instead on the person in the entry.

“Oh. Riley.”

How many times has this woman said my name this way, like she’s acting surprised to see me and yet always have a plate of French toast ready for me to eat when I’d come to pick Nate up for school. There’d always be a blow-up mattress for me to sleep on when I didn’t want to go home at night.

Claire sets the pan on the counter along with a small bag. “Strawberry short-cake.”

How many times did Nate and I battle over who got to scrape the left-over whipped cream from the bowl after Claire had assembled the cake? How many times did she laugh and roll her eyes at us before handing us plates, each one loaded with an extra dollop of cream?

“H-hi.” I stutter.

How many times did this woman look at me—treat me—no differently than her own son?

Claire smiles, which tells me she’s doing it now. She’s opening her arms and greeting me like I’m Nate, like she’s never been more grateful to see me in her life.

Even after…everything.

“I’m happy you came home,” Claire whispers. She’s given me hundreds of hugs over the course of my life. This one, it feels different. There’s an extra squeeze, a deep breath, and when I hug her back, Claire trembles.

I don’t have the heart to pull away. I wait for her to and it’snot lost on me how this hug lasts longer than any other she’s ever given me in my life.

Claire pulls away, wiping her eyes and I don’t know how, after overcoming the guilt to come home to Nate’s wife and son, I’m choking on it when it comes to his mother.

“I’m sorry.” I hang my head.

There is so much to be sorry for.

The accident.

The way I acted at the funeral, ignoring her.

The fact I never was brave enough to call, to visit, even now months later, to show respect to the woman who had no obligation to mother me as a child and continues to do so as a man.

“You’re here now,” Claire tells me, tucking her shoulder-length, brown hair behind her ear. “I always said you do things on your own time. Are you okay?”

She looks down at my left hand, and I swear, momsalwaysknow the truth. They know when you’re lying through your teeth about who toilet-papered the house down the street, or that you’re full of shit when you tell them you’re spending the night at a friend’s house and that friend told his parents he’s sleeping at yours.

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