Page 73 of Thicker Than Water
“I’ve thought a million times about what I’d say to you, how to apologize for what I did. I do the school circuit now, the whole cautionary-tale assembly thing.”
He fiddles with the strings of his hoodie—Willow Creek Varsity Soccer, a decades-old costume he’s still wearing of the popular jock.The fabric is blindingly white, like it’s never once held a stain he had to scrub out or bleach.
“I’ve said thousands of words to thousands of people,” he says, “about that night, the aftermath. But I’ve never figured out the ones I’d say to the two of you.”
The aftermath.That’s what he dares to call it: me sobbing until I’m sure my body is splintering; Jason holding me as if his arms were steel beams; grief, that ancient wrecking ball, crushing us anyway.
It wasn’t aftermath. It was ruins.
“I guess there aren’t any,” Clive adds. “Words, I mean.” He waits for a woman to walk by before he continues. “But I’ll always be sorry. I was… such an asshole that night, drinking and driving, and your family didn’t deserve to pay the price for my mistake.”
My nails dagger my palms.Mistake. An asshole that night—as if it was all a fluke, a one-time thing, him acting so reckless, hurting people. But it’s just like I said to Wyatt last night: being drunk doesn’t change who you are; it only brings out what’s already there.
“You’vealwaysbeen an asshole,” I say. “Not that that word even scratches the surface. You think my parents are all you have to be sorry for? You think I really don’t remember what you did to me in high school? And yeah, murder’s worse than assault, but don’t you dare stand here and act like, other than that one night, you were a fucking saint.”
“Assault?” he says—and I could kill him for looking so surprised.
“Oh, fuck you.Iwas the one who was drunk at that party, and I still remember, so don’t even give me that.”
“Wait. You’re saying I assaultedyou? At a… party in high school?”
“Your hands were all over me. You said,shh, just relax, because you knew I didn’t want you touching me anymore. And if my brother hadn’t come in and thrown you off me, who knows what you would have done!”
“Your brother…” He says it slowly, each syllable distinct, like he’s testing out the memory to see if it fits. Finally, clarity dawns on his face. “Okay, yeah. Bill Stanton’s party. You and I started to hook up.”
My fingers clench harder. My nails stab deeper.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” he says, “if I took things too far that night. I have a daughter now, and I’d hate to think that someone might—”
“Donotgo there.”
“Go where?”
“Telling me you have a daughter now, so you finally understand that women are people.”
“That’s not— I’m just saying, if I was out of line, I’m glad your brother intervened. Although…” Clive crosses his arms, purses his lips in thought. “I have to say, I remember now thinking that was a little weird.”
“My brother protecting me?”
“No. The moment he chose to.”
In my palm, there’s a sharp pinch, like a needle puncturing skin. “You mean the moment he figured out you brought me upstairs? Yeah, he rushed right in.”
Clive squints at me, even though the sun’s still behind a cloud. “That’s… not what happened.” He opens his mouth to continue, then closes it again. He looks toward a row of shopping carts. “But if that’s what your brother told you, it’s not my place to say otherwise.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s not my place,” he repeats, eyes still pointed away—and there’s something I don’t like in them, an emotion that takes me a moment to identify because it’s so out-of-place with what we’re talking about.
Pity. Clive’s eyes are filled with pity.
Not remorse for his actions. Not even denial. Instead, he lookslike he’s withholding a piece of that night that would devastate me to know.
But that’s impossible. I was there. I remember every second. Clive’s mouth on mine. His hand on my breast. My shoulder blades jammed against the wall. His fingers tugging the button of my jeans. Then Jason—out of nowhere, as if I’d conjured him through my panic alone—yanking Clive off me. Saving me.Savingme.
“You’re lying.” My palms grow slick. My nails slip against skin that’s wet and warm.
“Look, I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Clive says. “I’m sorry for a lot of things. I hope you’re—I hope you’re doing well, Sienna. Jason, too.”
