Neena is going to die. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
My breaths come out in fiery gasps and my knees buckle. I fall to the cracked concrete as a wail escapes me. And I bow down, letting my head rest on the cold ground as I cry.
She didn’t ask me to come today, but I wanted to. I wanted to barge in the office and sit beside her to find out what the results were. But she’d probably have ripped me a new one, so I decided not to push. Instead, I found her car and decided to wait outside for her. I’m not a praying man. Not in the least. But I decided it couldn’t hurt. So as I waited, seated on Clara’s hood, I closed my eyes and prayed for the first time in a long time.
God. I know I’m a piece of shit. I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for the girl, my little girl. Please. Just please, God.
That’s when I hear Clara cry out and open my eyes to find her crumpled on the dirty parking lot ground in a mess of tears.
Guess God is giving me my answer.
Standing, I take a moment to swallow back the ache climbing up my throat trying to choke me before going to her. She needs me to be strong. When I reach her, I don’t speak. Nothing I say will make a lick of difference. People passing by are staring, their gazes judgmental, and I want to kick their teeth out. Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her to her car and set her on the back, then I hold her.
My fingers dig into his back as I cling to him. His shirt is drenched with my tears where my head rests on his shoulder. His hand cups the back of my head, holding me as I unleash my greatest fear realized. I’m not sure how long he holds me, but eventually my sobs ebb and I manage to pull away from him, and when my gaze meets his, it almost sucks the breath right out of me.
Paul James is crying, too.
I fling myself back into his arms, squeezing him as his body convulses, fighting the anguish he wants to let out. When he pulls away, he wipes at his eyes with his palms and clears his throat.
“I’m sorry, Clara,” he rasps. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to be a match. I wanted to save her. I mean . . . it’s the least I could do after not being here for her for so long.”
Taking one of his hands in mine, I squeeze it. As I’d wandered to my car earlier, a part of me wanted to blame him. The pettiest, smallest part of me. Aside from whatever flaws or shortcomings I see in him, I know he would cut the heart right out of his chest to save her. “It’s not your fault,” I manage through my own hoarse voice.
“How long do we have?”
“A few months, maybe half a year, if we’re lucky.”
He bites his lip and nods a few times, then surprises me by cupping my face in his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes at my cheeks. “Will you let me stay? Will you let me have this time with her, too?”
Nodding, I slide off the hood and straighten my shirt. There are so many conflicted feelings when it comes to Paul. But I know Neena wants to know him. I know, deep down in my heart, she would want him close. So no matter my reservations, I have to give this to her. And the only way to trust Paul won’t disappear is to keep him right under my nose. “Why don’t you move in with us? You can have the guest room.”
“Are you sure?”
Giving him a sad smile, I say, “Honestly, no. But she’ll need us both.” I don’t tell him that maybe Neena isn’t the only one that might need him.
After we tell the news to Marcus, who takes it pretty rough, we decide the three of us should sit down and tell Neena altogether. I couldn’t let them do it alone. Picking Neena up from Marcus’s house where she’s spent the afternoon hanging with Mei-ling, I take her home while Marcus closes up and Clara heads out determined to buy all of Neena’s favorite foods for dinner. I think they both want some time to themselves to process and calm down before Neena sees them.
We pull in the driveway when Neena asks, “What’s wrong?”
Feigning confusion, I reply, “What do you mean?”
“You’re so quiet.”
“Am I?” I hadn’t realized I’d been silent most of the way here. I can’t stop thinking about how awful it will be to tell her that I am not a match.
She watches me for a moment, her mouth in a tight, flat line. “Please don’t lie to me. I hate liars. What’s going on?”
Damn she’s just like her mother. Intuitive and never settling for an easy answer. “Hate is not a nice word. It’s just been a bad day,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. And that isn’t a lie. It’s been an awful fucking day.
She turns her head, staring straight ahead, her voice stoic, when she asks, “You’re not a match, are you?”