I rolled my eyes and scanned the walls of his apartment. He didn’t have much. A single bedroom, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and the living room, where we both sat. My eyes caught on a picture, framed, resting right above the TV. I’d never seen it there before. “Does Mary know you have that?” I motioned to the photo before standing up and walking over to it. It was of him and me, sitting on the porch steps, I was smiling at the camera. Clayton was smiling at me. That same sad smile I’d known ever since he had moved into the house. I wore one of those paper party hats on my head. It was my thirteenth birthday. I remembered it because Clayton had given me so much shit about being a teenager.
I had been with Mary and Dean only a few weeks when Clayton had joined us. We were both withdrawn and quiet, and somehow, that attracted us to each other. He’d never had a mom, I’d never had a dad, and that was the basis of our early relationship. Soon after I’d moved in, I’d told him about my life, about losing my mom and my aunt. Clayton—even though he was young at the time himself—had known enough to keep his secrets until I was old enough to understand them. When I was twelve, he’d told me about his past. And that had been when Clayton had become my hero. Because despite the fact that I’d lost everyone close, I had been loved, and I was left with those memories. The love, and the laughter, and the joy of my family. Clayton—he was left with nothing but nightmares.
He cleared his throat, standing behind me now. “No. I stole the album and got a bunch copied, then returned it. She never knew. She’d kick my ass if she knew I’d taken it.”
I laughed. He was right, she would.
“Mary and Dean are amazing people, huh?” There was something about his tone. A sadness I recognized but hadn’t heard in a while.
I turned to him, but his gaze was still on the picture. A slight smile graced his face. “Are you okay?” I asked.
His eyebrows furrowed before he looked at me. “Of course. Why?”
I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said, even though a part of me didn’t believe him.
Sighing, he sat back down on the sofa. “I’m just tired, Chloe. Don’t take it personally. The shifts are taking their toll. Lisa being away in college and barely having time for phone calls. You—with this whole Blake thing—”
“It’s not a thing.”
“Are you sure? Because I never thought I’d see the day when I had to start turning boys away for you.” He grinned now, the amusement evident.
“I’m positive,” I assured him, then changed the subject. “Did I wake you when I showed up?”
“No,” he said quickly, though I knew it was a lie. My expression must have shown it, because he added, “Yes, but it’s no big deal.”
I grabbed the cushion from behind me and set it on my lap, patting it twice as an invitation. He didn’t hesitate, just set his mug down on the coffee table, rested his head on my lap, and kicked his legs up, settling them over the arm of the sofa. His eyes slowly drifted shut while I ran my fingers through his hair. “This is nice,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, you stopped having nightmares after a while—actually, right after my thirteenth birthday—and you didn’t need my help anymore.” I knew why he’d stopped having them, but I didn’t want to bring it up.
It was silent for a moment before a chuckle escaped him. His eyes snapped open.
“What?”
“Remember you used to sing to me while you did this? I tried to deal with it for like, a week, but then I couldn’t take it anymore. Your singing voice is ass.”
“Shut up!” But I was laughing, too.
“Seriously, Chloe. You sound like a dying cat whose claws are being scraped down a chalkboard.”
“I’m not that bad!” I got another cushion and started hitting him with it. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll start again.”
“Oh shit. Please don’t.”
I started hitting him again, harder this time. He let me get a few good shots in before pulling the cushion from my grip. He threw it, hitting our picture on the wall. He got up quickly to straighten it before resuming his position.
“It wasn’t that bad, actually. In fact, I want to hear you again. What was that song you used to sing?”
I remembered the tune; Mom used to sing it all the time. Looking back now, the words held more meaning than I had ever realized. A lump formed in my throat, but I spoke through it. “Eric Clapton. Tears in Heaven.”
“That’s right.” His mind seemed to be somewhere distant. He blinked hard, bringing himself back to the present. Then his eyes bore into mine. “Sing it?”
“Clayton, I can’t—”
“Please?” And there was that little boy I grew up with. The first, and only, person I’d ever let love me after my mom and aunt died.
“Okay.”
His eyes seemed heavy as they drifted shut.
And I started to sing.
I sang through the giant knot in my throat, the memories of my mother and of Clayton filling my mind.
Clayton lay still, his eyes closed. I watched his handsome face, void of emotion. His eyes were red when he finally opened them at the end of the song. “I love you, Chloe.”
“I love you, too, Clay.”