Claire Left

He stopped, the bottle hovering midair, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.

"What?" The syllable sounded small, defensive, almost childlike—a man backed into a corner by grief.

"You haven't answered Dad for weeks, you look like you've been dragged behind a truck, your house smells like a distillery, and now you're pouring another drink while I'm asking you what happened." Her voice was trembling with anger and helplessness, each accusation stacking up like empty bottles on the counter.

Drew stared into the glass, as if the answer to everything might be floating in the whiskey’s golden depths.

For several seconds, he said nothing, the seconds stretching thin and painful, as a wire pulled too tight.

Laura's anger faltered, replaced by a creeping sadness that made her throat ache. She glanced away, ashamed of how much she wanted him to fight back.

Because his face did too—something in his expression crumpled, the bravado slipping away to reveal just exhaustion and hurt.

His mouth tightened, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he didn’t argue with her. He just stood there, small and stubborn.

Not much. Just enough to let her know she’d hit something sore and real, like pressing a bruise to see how deep the pain went.

Just enough for Laura to regret the sharpness in her tone, wishing she could take it back and try again with gentler hands.

He turned away, shoulders curling inward, retreating into himself as if the room had suddenly become too bright.

"Claire left." The words dropped like a stone in a still pond, shock rippling out from the center of the kitchen.

The room seemed to contract around the words, air thickening, Laura’s arms folding instinctively across her chest as if bracing for a blow.

Laura's arms dropped to her sides, leaden and useless, the anger draining out of her and replaced by a heavy, aching empathy.

“When?” Laura asked, her voice gentle but insistent, needing something solid to hold onto in the shifting uncertainty.

“A couple of weeks,” Drew replied, the words dropping between them like loose change, heavy and unimpressive, his gaze fixed on a crack in the table.

That matched John's timeline. Laura tucked the fact away, a small anchor in a storm of loose ends, even as it made the story no less bleak.

“Where did she go?” she pressed, her hands curling into tight fists in her lap, dreading the answer and needing it all the same.

“Don't know.” Drew’s shoulders rose and fell in a shallow shrug, the gesture stripped of all hope or pretense.

“You don't know?” Laura echoed, disbelief and concern tangled in her voice, the phrase trembling with all the ways she wanted to help and couldn’t.

“She has a sister in Portland.” His tone was flat, but Laura heard the hint of longing for certainty, even if it was borrowed from someone else’s address.

Laura waited, watching the lines at the corners of Drew's eyes deepen as he struggled to keep himself together.

Drew lifted the glass with a shaking hand, the movement slow and almost reverent, as if it were both a comfort and a confession.

Laura reached out and took it from his hand before he could drink, her fingers steady, an act of gentle defiance that surprised them both.

He looked at her, confusion and a flicker of something like gratitude passing through the exhaustion in his eyes.

Laura set the glass on the far counter, a quiet declaration that she would not sit by while he disappeared into himself. The sound of glass on laminate rang out, small but final.

“No,” she said, voice firm but kind, drawing a boundary neither of them had the energy to argue against.

His brows lifted, a silent protest brewing behind his tired eyes, but he didn’t move to reclaim the glass.

“Excuse me?” The words came out ragged, more habit than real challenge, as if he was testing to see how far she’d push.

“You heard me.” Laura met his gaze, refusing to look away, her resolve steady and unflinching for once.

“Laura.” Drew’s voice was low, warning and weary, but Laura heard the cracks running through it.

“No,” she repeated, her hands flat on the counter, grounding herself in the act of standing firm.

“This is my house,” he said, voice rising just enough to sound defensive, as if naming it might make it true again.

“And that is apparently your entire food pyramid,” Laura shot back, a weak smile ghosting across her lips, trying to mask worry with humor.

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, maybe, or shame, or the ache of someone realizing he’d lost track of himself.

Anger, perhaps, but it flickered out before it could catch, replaced by exhaustion that seemed to settle into every line of his body.

It vanished almost immediately, leaving his features slack and spent, too tired even to hold onto outrage.

He looked exhausted even by irritation, as if the effort of getting angry cost more than he could afford.

Laura exhaled, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders dropping a fraction as she tried to steady herself.