Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 19

Lorenzo’s POV 

The slap was so hard it spun my head and threw me against the wall. 

A hot sting spread across my cheek. The picture hook dug into my shoulder blade. For a second, the room doubled-two couches, two doors, two of my mother’s faces staring at me with a mix of fury and grief. 

I didn’t move. I didn’t lift my eyes. 

“Say something,” Mom rasped. “Look at me.  

I couldn’t. My mouth worked, but no words came. The silence stretched thin and cruel. 

She took that silence as an answer. 

“So it’s true,” she whispered. The anger in her eyes drained away, replaced by something worse-disappointment so deep it looked like a wound. “You did this.” 

Her breath hitched. “I always felt… Claire’s death was strange. But I never thought it was because of you.” 

I slid down the wall and sank to the floor. My legs wouldn’t hold me. My cheek throbbed in time with my heartbeat. 

“How could you?” Mom’s voice rose, sharp and shaking. “How could you do something so stupid, so ugly?”  

I swallowed and tasted blood. “Mom-” 

“She saved your life,” she cried. “Do you remember that? Do you remember the accident? Do you remember the boy who would rather be punished than leave her? The boy who said, ‘I’ll take care of you forever’-do you remember him?” 

“I remember,” I said, and my voice cracked. “Every day.” 

“You promised,” she said. “In front of everyone. In front of her parents.” Her voice broke on the last words. “What am I supposed to tell them now—in my prayers? What face do I take to their graves?” 

I couldn’t bear it. My hands shook so badly I had to press them to the floor to steady myself. The wood was cold. It felt cleaner than I was. 

“My soul died the day I got the call,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Today is just my body catching up.” 

She stared at me, chest heaving. “Don’t talk like that.” 

“It’s true,” I said. “The rot started the first time I answered Aria’s message. The first time I told myself it was nothing. It’s been spreading ever since.” 

Mom closed her eyes and took a breath like someone about to lift a heavy box. 

“We lived next door to Claire for eighteen years,” she said, voice lower now, steadier, as if trying to anchor herself in memory. “You were four when they moved in. Do you remember what I said the first week?” 

I nodded, eyes down. “You said you always wanted a daughter.” 

“And then I saw her,” Mom went on. “Tiny ponytail, big eyes. Brave little thing. I fell in love with her that day.”

The room softened around her voice. For a moment, I could almost see our old street. The low wall between houses. Bicycles with training wheels. The swing set that squeaked under summer light. 

“I knew you two were… stupid little secret lovers,” Mom said, a ghost of a smile flickering and dying. “You thought you were sneaky, meeting at the gate, sharing snacks behind the garage.” 

“I thought you didn’t know,” I murmured. 

“I knew,” she said. “I pretended not to. You were children. I told myself you would grow out of it, or grow into it. Either way, it would be your road.” 

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