by Karen Booth
“But, Claire—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
He was waiting when I got back to the house, looming in the open doorway before he came out to the garage. “Let me help you with the bags.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I snipped.
“Don’t be such a bitch. I can’t believe you took my car, this car. Why didn’t you take the SUV? At least you know how to drive that. You could’ve hurt someone or yourself.”
It’d been nothing more than a bratty impulse that made me take the Porsche to the grocery store. I knew it would drive him crazy. “I couldn’t find the keys for the Mercedes.”
“They were hanging with the other keys.” He huffed. “Hand me that other bag.”
I was ready to whack him in the head with that other bag. “I had to do the grocery shopping. You have no food in your house. You’re practically wasting away.”
“Now you sound like my bloody mum again.”
I stared at him and ran meditative thoughts through my head. Breathe. Bite your tongue. It’s time to be a grown up. Go to your happy place, Claire. “And you sound like a bloody jerk.”
We unpacked and put the groceries away, coated in silence.
“Look, I need to stay in LA for two more nights, I’m meeting with a Vanity Fair editor tomorrow.”
“About an assignment?”
“Yes, they liked the Rolling Stone piece.” Inside, I was thrilled by the idea. Unfortunately, it meant two more days of beating my head against a wall and tomorrow was a big day—my fortieth birthday.
“That’s great. For you.”
I squinted at his way of putting things. “I need you to tell me if you want me to check into a hotel. I can’t be around you unless we talk.”
He waited. “Fine then, let’s talk.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at me with eyes that could only be described as hurt. “What exactly do you want to talk about, Claire? Do you want to talk about the car accident first or should we start with the baby?”
I stared, feeling frozen by his tone.
“Let’s start with the baby, since that’s such a special part of our tragic story,” he choked on his bitter words and sat at the kitchen table, looking tired. “I was so excited when we found out you were pregnant.” He rubbed his forehead and his voice became painfully quiet. “I felt like everything was perfect. I had you and we were going to do this amazing thing together. I honestly felt like I had everything I ever wanted. It was such a nightmare when the police came to the door that afternoon. All I could think was that it was my fault, that I should have driven you.”
He drew in a deep harrowing breath and continued. “I was devastated when I got to the hospital and found out we’d lost the baby, but I couldn’t even be sad because I was so worried about you. It didn’t matter. I was such a git to get excited about it in the first place. It was so obvious you didn’t want to have a baby with me. That really hurt a lot, Claire. I don’t think you know how hurtful you can be sometimes.” His voice trailed off and the damage I’d done sat staring me in the face.
He went on, “Blooming Jeremy was everywhere. The guy would not go away. I figured that I should let you two be together and go back to being a bachelor. There’s no reason to be with someone else if I’m never going to be a dad. It’s easier.”
I stood, my hands at my side, part of me felt destroyed and the rest was confused. “So you want things to be easier? Is that what this is about?”
“In a way, yes. And not just for me, I was making your life much more complicated than it should be.”
I closed my eyes and tried to suck in the tears. “But, I love you. I don’t care about things being complicated. I don’t care about stupid Jeremy. Nothing else matters.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice still hushed. “It’s never going to work if we aren’t willing to give the other person what they need. I learned that with Elise.” He crossed his arms over his chest, writing volumes with body language. “You’re so stubborn about everything. We were never going to work things out. It was an exercise in futility.”
“Stubborn?” I asked. “You’re just as stubborn as I am, but you think you aren’t, which is even worse. You want to control everything and then things happen that you can’t control and it’s too much for you to take.” I gripped the back of my neck, the tension exploding in my body. “Losing the baby hurt me too and you’re a jerk if you think that isn’t the truth. I admit it. I wasn’t happy about the pregnancy at first, but that’s only because I know what it takes to raise a child. I had no idea if you planned to stick around. You hadn’t even told me you loved me yet.”
“Why are you always reminding me that you’re a parent and I’m not? Like I’m stupid for wanting to be a dad because I don’t know how much work it is? And even if you were sad about the miscarriage, you wouldn’t even talk about it with me.”
“Why should I have a baby with you when you aren’t willing to budge on where we live? I had no idea if you were going to be around in a month or six months, or a year.”
“Why didn’t you ask me if I planned to be around?” His stare was intense, but then he let it drop. “Because I did.”
The word “did” made part of me evaporate. “What was I supposed to do? Ask you if you wanted to get married?” I whispered, sadness invading like an incurable virus. “You know I’m not that girl. I didn’t want things to happen like that.”
I studied his face and my heart crumbled to dust. That was all it could do. It had already shattered.
Chapter Forty-Nine
I sought solace in Sam, someone to listen to me feel sorry for myself. Plus, I missed her, desperately. I only wanted to go home.
“Mom, I can’t believe you aren’t coming home for your birthday.”
“I’d be getting on the next plane if it wasn’t for this lunch appointment tomorrow.”
“I still don’t understand what’s going on. Are you and Chris going to make up?” Her voice was unsettled.
I was determined to ward off the waterworks. It’d been forever since I’d gone for a whole day without blubbering, but I had to try. “I don’t think so, honey.”
“Did you tell him that Grandpa’s sorry he said those things?”
“I tried to, but he didn’t listen,” I said, choking on air. “He kept changing the subject.”
“That’s not fair. He should listen to you.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t work like that.” The sun was beginning to set outside the guestroom window, the sky blushing in brilliance. “I should let you go, honey. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No way, Mom. We aren’t finished. I don’t get why you’re being like this. You’re giving up.”
“What do you mean? I’ve tried. It’s Chris who’s giving up.”
“Well, I don’t get to say this to Chris, so I’m saying it to you. I think you need to try harder.” Every pep talk I’d ever given was being dished right back to me.
“I’m not sure there’s anything left to do.”
“Promise you’ll try. There must be something.” She sniffled on the other end of the line. “Love you.”
“I love you too, honey.”
It was nearly dinnertime and my stomach rumbled, without a thing to eat since bacon and pancakes. I thought the smell of food would lure him upstairs, but I was wrong and was forced to look for him when dinner was ready.
“Hi,” he said, answering the door to the music room as if things were the way they used to be.
“I made dinner. Come and eat.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
Back upstairs, I filled my wine glass and took a healthy slug so it looked less like I was hell-bent on getting drunk. I then set the table, anxious about the potentially miserable act of sharing a meal with him.
Two plates of pasta and salad sat on the table while I waited.
“You should’ve started without me,” he said, finally showing up. “I was finishing somet
hing downstairs.”
“I thought we should eat together.” I wanted to follow Sam’s directive, although I doubted my ability.
He picked up his fork and looked at me. “Good. Can we be civilized? For one meal?”
“I can do that,” I replied, disintegrating inside.
He lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
I reciprocated with the niceties and downed more of my wine, embracing the burn that followed the swallow. I sneaked a look at him when I set my glass down. Now that he was eating and exercising, the color in his face had returned.
“Tell me about you and Jeremy.”
My mouth opened, but not to eat. A bite of pasta sat on my fork in mid-air. “There’s nothing to tell,” I answered, returning the food to my plate. “He asked me out and he’s a nice guy, but there’s nothing there. Zip.”
He studied me before returning to his dinner. “That’s too bad.”
The number of times I’d bit my tongue today was in the dozens—it was like spending the day with my dad. “Not really. He knows that I’m in love with someone else.”
“Did you sleep with him?” He wiped his mouth with the napkin.
My eyes jerked wide. “Excuse me? I don’t think you get to ask me that.”
“Calm down. I’m just curious.”
I stared at him, angry on the outside and happy on the inside. At least he cared enough to ask. “No, I didn’t, but he wanted to,” I answered, taking my inner brat out for a spin. “He practically begged me.”
He frowned and a collapse was triggered. The whole world faded away and the memory rolled in like fog. The night in St. Barts with Graham and Angie seeped into my mind, when he frowned at me when he was drunk.
I lost control, everything becoming inky with pain. “I can’t do this.” I watched as he became transfixed. “I love you, more than I’ve loved anybody, and the guy who’s in second place isn’t even close.” I wiped my tears with the back of both hands and my mom came to mind, how she was never afraid to show the parts of her that were raw. “I thought I knew you. I thought we had something real.” I finished my wine in a reckless gulp. “I think you’re a big idiot for wanting things to be perfect and for thinking that we can’t compromise, but mostly for not loving me anymore.”
I set my head in my hands, wishing for a fragment of my dignity, weeping quietly over the remnants of my dinner.
“Claire, I never said I didn’t love you anymore.” His words sounded as if they were floating out of him. “What we had was real, but it didn’t work out, okay? You’re torturing both of us by rehashing everything.”
I lifted my head from my hands, mascara smudged on the heels. “And you’re torturing me by letting every dumb thing stand in our way.”
Chapter Fifty
The alarm screeched. Bolting upright, I scrambled to make sense of why the clock was so absurdly loud. My hand slapped around the bedside table to silence it, I felt the button under my fingers, but the cycling squeal persisted. I fumbled and turned the switch on the lamp just as the sound stopped.
I clutched the covers to my chest and sank back in bed as my heart began to slow to its normal pace. My eyes blinked, straining to adjust to the light from the lamp. A single tap came at my door and my heart picked up again.
“Claire?” Chris asked, softly. He ducked into the room, squinting at the light. “Are you okay? The bloody alarm went off. Sorry about that.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. What happened?”
“No idea. Go back to sleep.” He turned and pulled the door.
“What if someone was trying to break in? What if they’re in the house?”
He stopped. “I’m sure it was nothing.”
“Why would the alarm go off for no reason?” I cringed, knowing I was a word or two away from pissing him off again.
“I’ll check the house. See you in the morning.”
“No. Don’t go.” I immediately regretted what I’d said, wishing it hadn’t sounded like desperation. “I’m scared. I want to go with you.”
He hesitated before stepping back into the room, leaning against the wall. “So we can both get hacked up by the axe wielding maniac in the living room?” He held a menacing expression that morphed into a smile.
“Will you stop?” I climbed out of bed and twisted my tank top back into place.
“Your hair looks lovely.”
I flattened my hand on top of my head. “At least I have hair.”
“Ouch.” He peered at me with eyes that had regained their clarity. We stepped into the hallway and he flipped on several switches, illuminating the living room and foyer. “No maniacs in here. Let’s try the kitchen.” He walked ahead of me and I was mesmerized by the bare skin of his back and his navy blue boxers circling his hips. “I’ll go first. Run for it if you hear me scream.”
“Very funny.”
He flipped on more lights and again, nothing. “I think we’re safe.” He went straight for the fridge and began rummaging, sliding drawers and clanging glass together. “Hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Too much healthy stuff in there.” He shut the refrigerator and walked into the pantry. “Ooh. What if I told you I have hot fudge?” He slumped against the doorframe and enticed me with a shake of the jar. “Come on. You know you want some.”
“You’re lucky I bought ice cream.” I opened the freezer and plucked the carton from the drawer, turning back to hand it to him.
He nodded at me. “You should probably put a sweater on if you’re that cold.” He pointed at my chest. “So that’s what they mean when they say it’s nippy outside.”
My face flushed. “Grow up.”
Chris smirked and pursed his lips. His eyes opened wide, as if he couldn’t contain whatever was brewing in that head of his. His eyebrows twitched, his forehead wrinkled, and he could no longer hold back his snicker. “That was a good one.”
“Oh yeah. A real knee-slapper.” I wanted to be annoyed, but I couldn’t watch him be happy without feeling it myself. I grinned, but shied away and opened the drawer for some spoons.
He let out a final breathy laugh as he reached up into the cabinet for the bowls. I gawked at him, at his chest and stomach, and felt frozen. Am I still asleep?
He removed the top of the carton and began scooping ice cream. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked. “I don’t want you to be nervous.”
I snapped out of my daze and put the hot fudge in the microwave. “I can’t even think about it.”
“You’ll do great. She’ll love you.”
I closed my eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” My hand began to tremble and I steadied it on the counter.
“Too bad it isn’t a guy, then you’d have no problem.”
I wrapped a kitchen towel around the hot jar and took it to the table. “What does that mean?”
Chris followed with the bowls and sat next to me, brushing my leg with his. He glanced down where our legs had touched, before pretending to ignore it. Taking the jar, he stirred it slowly. “How much do you want?”
“Not too much.” My heart thumped in my chest when I thought about our proximity, both of us dressed for bed.
He shook his head. “Talk about a Claire answer.” He dug an enormous spoonful of hot fudge and plopped it down on top of the ice cream before sliding the bowl across the table to me. “You know what I mean when I say you’d do better with a guy.”
I took a bite of ice cream and the creamy fudge filled my mouth. “Oh, wow. This is good.” I sucked the sticky chocolate from my thumb just as I felt his eyes on me. “I want to hear you say it.”
He scooped a spoonful from his bowl and it was my turn to ogle him—to study the curve of his lips around the spoon. “Of course you do.” He rested his elbow on the table and made a loop in the air with his spoon. “Let’s just say that men like you. A lot.”
I peered into my bowl. “Some more than others,” I muttered.
I looked back and there was a
moment of eye contact. His eyes were searching; I thought I saw questions, I even thought I saw the old Chris, but there was no way to know. After last night at dinner, after he’d indirectly told me he still loved me, I still felt as though I was clueless. Do you still love me? He was so damn confusing—charming and irresistible one minute, a total dickhead the next. I felt like I was on the crappiest rollercoaster ever. It was torture to sit there and be almost like we used to be—up in the middle of the night, together.
He shook his head and returned to his ice cream. “Let me drive you to your lunch tomorrow.”
“Why? Because you don’t want me driving your car?”
He sighed. “Just when I thought we were finally getting along.” He shook his head. “Don’t be so bloody paranoid. I need to pick up an amp at the guitar shop. It’s literally around the corner from the restaurant you’re going to.”
“Oh. Fine.”
“Good.”
We finished our ice cream without another word. I rinsed our bowls in the sink and he waited for me before he turned off the light. I followed him through the living room and stopped at the guest room door—I half expected him to keep going, but he turned. I wondered if he would say something and my chest heaved while the quiet pounded in my ears; every inch of me ached for him.
“Good night, Claire.”
“Good night.”
And then I watched him walk away.
* * *
An uncomfortably hot shower the next morning seemed like a fitting start to my last full day in LA. I rolled my neck and heard the crackling and popping that reminded me that even though I’d tried to get out of it, my fortieth birthday had arrived. Special attention went to my hair and make-up, as I knew would be needed every day from now on. I wanted to show the rest of the world, show Chris, that I could still look good. In black pants and a sleeveless white blouse, I turned in the full-length mirror and knew I’d accomplished that for the day.
