by Kat Addams
Chris looked out the window and down below as the plane took off. He could still smell her scent on his clothes, feel the grip of her hands clasped in his, her lips soft against his skin. He wondered if he would ever feel again the way he felt when he was with Klara. He closed his eyes and imagined her beside him, them both excitedly talking about their trip, seeing the world together. He imagined himself falling for her more and more. Letting himself go, letting himself love. Maybe even proposing to her overseas. Somewhere romantic. A French café? A sunset in Rome? A chalet in Switzerland? If she had only said yes and thrown caution to the wind. But he knew that wasn’t Klara, and he knew it wasn’t him either.
He put his head in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady himself.
“Fear of flying?” an older man said beside him.
“Huh? Oh, no. No, it’s not the fear of flying that’s got me today.”
“I see.” The man nodded. Unsure if he should press on.
Chris was visibly upset and looking desperate for help.
“I’m Scott,” he offered his hand.
Chris was a bit embarrassed for anyone to see him as disheveled as he was, but maybe good conversation would get his mind off of the tragedy he’d just experienced.
“Nice to meet you, Scott. I’m Chris.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Chris. I’m guessing you are either headed toward someone special or away from someone special. I don’t mean to pry. You just look like you could use someone to talk to. I’m a pretty good listener. Scott Parker, psychologist, at your service. Aren’t you in luck?”
“Good guess, but aren’t we all running to or from something or someone special?”
“There are the select few who are content in not running at all. In just being. Some are at peace with themselves and living a solitary life; the others are psychopaths. No offense to you, but with your body language, I’m just trying to make sure I’m not sitting next to the latter.”
“Ha! You’re not. At least, I don’t think I’m a psychopath. Are psychopaths self-aware anyway?”
“That’s a whole other conversation. Deflection or stalling. Call it what you want. You don’t have to talk to me about why your legs are shaking like you are trying to do the Watusi.”
“The Wa what?”
“I’m showing my age, aren’t I?” The man sighed.
Chris almost laughed. Almost. But even this silly old man would have a hard time breaking him out of his funk. The Klara funk. Oh, she wouldn’t like the sound of that, he mused.
“I’m running away from someone special and toward something special,” Chris began.
“So, you made a choice, is what you’re saying,” Scott prodded.
“Yes.”
“And how do you feel about your decision?”
“Well, look at me. I’m a mess!”
Scott nodded in agreement. “We’ve got two hours on this flight. Let’s sort it out.”
“Really? I think it will take a lot longer than two hours to sort me out. I have these walls you see—”
“The walls, the walls. Everyone has the walls. You aren’t the only one. Especially us men. We have fortresses. Not just walls. We’re taught that we must be brave and not show emotion or else we will be weak! And, when we’re weak, we get hurt. Or lose. Or both. Thankfully, in this day and age, the feminists are calling us out on this bullshit, and slowly, men are starting to feel safer about their emotions,” Scott rambled on until he noticed Chris was staring at him in disbelief. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go off there on a tangent. It’s just kind of my field, ya know? Would be easier on everyone involved if we just learned how to open up and be vulnerable. It’s a risk but a risk that most of the time is worth taking. If not? Who cares? You live and learn.”
Chris laughed at Scott’s ramblings. “You sound just like her. She had told me the same things plenty of times.”
“Okay, so it is a her. I got that out of you at least.”
“Her name is Klara,” Chris began.
It had been six weeks since she said good-bye to Chris. Six weeks of no contact, resulting in six weeks of French fries and ice cream, six weeks of crying into her pillow, six weeks of sappy romantic comedies on the TV, six weeks of too much wine on The Johnson farm, six weeks of taking Ms. May’s banter without rebuttal. The first time she had seen Ms. May after he left, just the look on her face alone had told the old lady everything she needed to know.
“I’ll kill him,” she’d said, shaking her head, her hands on her hips.
All Klara could do was nod and fight back more tears.
Six weeks, she had been dead inside, all except for her writing. In those six weeks, she had written more than she had in the past six months. Which was a lot, considering her writing sessions with him had been very successful.
Her agent knew of her situation and joked that she should fall in love and out of love more often, maybe become a best seller.
Isn’t that what all writers do? Write what we know?
Klara didn’t feel like she knew much of anything these days. Her first book was launching in the spring, and that was what she turned her attention toward. The rest of the world was tuned out.
One day at a time, she thought each and every morning. One day at a time …
Everyone told her that, one day, she would wake up, her head would be clear, and he would be out of it. For good. But she didn’t believe it. No matter how much she tried to avoid thoughts of him, he was always there. She wondered often what he was up to in his travels and if he was upset at her for cutting him out. She wondered who he’d picked up as his new “travel guides” and what his next novel would be about. She wouldn’t buy it, whatever it was. She couldn’t bear to read dirty details in his stories, knowing where they were coming from—his muses. Not even if she was searching for herself in them. Nope, she wouldn’t. She would just have Grayson pick it up and let her know. That’s not cheating, is it?
Grayson and Klara had become closer since her breakup. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was drawing hearts around their name with a BFF sign. Not only had he helped her ever since she showed up at their doorstep like a stray kitten, starving and nearly dead after her good-bye to him. But he’d also helped her with her writing. He was the perfect coach, the perfect test reader, the perfect slumber-party thrower, and the perfect partner in crime. Klara had even convinced Grayson to take up running with them in the morning, something that John had been trying to get him to do for months despite Grayson’s protests of needing his beauty sleep.
Klara had begun calling Grayson Sleeping Beauty, and he loved every second of it. Sometimes, on the long runs or in a fit of laughter or with her hands in the dirt, cleaning up the beds before winter, she would forget about him. Or not exactly forget, but he wouldn’t be front and center in her brain anymore. Just a warm memory in the back. Other times, he would be taking over her whole self, it seemed. She would catch the scent of his cologne in the air, hear a song they had sung together, see a sex scene on the TV that seemed familiar. All the moves that he used to pull on her. Damn, she missed the sex.
“Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, Klara!” Grayson kept repeating each time he saw her.
But she wasn’t ready for that. Besides, anyone after him would be a disappointment. A big letdown. Her body ached to feel his touch again. She missed that the most. That along with the dirty talk. The way the slight touch of his fingertips had sent a jolt of lightning down her spine and out her hoo-ha. Except he would describe it as his passion for her building up, dripping in anticipation, making her warm and wet between her thighs. Blushing pink, swollen, pulsing, waiting on him to fill her up.
Damn, he was so good, she thought.
Klara ached for that. But, instead of taking Grayson’s advice and finding a lover, she channeled her unchecked libido into her writing. Her readers were either going to clutch their pearls or clutch their vibrators.
The days had turned into months faster than Klara realized. Her wri
ting had taken off. She now had two novels accepted into the publishing world, and her third was well on the way. It turned out the best way to get over someone wasn’t getting under someone but sticking her head in a computer and getting her emotions in print. She let that poor keyboard have it. Her fingers typing fast and furious as she recounted fights and slung them into her stories. Her fingers moving slow and sultry across the keyboard when she described the passion between her characters.
Everything she had been bottling up was spilling out and onto the screen. She only thought about Chris periodically now, like every other hour instead of by the minute. He was, after all, her muse. She couldn’t fault him. Knowing him, he was probably still trying to call her, not getting the hint that she’d blocked him out of her life. Not getting the hint or not accepting it? If he loved me, he would fight for me, right? And he didn’t because he’d just left. Just freaking left.
Klara could feel her temperature rising as she poured out her soul, her frustrations, her aches, her grievances, everything. And, when she looked up, months had already passed by.
The air was frigid. Holiday lights were beginning to be hung around town. Her world grew darker earlier, her days shorter. It was a perfect time to hibernate, which was what she normally would have planned to do. But, these days, she had been too busy. Her first book was due out next week, and her agent and Grayson had already put together the launch party. The Johnson used their connections and booked at a venue down by the river. A perfect place for the debut novel.
“You can see the bridge lights from there!” Grayson gushed.
Klara’s voice caught in her throat as she remembered that one of those lights was hers. “That’s … great! I know anything you put together will be fabulous. I can’t wait to come!”
“To come? Darling, you are the party. This is about you. It’s your party. You made it, Klara! Now, you get to relax, even if it’s just for a night, and celebrate. Grayson-style,” he said, dramatically flicking his scarf over his shoulder, turning, and walking away.
A break sounded foreign to Klara at the moment. Not that she wanted to take a break, but she hadn’t had the need to just yet. Even with her last semester of classes, she was on a mission and unable to stop herself for once. Not when she was gaining success while forgetting about him anyway.
At least, she told herself she was forgetting about him. She’d had one night last week where her hands hovered over the keyboard as she hesitated to type his name into Google. Wondering what city he was in, what he was doing, how he was doing, who was he doing. But her better judgment, which was surprisingly improved these days, let her move on and continue writing instead of cyberstalking. She wished him well, wherever he was. She loved him enough to know that. She hoped he found his happiness, but she also hoped he remained single.
Because, let’s be real, I’m not ready to let my mind go there yet.
She glanced at her calendar in front of her. Each day filled with work, school, and writing. Her weekends were spent writing as well, being at the farm or with her running group, or entertaining Ernestine and Hazel for the five minutes they were interested in her.
Ms. May was scheduled in here and there, too. She had been giving Klara lessons on baking, so she could “catch a man,” but Klara knew it was just her way of saying she was trying to get Klara’s mind off of that old, no good, rotten author douche bag who had torn her heart out and stomped on it. Even when Klara tried to explain that it wasn’t really all his fault, Ms. May wouldn’t hear it.
Klara surrounded herself with her friends, her kittens, and her writing to get her through the long winter months. With no time to think, she had no time to dream. Work, school, work, work, laughter, wine, school, work, work. That was all her brain understood these days, and that was all that mattered. One day at a time and one foot in front of the other would carry her into her future. But she knew he would always be in the back of her mind. She hoped his feet would carry him into his future as well. She only wished it had been a future with her in it, too.
fourteen
Klara walked slowly through the bookstore. Her eyes wide as she read the signs and posters with her name in print. Klara Woods, Limerence Book Signing, Today 10:00. Still groggy from the launch party, she was handed a cup of coffee from her agent, Susan, and led to the back room. Her fingers reached out to touch the books as she made her way through the aisles.
Fiction. Nonfiction. True crime. Romance. She stopped at the display that held her novel. All hers. She had done it. Her heart and soul now tucked snugly between a front and back cover. Countless nights up revising, scraping it all together, and piecing it back again. Days spent writing proposals, researching, marketing, and importantly picking her emotions from her brain and displaying them for all the world to see. Klara had made it. Finally. At least, for now.
She checked her phone—no longer tied to alarms, but still a clock-watcher. It was almost time for her to begin. Her nerves left her hands slightly trembling. Her legs wobbled as if they could give out at any moment. How was she going to stand up in front of all these people and be picked apart? Her agent had advised her to read a passage from her book that was a little more scandalous, something provocative, but Klara wanted her audience to start at the beginning, her hook. Something that had a bit more meaning to her. She took a deep breath as she took in the curious faces around her. With knees slightly shaky, she walked up to the podium, introduced herself and her novel, and began reading an excerpt.
Emily’s breath rattled throughout the halls. The flickering of the candles matching her raspy voice as it faded in and out. It was the middle of summer, but she was shivering with cold. Her teeth chattered as the chill creeped up her body and out of her breath.
“I can’t breathe,” she whispered.
“Hush,” her husband said, calmly stroking her hair. “Look at me. Focus on me. Look into my eyes.”
Her breath steadied as she held his gaze. Her lips inches away from his. His breath giving her life.
“John, I need you to know something.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
Emily’s temperature rose, the fever encouraging her bravery or stupidity. She didn’t know which, and she didn’t care anymore.
John held her face, silently hoping she would fall asleep instead of making this harder for the both of them.
“Come on, Emily. You need some sleep. Close your eyes, dear.”
“No!” she said, thrashing her head back and forth so as to shake her thoughts out clearly. Maybe the words would fall out of her mouth. Maybe she didn’t have to say them. Maybe they would come on their own.
The nurse, hearing Emily wake, rushed to her side and called for the doctor. Emily coughed hard, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood. She could hear the doctor speaking as she drifted in and out of consciousness. If she didn’t keep herself awake, her husband would never know, and her soul would never rest. Why was it so difficult to tell him?
They said your life flashed before your eyes as you lay, dying. But, for Emily, her regrets suddenly bubbled up, overtaking her thoughts. She saw no happiness. No laughing as she played with her sisters in the creek. No sitting beside the fire, watching her mother sew and mend their clothes. No Dad teaching her how to fish that first time summers ago. She didn’t see John at their wedding or the way he’d looked at her when they first met. She didn’t remember their first kiss or their first date.
Emily couldn’t remember anything, except her regrets. That time she’d left her parents at sixteen, ashamed at where she had come from and determined to rise above it. The way her mom hung her head in sorrow as Emily had told her what an embarrassment she was. The way she’d left those kittens on the side of the road like her grandfather had told her to do when she was too young and too cowardly to stand up to him. And, worst of all, what she had done to John. All of her regrets haunted her in her feverish dreams. She needed to confess and apologize and right all of her wrong
s. She had to; she could feel herself drifting away.
“I’m sorry, John. I—”
“Emily”—he took her hand—“whatever it is, it’s okay. You’re okay. You just need some sleep, and you’ll be fine. We can talk about this later. You aren’t yourself right now, honey. Please. Please get some rest. I’m not going anywhere. You can tell me all about it when you wake up.”
“I don’t want to wake up, John,” she cried.
He stood up and slowly walked over to the window. He didn’t want her to see his tears. He had been strong long enough for the both of them, and now that it was almost near the end, he could feel himself slipping. He turned back to look at her. She lay, glowing with sweat, pale and lifeless. The once-bright light of her eyes were now dimly lit and sputtering out. He knew she was right. She had been through enough and was ready to go. He couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t sure how she was still here, given all that she had been through these last few months. She was the strongest person he knew, and he wasn’t able to let go.
“Please don’t say that. I need you here. You’re my everything, Em,” he said, his voice quavering.
He didn’t need her to say what she was going to say. He didn’t want to know. He had heard rumors but ignored them. Not his Em, not her. She was the sweetest person he had ever known. Whatever it was she had to tell him, he couldn’t stomach it. He knew it had to be bad for her to wait this long to come clean. Whatever it was she had done, speaking the words aloud, especially as it could be her last words, was not how he wanted to remember her.
“I know times are tough, Em, but you’ll get through this. We’ll get through this. You’ll be outside in the sunshine by the end of the week. You just need some rest. That’s all. Don’t fret. Tell me your stories later.”
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and turned to tell her just how much he loved her. But he could already see her eyes frozen in a state of remorse, her lips parted and her chest still. Her secret caught in her throat, never to escape. She was gone. His body shook as he collapsed on the floor and cried with relief.
