The driver nods to let us know he’s heard then rolls the windows down. Slipping off my jacket, I pull Camille onto my lap and wrap her up to keep the chill off her skin. She lets out a contented sigh as she curls into me, and we let the sound of the wind whipping through the car take over.
By the time we pull up to her house, she’s fast asleep, whereas I’m wide awake. The driver opens the car door then the front door as I carry her into the house. She’s so small and light in my arms.
At the top of the stairs there are several rooms, but only one has an open door. Inside the dark bedroom, I spot her wedding dress hanging up and know this is the right one. Everything about this space looks like her and doesn’t at the same time. The taste of the furniture looks high-end, as I would expect, but none of the pieces match. Each one is different in style and I assume color, even though I can’t tell with just the moonlight.
When I set her on her feet, she leans her weight against me as I pull the zipper on the back of her dress. It slides down easy enough and the dress slips to the floor. Even standing in only her underwear, this girl is class personified. She’s elegant, graceful, and comes from a pedigree I’ll never understand. Me, I’m from eight hundred square feet in the Bronx.
Shaking my head at the world of difference between us, I remove my dress shirt, pull off my T-shirt, and slip it over her head. She looks around the room, up at me, and then turns to climb into her bed, patting the spot next to her for me to follow. Of course I do, because when it comes to her, I can’t not. I watch as she takes off her shoes and they drop to the floor, and then she pulls the rubber band at the back of her head and all her hair comes tumbling down.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I breathe in through my nose and the air fills my empty lungs. She shifts around, moving the covers. My T-shirt slides up, and my eyes cling to her long, toned, gorgeous legs. The vision of this girl is almost too much. I know I shouldn’t be here, but wild horses couldn’t drag me away. She slides under the covers and lets out a deep sigh as she drifts back to sleep.
Kicking off my shoes, I sink into my side of the bed and settle down next to her. As exhausted as I am and as much as I wish I could sleep, I can’t. Minutes tick by, turning into hours.
Sometime early in the morning, Camille stirs. Rolling to my side, I look down at her just as her eyes open and find mine. I don’t know what to say to her; I’m afraid she’ll ask me to leave, and I really don’t want to.
Shifting to face me too, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” I reach out and run my hand down her side then lightly grip her hip.
“Getting you involved in my mess.” She squeezes her eyes shut and a tear falls down the side of her face.
“Trust me when I say, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
Large, remorseful eyes blink at me, and I move my hand to brush her hair off her face and behind her ear. Leaning forward, my lips graze the corner of hers, and she lets out a soft sigh.
“Do you want me to sleep in the other room?” I ask her.
“No, please stay.” She scoots closer, tucking her face under my chin and her body right next to mine.
“All right then.”
As I wrap my arm around her, her leg tangles between mine. She’s so small, but so perfect—too perfect for me, but I guess we’ll deal with that another day.
I SHOULD BE surprised to wake and find myself in the arms of a guy I’ve only known for a day, but I’m not. Vaguely, I remember him carrying me inside, and I kind of remember having a conversation with him in the middle of the night, but what I know for certain is I’m glad he’s here—really glad.
Closing my eyes, I rub my forehead to try to ease out some of the lingering effects of last night. I know I drank too much, more than I ever have in a social setting before, but no one stopped me. Maybe they understood, or maybe not; I remember the unabashed stares from my father’s friends.
At one point in the evening, I had gone to the bathroom to find a few minutes of reprieve, and I was just sitting in a closed stall when a couple women walked in and started talking about me.
“It’s really a shame what she did to her family after everything she’s put them through and all they’ve continued to give her. I mean, how ungrateful.” The sound of a zipper filled the room as one of them dug through her bag.
“I know, and poor Patrick. Why he ever thought she was going to be good enough for him, I’ll never know. He’s going places and will ultimately do so much better than her.”
And that’s the core of it right there: no one has ever thought I was good enough, for anyone or anything. My vision clouded with years of repressed anger. As much as I had felt uncertainty leading up to the wedding, in making the decision to leave this life, these people, I have complete clarity. Everyone has their breaking point, and it turns out I’ve reached mine. No more.
Pushing the stall door open, I walked over to the sink to wash my hands. The two women, both of whom I don’t know but have seen at other functions, froze up. My guess is they’re the spouses of my father’s colleagues, political wives, something I never ever want to be. Looking at them once in the mirror, I tucked a few strands of loose hair behind my ears, smoothed down my dress, and brushed past them as I walked out. Nothing needed to be said. They knew I heard them, and for the first time, I realized I didn’t care.
Not caring—such a strange concept to me.
I didn’t care about any of it—the politics, the cattiness, the expectations—and for the first time, I felt free.
Letting out a sigh, I release years of unwanted disappointment into my pillow, and Reid’s arm tightens around me as he scoots a little closer. He’s behind me, cuddling with me, and I like it way more than I should. He’s warm, still smells good a day later, and I swear he has the biggest arms I’ve ever seen.
Patrick and I hardly ever shared a bed, maybe a few times in the beginning because we needed each other, but after a while, that need faded and so did we—or maybe his need didn’t, he just satisfied it somewhere else.
Oh, Patrick.
Just thinking about him has me squeezing my eyes shut, wishing for a few more minutes of sleep.
Over and over, I keep asking myself if I’m shocked that I found Patrick cheating, and I’m torn right down the middle. Half of me isn’t surprised at all; it’s easy to see how he’s become that guy. I mean, we attended different colleges, we were hardly ever together, and when we were, it was never fun, never about us. Even I have no problem admitting to being miserable. But, the other half of me is shocked, because I thought I knew him and his character. I’ve known him my entire life, and we’ve been together for so long. Where is the respect for me that should come with all that time? I was willing to spend my life with him, giving us all I had, because I thought we were solid. I guess not, and that hurts more than I would like it to.
Sneaking out of the bed, chills run over my bare legs, and I look down to see I’m wearing a large white T-shirt. Relief and gratefulness fill me as I tug down on the hem. I already feel awkward enough about this entire ordeal; I don’t need to add being naked in front of Reid without remembering it to the list.
Glancing at the bed, I see he’s lying half on top of the covers, on his side, facing me. No shirt, no shoes or socks, just his pants and layers of muscles running underneath the smooth tanned skin of his chest and back. He looks nothing like Patrick, and I find myself visually tracing the lines of his shoulder, neck, and face, hoping to sear it into my memory. My beautiful stranger . . . man, is he something else.
Needing a little space, I brush my teeth, change my clothes, and make my way downstairs to the living room. More than once last night, my mind drifted to Reid’s paper airplane, the thoughtfulness in the small gift bringing a smile to my face each time. Finding it by the window, I pick it up, contemplate throwing it to see if it flies, and decide, Why not? Pulling my arm back, I flick my wrist and watch as it soars across the room. My
heart lifts in joy as it takes flight and also drops the moment it nosedives toward the ground. Racing after it, I grab it to keep it off the floor then put it back on top of the books. It’s too perfect, and I plan on keeping it forever.
Glancing out the window, I see the sky is bright blue today, my favorite shade, and I search it for clouds, but there are none. It’s vast and bright. Looking around the back yard, I admire all the blooming camellias along the perimeter of the property and watch as a bird lands on an old marble birdbath fountain I found at a garage sale. It’s a peaceful morning, a beautiful morning, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel a loss at the absence of clouds.
Most people have something, that one thing that’s a source of constant comfort to put them at ease, and clouds have always been mine. They’re always moving, always changing, and their freedom to float by uninhibited soothes me. The thought that somewhere someone else was looking at them too makes me feel like I’m not trapped and alone in this world, but today, I’m not watching the freedom in the sky—I feel it inside me. I feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, don’t know if I’ll stay here or where I’ll go, but I do know that yesterday I made the right decision. Today is a brand-new day; today, I am free.
Feeling inspired, I grab a cup of coffee and head out to my workshop in the carriage house.
The weekend after Grandfather gave me the house, I found myself in the carriage house that wasn’t home to cars, but several pieces of old large forgotten furniture. I immediately went to the store and bought a book on restoration, paint remover, a hand sander, wood filler, and a few other things. Hours turned into days, and very quickly I had made a workshop that became my place of solace.
Of course my father hates what I’ve done with the space and how I’m spending my time, but my grandfather loves it. It’s funny how they are so different, yet their professional goals were always the same—the same goals Patrick has. I feel a slight twinge of sorrow for how I’ve probably set him back quite a while, but then again, maybe he’ll rally some sympathy and use this to his advantage. It’s in this moment, thinking back to all the conversations we’ve had about the future and goals, that I realize not once did he or my father ask me about mine. They just assumed they knew best and planned everything for me.
How did things go so wrong?
Walking around a China hutch I recently brought in, I lightly drag my fingers over its newly sanded surface and feel each of the imperfections that make it so unique. I found it in an estate sale over off of Forsyth Park. The only things wrong with the piece are a few scratches on the front leg and the fact that it looks a little outdated. In my mind, I saw it transform to a distressed gray color with chunkier legs, new drawer pulls, and lighting. It’s going to be stunning.
Hearing the creak of the back gate, I turn and see Patrick striding into the back yard. My skin starts crawling; what I wouldn’t give to have Reid here with me. It’s not that I need him here—I can handle Patrick on my own—but there’s nothing wrong with wanting some backup.
He stops short when he sees me standing next to the window of the carriage house, likely having expected me to be inside. His eyes widen and then narrow.
“Patrick, what are you doing here?” I ask as he opens the screen door and enters.
“We need to talk,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased pants.
“No, we don’t. I have nothing to say to you.” Attempting to put some distance between us, I move to the little coffee machine I keep in the back corner next to the sink.
“Camille, you can’t be serious. Look, I’m sorry you found out about Brittany, I really am, but that’s over. It’s all over. I need you to stop trying to prove whatever it is you’re trying to prove and come back to me.”
What I’m trying to prove . . . am I trying to prove something? My first thought is no, I just want out, but then I realize yes—yes, I am trying to prove to myself that I’m worth more than this. My life deserves more. Keeping my back to him, I drop a pod into the machine and let my anger boil right along with the water.
“Camille,” he says impatiently.
“Patrick, I’m only going to say this once”—I turn to face him—“so you need to listen and listen good: I am never coming back to you, ever. I never should have let this charade go on as long as it did. I’m sorry for you, and I’m very sorry for me, but it’s time to let this go. It’s time to move on—I have.”
I know shoving in his face that I’m now with someone else isn’t very nice, but I honestly feel it’s the quickest way to end this.
“Charade?” He tilts his head. “You know, two nights ago you were the one who was preaching to me about faithfulness, loyalty, and family. Does that all of a sudden mean nothing to you? Are you really going to choose him over me and your family? I’m truly sorry I hurt you, but you don’t want this life, a life with him. I know you—we’re cut from the same cloth.”
“How do you know what I want? You’ve never even taken the time to ask me. Everything for the last five years has been about you and your future. Also, in case I need to remind you again, it seems to me I already chose him.”
Adding some cream to my coffee, I pick up the mug and walk toward him. I move into his space and he steps back, which is exactly what I want. Keep going, pal—right out the door.
His cheeks splotch red as his irritation increases. “You don’t even know him! Me, Camille—you’ve known me your entire life.” He throws his hands out.
“You’re right, we have known each other a very long time, but you’re wrong—I do know him. What on earth would make you think I don’t?”
His brows furrow down. He’s trying to decide if I’m lying or not, and I find I don’t really care. I may not have known Reid for a long length of time, but I do know that in the last thirty-six hours, he’s given me kindness, safety, honor, and my freedom. That’s more than Patrick has ever given me.
“You’ve never mentioned him, not once.”
“Funny, I could say the same about Brittany,” I say quietly, calmly taking a sip of coffee.
“I told you, that’s over. Wait . . .” He takes another step back and his eyes pierce me—hard. “Were you with this guy the whole time you were in New York?”
“Does it matter? It’s not like you can stand there and all of sudden tell me you were completely faithful in Boston. You’d be a liar, and we both know it. Besides, you’ve told me plenty of times that I’m not the love of your life.”
Guilt flashes across his face and he lets out a deep sigh.
“That’s not true. You know I love you. I need you, Camille.”
“You love a version of me that doesn’t exist. I am not now, nor will I ever be her, and how selfish of you to stand there and tell me you need me. What about what I need? Have you ever thought about that?”
His expression goes blank as he stares at me like I’m a stranger. Reaching up, he rubs the back of his neck then looks around the coach house like it’s the first time he’s seeing it—and who knows, maybe it is. Just like my father, he’s always hated this space, hated that I like to work with my hands. I keep my fingernails unpolished as they’d just chip anyway, and I frequently have calluses. To me, they’re proof of something beautiful I’ve made, but to him, they’re a mark of something below us.
Whatever.
They can disapprove all they want.
I didn’t care then, and I definitely don’t care now.
THE SOUND OF a saw or something wakes me. Somewhere nearby there is construction happening, and my eyes burn as it feels way too early in the morning—or maybe it’s because I haven’t slept much for the past two nights. Squeezing them tight, hoping to relieve some of the tension, I crack my eyes open and see that Camille is gone. I didn’t really expect her to be here as things are awkward enough, but a strange and unwanted longing to be near her sinks in.
Rolling to my back, I throw my arm over my face and think about a
ll the shit that happened yesterday. I still can’t believe I married a girl I don’t know, and part of me expects film cameras to jump out and say, Just kidding!
The thing about marriage is I’ve always considered myself allergic to it—like, break out in hives at the mere suggestion of it—but today, I don’t really feel itchy, just more uncomfortable about the unknown. Maybe it’s because this marriage is fake, or maybe it’s because deep down I know I have nothing to lose . . . like my heart.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I see there are four missed calls from the team’s PR director and a ton from my agent.
Shit.
Sitting up, a sense of dread fills me. Despite the fact that I had an out-of-body experience yesterday when I willingly volunteered to be in this position, it never occurred to me to think about how bad the ramifications of this might be for other people in my life. I was singularly focused on her, and now that reality has set in, I know the hammer is about to fall.
A huge part of our team mission is “keepin’ it real.” We pride ourselves on setting ourselves apart from others in the league by no drugs, no arrests, and no scandal. This definitely has scandal written all over it, and suddenly I feel like this is the walk of shame times a thousand.
Swinging my feet over the edge, I crack my neck and mentally prepare myself for whatever is coming. I tap my agent’s name, and he answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Derek,” I say, my voice chipper. He knows I know why he’s been calling, but I refuse to lessen what yesterday meant to Camille, nor will I bow my head like a child being scolded.
He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound friendly—more sarcastic, with an edge to it—and I cringe. “So, I hear congratulations are in order?”
“Good news travels fast,” I say with a pleased and upbeat tone. There’s no need for him to make this more than what it is, and I will not feel bad about it.“Want to tell me what’s going on?” He sips from a drink and there’s a clunk as he sets it down.
Chasing Clouds Page 7
