Leaning back in his chair, his fingers grip the edge of the table as he watches me. “Probably, and I’m not trying to take anything away from you. Based on what you’ve told me, I understand how you’ve lived your life up until last weekend, but you walked away from that life to find a different one. It doesn’t matter anymore. Appearances don’t matter to me. Character does.”
I want to say it does matter, because even if the photos aren’t about me being here, in his world with him, his face and his name are his brand for his profession, and I never want to make him look bad—not that I think I looked bad a few minutes ago . . . oh, I don’t know.
Letting out a deep sigh, I break eye contact and look out over the boats in the marina. Back and forth they sway in the water, just like my emotions. Part of me feels justified for what I said and for my actions, and then another part of me feels shame. Since that moment in the library at the rehearsal dinner, he’s never tried to make me be anyone but myself, and he seems to want me just as I am, so why do I feel I have to put on the act now?
“I think you have beautiful hair. Take it down.”
My eyes skip to him and then away.
Shifting my gaze, I look and see that the photographer is still there, sitting next to a large yacht. He’s trying to look inconspicuous, but he knows we know he’s there.
Reid is right. I need to worry less about what others will think of me and more about what I think of myself, about my character, as he said, and that’s so true. It’s the character of the people back in Savannah—that’s why I left and why I’m searching to find me. I really am trying, so, taking a deep breath, I keep the hat on but pull the rubber band out and let my hair fall free.
TODAY, I WOKE up feeling off. I couldn’t tell you why, but I feel on edge and I don’t like it.
The condo is dark and quiet as I walk into the kitchen. I heat up some eggs and sit down at the large breakfast bar to eat. Camille’s clutch and hat from yesterday are sitting on the other end and as I stare at them, it occurs to me that I like them there. I’ve always loved living by myself and swore I always would, but I don’t mind her things blending with mine. In fact, I don’t mind her being here at all.
Why did I think living with someone would be so bad? Granted, our setup is that we’re roommates; I still have my room and she has hers. That gives me space, so maybe that’s the difference. We aren’t on top of each other one hundred percent of the time—although I wouldn’t mind if she were on top of me now and then.
Shaking my head to clear it, I rinse the bowl, drop it in the sink, and head down the hallway to peek into Camille’s room. She leaves the door cracked, and before I head to the gym, I can’t help but watch her sleep. I know that makes me sound like a total creeper, but I need to see her before I leave to remind myself this is reality and I am married.
Man, do I hate that word.
Light from the hallway and her window spills in. She’s curled up on her side with one leg sticking out from under the covers, and she’s hugging a pillow. She looks tiny, sweet, at peace. I hate that she doesn’t look like this during the day, and the thought leaves me feeling very protective over her. I still don’t really know why. We aren’t a real couple, and none of this should matter as much as it does, but that doesn’t change how I’m feeling, nor has it stopped new feelings from taking root.
All week, she stayed in the condo. She wore what girls call yoga clothes, and although she looked a little lost in her head, in her own thoughts, she seemed somewhat relaxed, seemed okay. I got to know her this way, with her messy hair, a smile that got bigger and brighter each day, and a laid-back personality that made us living together effortless, but the second she felt watched at the restaurant, she became someone completely different. All day she felt like mine, and then within two minutes at the end of lunch, she didn’t. It’s like the air shifted and even though it was warm out, a chill drifted over our table.
The way she transformed and looked around made me uncomfortable. She became the girl from the rehearsal dinner. She looked poised, elegant, and every bit the high society girl she is, a harsh reminder of how different we are and how not real this will ever be. It’s not that I want it to be real—because, let’s face it, I don’t—but listening to her talk about the photos and people’s opinions made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to be sitting there with her, which had me questioning myself, and I never question who I am or who I keep company with.
Minutes pass, and it’s as if she somehow senses me, rolling to her back and letting out a small noise. Something in her dreams causes her to smile, and my chest tightens with an unexplainable longing. Yesterday she smiled. She smiled a lot, and not that fake closed-mouth smile she gives people out of polite obligation, but one that feels like maybe it’s coming out just for me. I liked it, more than I should.
A knock on the front door lets me know Jack is ready, so I walk away from her and grab my bag.
Jack and I always ride together to the franchise headquarters, the stadium, and training facilities. It keeps us accountable. Plus, this early in the morning we can both tolerate each other fairly well.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” he asks, glancing over at me in the passenger seat. My bag is on the floor between my feet and one of my legs is bouncing nonstop.
“Nothing.”
“Liar. Trouble in paradise?” He grins at me and I shoot him a piss off look.
Jack got the full story of what happened at the wedding the morning after he met Camille. I knew there was no way he was going to let it go, so I filled him in on the way to the gym. He of course howled with laughter at the mental image of me stopping a wedding, but not once did he call me an idiot. Instead, he just smiled and kept his thoughts to himself.
“Things are fine.”
“Then why are you so antsy?”
“I don’t know. I just am.” Letting out a sigh, I dig around for my phone in my bag and start searching the Internet for photos of us from yesterday. I can’t find any, and that surprises me; usually paparazzi post things immediately. Instead, I type in Camille’s name and scroll through the images. I pause when one of her and her sister pops up. It’s older, and they are younger, maybe fifteen? I’ve never known identical twins before, and it’s uncanny how similar and how different they look at the same time. Looking at Clare, I find I’m resentful for Camille that the bulk of family responsibilities have fallen on her while her sister left to do her own thing. What kind of person does that?
“By the way, I plan on doing extra cardio today, so I hope you don’t mind sticking around a little longer.”
“Not at all. You go ahead and work out all that pent-up sexual frustration you have going on.” He smirks.
“That’s not it.”
“You sure? Because if I were living with a girl who looked like that . . .” He shakes his head.
“Dude.” My tone is laced with warning.
“What? I’m just saying.” He shrugs his shoulders and his smirk stretches to a full-blown smile.
Ignoring him, I resume looking through the photos. There are so many of her and Patrick, my jaw clenches and my teeth grind together. Extra cardio will be good for me; I really need to clear my head to figure out what my problem is, and I really need to burn off the extra calories from dinner last night.
Three hours turns into five. I rotated through the core areas of my workout: weight lifting for strength, full-body exercises for explosiveness, and treadmill blocks for speed and endurance. Sweat is dripping off every inch of me, and by the end, I’m physically depleted.
“You all right?” Bryan asks as he comes to stand in front of my treadmill. He wraps his towel around his neck as I hit pause three times and the belt slowly comes to a stop.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I grab my bottle and chug the remaining water down.
“You sure?”
That’s when I know I need to shake this mood off. It’s never a good sign when your quarterback wanders over to check on you.<
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“Yep. Camille and I went out to dinner last night and I fell off the diet. Needed some extra time today to take care of that.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me, and in return I rub my stomach and wink at him. Shaking his head, he walks away, and I drop my gaze to the ground.
All athletes know to leave it all at the door. It’s instilled in us as kids to the point that it becomes a habit; that way mistakes aren’t made, injuries don’t occur, and games aren’t lost. Today, I didn’t leave it at the door. Shit.
Feeling like I need some clarity, insight, or something, I break for the locker room. Throwing my towel down, I reach into my bag for my phone and hit Nate’s name.
“Bro,” he answers on the third ring.
“How’s it going?” I smile, already feeling better.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He chuckles.
“It’s going fine.” I sit down in the chair in front of my designated space.
“Fine . . . that’s it?”
“Well, yeah. What do you want me to say?” I prop my feet up on a shelf inside the built-in cubby.
“You have a beautiful girl living with you who happens to be your wife—things should be better than just fine, and I know for a fact this girl is awesome to hang out with.” There’s a slight tone to his voice, and it causes me to wince. Letting out a deep breath, I brush off the guilt and remind myself that if he’d wanted her bad enough, he would have gone after her.
“Okay, let me ask you: when you’ve spent time with Camille, how did she act?”
“What do you mean?” Street sounds from around him—sounds of home—echo through the phone.
“Tell me what she was like—what did you do together?”
“This is a weird question.”
“I know it is, but I’m trying to get to know her and understand her better. It’s easy to see how someone is when they’re in their normal environment, but it’s not like that here.”
It’s silent for a few moments as I listen to car horns and muted conversations of other people.
“Are you regretting marrying her? A girl you didn’t know?” He ends with sarcasm.
“No, jackass, it’s nothing like that. I’m just curious about how she acted around other people.”
“I don’t know . . . she was always quiet. Unless you spoke to her, she stayed in the background and observed more than participated. The most I ever heard her speak was on New Year’s Eve when she told us she was getting married. Don’t get me wrong, she’s always been super nice, but she reminds me of a beautiful piece of art—pretty to look at, but completely untouchable.”
“Is that why?” I rub my towel over my face, wanting to know his answer and not wanting to at the same time.
“Why what?”
“Why you never asked her out?”
“No. I didn’t ask her out because she was with someone else. I respected her enough to respect her choices, and I didn’t pursue it.”
“Even though you knew she didn’t really want to be with that guy.”
“But I didn’t. She never flirted with other guys or gave the impression she wasn’t happy, and honestly, it wasn’t until months after meeting her that I even found out she had a boyfriend. She never talked about him. She never talked much at all.”
That’s when I know I don’t need to feel guilty about Nate anymore. He’s never been the kind of guy to sit back and not take what he wants. He might have some type of infatuation with her, because yes, she is like a beautiful piece of art, but he wasn’t interested enough to have gone after her, even when he thought she was single.
But, just to make sure the air is clear between us, I ask, “Are you pissed at me about this?”
“I was at first, but I’m over it. Then again, I couldn’t decide if I was angry at you or at myself. Why are you asking me all these questions anyway?”
“I’m just trying to get a feel for who she is when she hasn’t found herself in a life-altering situation.”
“Is she doing okay?” He sounds concerned.
As if I don’t ask myself this at least fifteen times a day.
“I think so.” This makes me pause. Would she tell me if she wasn’t okay? I’d like to think she would, but I’ll watch her closer to make sure.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that. You two are getting along okay?”
“Of course—who do I not get along well with?” I smirk.
“Why are you always so arrogant? There’s no need for that,” he scoffs, and I laugh.
“It’s not arrogance, it’s that Jackson charm. You should know—you’ve got it too.”
“Maybe. So, when do I get to see you again? Mom will be due for a visit soon, too.”
“I’m not sure. I need to get through these two months with Camille and into the offseason workout program, then I’ll have a better hold on what’s happening.”
“All right, but . . . Reid, man, I hope you’ll allow yourself to let go and have some fun. This little arrangement might work out well if you let it.”
Arrangement.
That’s exactly what this is, but I find I don’t like that word, not at all.
Commotion from the hallway grabs my attention just as Jack sticks his head into the locker room. “Ready to go?” he mouths, attempting to not interrupt my call.
I nod, relieved to not have to respond to Nate’s last comment—not the arrangement part, but the part where he hopes I’ll allow myself to let go and have fun. I don’t know what he’s talking about. He said something similar in his speech at the wedding reception.
Standing up, I toss the towel in my bag. “Listen, I’ve got to run, but thanks for picking up.”
“Any time. Remember what I said and call me soon.”
“Will do.”
IT’S BEEN THREE days since Reid and I went to the festival and out to dinner, and we haven’t seen any pictures of us emerge on any websites. That’s not to say they aren’t out there or aren’t being saved for later, but for now, life seems to be moving along uninterrupted.
Last night, I dreamed about when Clare and I were kids. It’s funny how dreams work. We have a lifetime of memories, but in my dreams I always find us in the same place doing the same thing. We’re lying on a blanket in the field behind our parents’ home, blowing dandelions and watching the clouds roll over us. Some days I miss the field; other days it’s more nightmare than dream.
“What are you doing?”
Reid’s deep voice startles me from the memory and I jump. He’s leaning against the sliding glass door; I didn’t even hear him open it. I also didn’t realize how late in the afternoon it is—the sun has already started to drop, and the temperature is cooling off.
Standing up straight, I brush the dust off my shorts as his eyes travel the length of me once before scanning over the mess I’ve made of his balcony. I’m wearing a pair of cutoff shorts Patrick always hated, but watching Reid’s eyes flare slightly, I know he doesn’t share the same sentiment. I also realize I don’t care if he likes my shorts or not, because I do. I’m not trying to impress him, I’m just being me, and after the incident at the marina restaurant, it feels good knowing I’m taking baby steps. Mentally, I pat myself on the back.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it all up,” I say, feeling slightly embarrassed and awkward but smiling on the inside.
“I’m not worried, but what are you doing?”
I look around to see what he sees. The balcony is larger than what you would expect for a condo, stretching the full length from his bedroom down to the living room, which makes it the perfect workspace for me.
“Sanding down any of the finish that might still be left on the frame of the mirror while adding some texture so the new paint will adhere.” Earlier, I took the actual mirror out of the frame and placed it against the far wall then pushed his furniture out of the way and laid the frame down on a drop cloth. Around it are rags, two sizes of scrapers, sandpaper, a toothbrush, varnish remover, paint primer, and dust�
�lots of dust.
“Where did you get all this stuff?” He waves his hand toward my materials.
“Amazon Prime.”
“Prime,” he mumbles to himself. “Wait . . .” He steps closer to me, frowning. “I never even considered this, but do you need money?”
“Money?” I stand up straight and turn to face him. “No, why?”
“I brought you here, you don’t work, and I had this sudden horror that your family cut you off and I wasn’t helping you.”
This guy is something else, and affection for him blooms in my chest at his thoughtfulness. Isn’t it just like him to continue to worry about me and all the details surrounding me too?
“No, I’m not cut off. I have a trust fund that was given to me by my grandfather. It’s mine, and my father can’t take it from me, but I also do make my own money. The weeks leading up to the wedding, I had a lot of time to work on several pieces. They are in stores throughout Savannah on consignment, and I make money when they sell.”
“I see.”
I see, too. Reid is wearing a dark gray T-shirt with a worn pair of jeans that sit low on his hips, and he’s barefoot. He looks freshly showered, and he looks so good.
Moving over to his furniture, he kicks one chair to face me and sits down in it. “Here, I brought this out for you.” He sets down a bottle of beer on the table.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
Music from inside floats out. Reid kicks his feet up on the balcony railing as I grab a small hand broom I bought and begin to clean up.
“Are you finished with the scraping?” he asks, taking in the frame.
“No, I’ll finish it tomorrow.” I bend over and start sweeping.
“Then leave the mess. No need to clean two days in a row.”
He’s being sweet by suggesting this, but there is dust everywhere, and I don’t want it to blow over to someone else’s balcony during the night.
“That’s not really my style,” I say, scrunching up my nose while moving around him as he watches me. “Just like I won’t leave dishes in the sink overnight either.”
Chasing Clouds Page 13
