Chasing Clouds

by Kathryn Andrews

  “Are you kidding me? That’s a lie and you know it.” She paces around the room.

  “Do I? He’s been pretty up front from day one that he never wanted to get married, he has zero time for relationships, and this was just a means to an end for me.”

  I turn away from her and walk to the little refrigerator sitting in the small makeshift kitchen space. I grab a bottle of water and take a few swigs. I don’t want her to see how the thought of Reid and me ending, just like that, really kind of devastates me.

  “Did you tell him you wanted to see him again? Give you guys a real shot?”

  “No. It can’t come from me. He knows I like him—that much is blatantly obvious—and he has to be the one to decide if we’re more or not.”

  “Why? Why are you again letting someone else make the decision for you?”

  Her words are like an arrow. She points her bow, aims, and takes her shot, right at my heart. I feel pierced, like I’m bleeding out on the floor. How can she say that to me? For weeks my backbone has been hardening to where I feel my spine is made of steel. I make my own choices. I determine what happens next in my life, and I’m not bowing down to anyone anymore.

  “He didn’t make the decision for me—I made it for him! I feel bad enough that he’s already had to give me so much of his time. I’ve inconvenienced him in so many ways, from his family to his personal life and his professional life. I feel guilty enough, and I am not about to lay myself at his feet and beg him to stay. After all of this, it has to come from him. I deserve that. Don’t you think I deserve a guy who will fight for me because he wants me, not because he needs me in order to advance his career? Well, I do.”

  “I still think you’re wrong,” she says in a much softer but still confident tone. “I think if you had asked him, things might have turned out different.”

  As much as I want to be wrong, too, I don’t think I am.

  Reid did text me when he got home, and I received five more yesterday and three so far today. The messages are pretty basic, surface level. He asks about my day, what furniture I’m working on, if I’ve talked to my family, that kind of stuff. In return, he tells me about Jack’s latest shenanigans and things going on with other teammates, basically giving me a play-by-play of his day. I think it’s sweet of him to reach out, I’m just not sure why he’s doing it. He hasn’t once mentioned missing me.

  “And why would you think that? I haven’t talked to you in weeks. You know nothing about us, and quite frankly, I don’t think you know anything about me—not anymore.”

  Anger I’ve been trying to suppress bubbles to the surface. What is with people always assuming they know me and what’s best for me? Just like everyone else in my family, Clare has never, not once asked me what I want. Maybe a few weeks ago I would have had a hard time articulating it, but I know now, and with that thought, the anger recedes and I’m left feeling detached from anyone, everyone . . . alone.

  Before Reid, I was lonely, even though I was still a part of the family, the social scene, but now, after him, this is a whole new type of empty. I know I should be powering strong through my new wave of freedom and independence, but that doesn’t change how I was shown what a great life looks like with a great partner who lifts you up instead of tearing you down, and then it was snatched away, as if someone’s in the background laughing while saying, Just kidding. It feels like a punishment. Maybe it is.

  “Camille,” she says, approaching me. Her eyes are large, and there’s a distant sadness in them that’s unavoidable. I don’t see her as much as I used to, and the older we get, the less often it happens.

  “No, don’t you ‘Camille’ me. You left me at eighteen. I’m twenty-three years old, twenty-four next month—what do you really know about me anymore? Five years is a long time, Clare. People change. I’ve changed. You should know that, but you don’t.”

  My eyes shimmer with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them drop. That steel spine of mine has me lifting my chin just the slightest, daring her to disagree with me, and I watch her chest expand as she takes in a big gulp of air.

  From across the yard, we hear the doorbell ring.

  “Who’s that?” she asks, her head turning toward the house.

  “Our father.” I roll my eyes. “I swear he has spies. It’s like he knew I was back in town before I even did. He”—I raise my hands and sign quotation marks—“put me on his calendar and scheduled us an appointment.”

  “What does he want?” she asks, spinning back to look at me.

  “You know what he wants—what he always does: control.”

  Clare doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head a little and studies me.

  Silence falls over us and my heart starts beating harder in my chest. I hate confrontation. I hate making people unhappy, and I hate that this is how we’re ending things.

  “Will you be here later?”

  She shrugs her shoulders and I feel mine collapse. It’s such a losing battle with her, with everyone, and I’m over it—I’m over it all. I just spent the last five weeks repairing parts of me I allowed others to damage, and no more. For so long I’ve suppressed my voice, and that ends today—with her, with my father, and even with Reid. If they don’t like who I am, that’s their loss.

  Standing a little taller, I tighten my ponytail, brush the dust off my clothes, and pin her with a glower. “I’ll see you when I see you.” With that I turn and walk out the door.

  Shaking my head, I stomp through the back yard. I mean, why even come here? All she ever does is scold me and tell me I’m making the wrong choices, choices that were originally because of her and for her. Well, I’m done waiting around for her, too. I keep clinging to these moments because she’s my sister and I love her, but they are so few and far between lately, what’s the point? What did I get today, five, maybe ten minutes?

  I slam the kitchen door as I enter the house. I find my father in the living room, staring out the window toward the carriage house. Was he watching me? Us? Can he see she is here? He turns to face me, wearing his typical suit of armor—a suit and tie—and I spot several manila folders tucked under his arm. I am so not in the mood to deal with him or his crap today. His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe and he frowns. Interestingly, I feel numb to his apparent disapproval, and this fuels me with even more strength to do what I have to do.

  Bring it on, Father. It’s time to get this over with, once and for all.

  COMING OUT OF the locker room, I’m surprised to see the skies have turned dark. This morning on my way in to the training facility, they were bright blue, but now they’re filled with low-hanging clouds. Florida thunderstorms still amaze me. They roll in and roll out in barely the blink of an eye, but in the moment, they can be ferocious.

  It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her, and man do I want to, I just don’t know where we go from here. This weekend coming up will be the end of our two-month arrangement, and I have no idea how she feels about this, nor have I asked her. I’ve texted her, she’s messaged me back, and we’ve spoken a few times, but neither one of us has initiated much substantial conversation. I don’t know what to say to her, and maybe I’m a little bit afraid she’ll say something I don’t want to hear. I know this was never supposed to be permanent, but I can’t seem to let it go. I don’t want to let it go. This is a new feeling for me, and I’m in uncharted waters, but I have this spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, she and I will work out.

  “You gonna wait it out?” Bryan asks as we stand near the doors. It’s funny, because my mind immediately drifts to Camille. Am I waiting it out to see how she wants to proceed? That seems kind of dumb. I’ve always been a take-charge kind of guy, and waiting isn’t my forte.

  Looking over at him, I see he’s watching me, knowing my mind has gone somewhere else. He quirks an eyebrow, and I chuckle.

  “Nope, I’m going for it.” And I am. There’s nothing planned for this weekend, so it’s the perfect time for me to drive up and finally have that
talk. She has to know by now; either she’s in or she’s out, and I’m ready to find out.

  “All right. Be careful out there.” He slaps me on the shoulder and I take off.

  One by one the raindrops start to fall, slicing through the air and landing on my overheated skin. I’ve been pushing myself harder and exhausting my muscles, trying to find a way to not be consumed by her, but nothing is working. Jack has given me a few strange looks, and the guys are steering clear. They all think I’m surly because she’s back in Savannah and I’m here, and that is part of it, but it’s not that. It’s that she’s everywhere. Her coffee creamer is in my refrigerator, there’s a book she left on the end table, and I even found a pair of her socks on the patio. There are little things all over that I can’t escape. Even my clothes smell like her because she changed the dryer sheets.

  Then again, I’m not trying to eliminate her either. I haven’t moved any of her stuff or thrown one thing away. I like them there mixing and mingling with mine. I want them there.

  It’s time I tell her as much.

  The speed of the rain quickly escalates and I drop my head as I move through the parking lot. Heat from the asphalt swirls around my legs as I weave in and out between the rows. My shoulders are getting damp and my hair is already wet, but the rain fuels me. Technically I don’t even need to wait until this weekend. There’s nothing really keeping me here, and the more I think about it, the more excited I get to see her. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get home to pack, and I pick up my speed. I came in later this morning, which only left the spots toward the back open, and halfway there, I stop short as someone steps in my way and stands right in front of me.

  “Patrick.” His name hisses through my teeth.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Is he following me?

  Tension starts in my toes and climbs straight up my body. The rain, the parking lot, everything around us disappears, and I have to subdue my immediate reaction of fight or flight, because I want to kick this guy’s ass. I’m so focused on him and the rage pumping into my muscles I forget where we are.

  “Do you have a death wish?” I ask him, blinking as I try to clear the haze of red between him and me.

  His eyes widen briefly and then he smirks.

  What. The. Hell.

  Looking him over, I see he’s wearing his typical uniform of business attire, but he’s got on a black zip-up jacket with a hood pulled up over his head to keep him dry.

  “Camille asked me to come here and have you sign these.” He attempts to shove a folder at my chest, but my arms remain by my sides. I don’t want anything from him, nothing at all.

  He waves it in front of me, but I keep my eyes locked on him. Rain quickly begins to soak it, and he drops his hand with an exasperated sigh.

  “What is it?” I growl at him.

  “Divorce papers.” The smirk is back and I narrow my eyes.

  “No, she didn’t.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare down at him like he’s lost his mind. “She didn’t ask you to come here.” Camille wouldn’t have sent these without letting me know . . . right? We texted last night before bed and she never mentioned it, just said she’s been trying to get different affairs in order. I just assumed she was talking about dealing with her father and the logistics of getting Vintage Soul up and running.

  “Yes, she did!” he shouts at me.

  I glance around the parking lot to see if anyone has noticed us, but they haven’t. Those leaving are sprinting through the rain, oblivious to the fact that I’m about to end this guy once and for all.

  “You know, for a smart guy, you’re quite possibly the dumbest person I have ever met.”

  His eyes flare, a little wild, a lot crazy. I mean, what’s his angle? Does he think she’s going to go running back to him, because I know for a fact she’s not. No matter what happens between her and me, this guy is out for good.

  “You’ve officially pissed me off past the point of no return.” I take a step toward him and he moves back. “If you come near me one more time, or if Camille tells me you’re still sniffing around her, I will have my lawyer file a restraining order, and I’m certain you don’t want that highlighted in your next campaign.”

  His face blanches as he takes another step back, and then he tilts his head to the side with his eyes widening like he’s just solved the world’s most complicated puzzle.

  “You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Look, we’ve all let you bide your time, have your fun with her, but now it’s time to say goodbye. You were a short-lived rebellion on her part, and now it’s over. We know how to handle Camille. We know what’s best for her, and it isn’t you.”

  He’s making her sound like a child, like she’s not stable. That’s not the girl I saw, and even if she wasn’t, that’s fine by me. I liked her just as she was. I don’t need her to be anyone else but herself, and there’s nothing we couldn’t deal with together.

  “Maybe not.” I shrug my shoulders. “But it damn well isn’t you either. Camille doesn’t need to be handled. She can take care of herself, and this just proves you don’t know her at all.”

  His gaze zeroes in on me, and it’s sharp, focused. I don’t like it. I understand that he’s known her for a really long time, and obviously their history together means something, but if they were meant to be, he wouldn’t have cheated, and she wouldn’t have married a stranger.

  Thunder rolls over us and the deluge of rain intensifies. This entire scene is ominous, and somewhere close by, lightning cracks. We both flinch at the sound that follows, but neither one of us moves. Slowly, his lips turn up into a menacing sneer, and I brace myself for what he’s about to say. I can tell I’m not going to like it.

  “What I know is you’ve been playing house with a murderer.”

  Murderer?

  What is he talking about?

  My silence pleases him as I study his face, my nostrils flare as I breathe in, and that sneer of his turns into a condescending smile.

  “What, you didn’t know?” He takes a step closer to me, but I stand my ground, giving nothing away and looking down my nose at him.

  “Know what?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “That she killed her sister.”

  He says this so plainly, like it’s everyday conversation, I have to replay his words to make sure I heard him correctly.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, let me guess—she didn’t tell you. Tsk tsk. Shame on her.” He shakes his head, clearly not really meaning it. “Go ahead, Google Clare Whitley—you’ll see.”

  Dropping my bag to the wet ground, I pull my phone from my pocket and search for Clare. Sure enough, headline after headline fills the page: Senator Whitley’s daughter dies a tragic death. Savannah loses a beloved Whitley daughter. Clare Whitley dies. A life taken too soon, too young.

  It makes no sense to me, and my heart rate increases with anxiety and disbelief. We talked about Clare at least once a day, and Camille told me she was at the wedding. I know she’s spoken to her based on conversations we’ve had, and I once heard her talking to her on the phone from another room.

  Didn’t I?

  Stepping back, I scrub my hand over my face, pushing the water away. I suddenly no longer feel like I have the upper hand, and this leaves me uncertain of everything. I feel wet, and I feel confused, but taking a moment to think back to other comments she’s made, I can see how this is a possibility.

  Fuck. This entire situation is so messed up.

  I look back at Patrick and our eyes lock. His face is blank, and I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he’s watching me closely.

  Moving away, I start pacing back and forth. The rain is steady enough that my clothes are now soaked through, but I barely feel them.

  Was it all a lie? It couldn’t have been.

  But, if she didn’t tell me about this, what else didn’t she tell me? I didn’t keep anything fr
om her. I was up front from the beginning, about everything, and I allowed myself to trust her.

  I let her in.

  Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and allow the sadness and embarrassment to wash over me. I fell for this girl hook, line, and sinker, and I have no one to blame but myself. How I’m feeling right now—this is my fault. I let this happen to me. I should have known it was too good to be true.

  Patrick clears his throat and I glance up at him. It’s kind of poetic that she sent him here to be her henchman; these people have no heart. He’s done standing here, and so am I. I’m done with all of it. This was never supposed to last anyway.

  I mean, really, what was I thinking? I’d save the princess and we’d ride off into the sunset together? That’s not real life; this is—people lying and people leaving.

  Walking back over, I rip the folder from Patrick’s hand and bend over to keep everything dry. A pen slides out along with two sets of the same papers. Flipping through each one, I see she’s already signed them, so I do the same. With each swipe of the pen, cracks rupture my heart. Just as quickly as we started, we’ve now ended. Dropping the pen on the ground, I hand him his set and keep mine along with the folder. Knowing her family has connections, I’m certain this will be expedited, which means I’m officially divorced.

  Divorced.

  “You know, I almost feel bad for you—almost,” he says with victory in his eyes. “But then I remember you actually thought a girl like her was going to end up with someone like you.”

  He starts laughing as if I’m suddenly the idiot, and I swear the sound is amplified by the rain. Here and now, I officially concede and think to myself, You win, asshole.

  Turning around, I grab my bag and effectively remove him from my line of sight. I hope to never ever see him again, and I place one foot in front of the other to keep myself moving forward as my heart bleeds out into my chest. Every emotion is slamming into me, and I can’t grasp any single one long enough to ride it out. I’m bombarded and overwhelmed, pissed off and dumbfounded. Someone please tell me—how did I get here?