Chasing Clouds

by Kathryn Andrews

  From the very first moment I pulled up to her parents’ wrought iron gate, I knew they were not my kind of people. I should have walked away—why didn’t I walk away? Two months of lies. Two months of manipulation, perfectly executed by a privileged upbringing. Two months easily dismissed with the ultimate rejection.

  My fingers grip the damp folder, wrinkling it as thunder rolls through the sky.

  Thank God I didn’t ask for longer.

  Spotting my car one row over, I quickly slip between two vehicles and walk out into the row. Tilting my head up, I pause to let the water run down my face. It’s warm and cool; it’s soft and it stings. I want it to rinse away the evidence of my damaged heart. I need it to absolve me of the shame I feel inside. Just ten minutes ago I was ready to give her my all, but all along she’s known it was never going to be me.

  Needing to get home, I open my eyes and my head snaps to the bright lights that flip on directly to my right. They flicker through the gray rain and fear races down my spine at the sudden onslaught of sliding tires desperately trying to grip the wet ground. I lurch forward, determined to move out of the way.

  One breath.

  Two.

  Everything happens so fast.

  Everything explodes with pain.

  Everything goes black.

  I MISS REID.

  It’s crazy how I went from not knowing him at all two months ago to now feeling like part of me is missing. I know this is for the best, know he had a life to get back to, but still, I wish I were more a part of it than I am. I wish he wanted me to be.

  I want to say life sucks, but I know in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t. Despite not being on speaking terms with my father—which, quite frankly, I don’t see as a negative—things have transitioned pretty smoothly, and it makes me regret losing years of my life. I should have put my foot down sooner. I never should have let them guilt me, and I never should have let them steamroll me into a life that wasn’t meant for me. I wish they’d understand, but they don’t.

  Finally having that conversation with my father went about as well as I expected. He demanded things of me, and I directly told him no. Although we talked ad nauseam about my marriage to Reid, I was adamant in my decision regarding him. By the end, I left us in his hands. I simply reminded him that he’d already lost one daughter, and whether or not he lost the other one too was up to him. He told me he’d be in touch, but I haven’t heard from him since.

  This morning I needed to get out of my house, so I grabbed a coffee and wandered the streets, walked through a few squares and down to River Street. Clare and I used to love coming here as little girls. With no one watching and no one caring, it was exciting to be part of a normal crowd filled with tourists. We could eat all the candy we wanted and laugh at the street performers, and no one was there to take our picture and splash it across page six of the local papers.

  Today, it’s quiet. People pass me on their way to work, food delivery trucks are unloading at the many restaurants, and boats pass by heading to and from the mouth of the river. It’s beautiful out, but early April in Georgia always is. I look for a potential commercial space, but nothing I find feels right, so I head home.

  Home.

  Does this even feel like home anymore? It used to, but that was before, before I felt like I had a choice, and now I do. Nothing is keeping me here, so do I really want to stay? If I don’t, where do I want to go? Definitely not back to New York—I’m too much of a Southern girl at heart—so maybe up to Charleston, or even back down to Tampa.

  Tampa . . . my heart frowns. I can’t think of Tampa and not think of Reid. There’s been no communication from him today, and I realize I might have to accept the possibility that he’s in the process of letting me go. You can’t make someone want to be with you, no matter how you feel about them.

  The rest of the day I spend in my workshop. It’s cathartic in that I can focus on me and organize my thoughts, but at the same time I can lose myself in the work and just zone out.

  From the back pocket of my shorts, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number but answer it anyway.

  “Hello.” I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I move to the sink to quickly rinse off my hands.

  “Hey, Camille,” a male’s voice drags out. “It’s Jack.”

  It takes me a second to place the name, and when I do, adrenaline shoots straight down my spine. His voice is dark and foreboding.

  “Hey, Jack. Is everything okay?” I dry my hands and press the phone harder against my ear in anticipation of what he’s going to say. The only reason he would be calling me is if something bad happened.

  “Reid is in the hospital.” He blurts it out so matter-of-factly, and I grip the counter to keep from falling over.

  “What? Why?” My heart rate picks up while I try to control my breathing. So many things could have happened to him and life can change so fast—I know this better than anyone. Although I have to know what happened to him, the fear of the outcome almost has me wanting to hang up. If I don’t know, it hasn’t happened.

  “He got hit by a car.”

  My heart stops and I process his words.

  “Hit by a car?”

  “Yep.”

  A thousand thoughts start running through my mind, and of course I’m immediately thinking something terrible. For the past five years, it’s been my default to automatically assume the worst, and tears prick my eyes.

  “Where?” I lean over the counter and place my forehead on my arm.

  “In the parking lot of our main training facility.”

  “How? When?”

  “It was raining pretty hard and the driver didn’t see him in time. Slid right into him, earlier today.”

  “Oh my God.” I squeeze my eyes shut and ask the question I’m most fearful to know the answer to. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay?”

  Jack lets out a long sigh. “He’ll be fine, but he’s banged up pretty bad and I think you should come stay with him.”

  I jerk up and start walking toward the house. “Absolutely. Where is he?” I would go anywhere and do anything for him.

  “St. Joseph’s Hospital.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Great. This is my number, call me when you get here.”

  “I will. Thank you, Jack.”

  “Drive safe.”

  It takes five hours and fifteen minutes between walking out my door and into the automatic doors of the hospital. I pushed the limit on how fast I should’ve been driving, but I couldn’t help it. All I could think about was getting to him and seeing that he’s okay.

  The first thing I’m hit with is the smell. I hate the smell. There’s this funky mixture to it of disinfectant and sickness that permeates everything it touches. It reminds you that hospitals are full of death, and I can’t help but wonder how many people have already died here today.

  Died . . . hospital . . . Clare.

  I haven’t been back in a hospital since Clare died, and hate isn’t a strong enough word for how I feel about being here. Plus, I’m going to have to tell Reid soon. He deserves to know, and know it all.

  Jack meets me at the elevators, wraps his arm around me, and smiles as we climb in to make our way to his room. Jack is a little bit taller than Reid, and wider. Being this close to him, although slightly comforting, is weird, and I can’t wait to be in Reid’s arms instead.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He squeezes my shoulder.

  “Me too. How did you get my number?” I ask as the doors open and we step out into the hall.

  “The team has it on file.”

  “Oh.”

  He nods at the two nurses at the central station then stops in front of Reid’s door.

  “He looks worse than he is, just remember that,” he says in a low voice.

  “What exactly happened to him?”

  “Stepped out from between two parked cars crossing the parking lot, not paying attention, and he got hit.
”

  “Oh, no.” My hand flies to cover my mouth.

  “He broke his left wrist and his left collarbone, and he has a concussion.”

  “Is the concussion why he was admitted?”

  “Yeah. For the first couple of hours he was sick a lot and kept repeating the same things over and over again, but the CT scan showed no fracture or bleeding, and neither one of his breaks required surgery, so that’s good.”

  I’m certain my face shows exactly how I feel: relieved and then panicked. “Football?”

  “Doctor says the breaks are clean and he’ll be as good as new in six to eight weeks with some rehab on his wrist. The silver lining here is it wasn’t his knee, leg, or ankle. Those require more time, and some never fully recover.”

  “Well, that’s good then.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He pats me on the back and then opens the door.

  As we walk in, I see there are two beds. It’s a shared room, and I’m incredibly grateful that the first bed is empty. I know Reid is just sleeping, but he looks dead, and I can’t help the anxiety this causes or the tears that come.

  His face is scratched up on the left side with what looks like road rash, and his head is wrapped where he must have landed on it. His wrist is bandaged, and they’ve wrapped an elastic bandage over his arm and around his body to keep it immobile and pressed against him.

  Jack was right, he does look terrible, and my heart aches for him. No one wants to see someone they love in this situation.

  Love.

  Yep, there’s no more denying to myself what I feel for him. I do love him, and even if it’s not reciprocated, at least for a short time I was the lucky one who got to show him that love, a love he so deserves.

  Jack briefly touches my elbow to draw my attention, and it takes everything in me to tear my eyes away from Reid.

  “Hey,” he whispers. “Now that you’re here, I’m going to head out. I need to get some sleep before my workout in the morning. If you need anything, you have my number, and don’t hesitate use it.”

  “Okay, I will. Thanks again for calling me, Jack. I really appreciate it.”

  He gives me a closed-mouth smile, glances once more at Reid, squeezes my arm, and then leaves.

  Silence fills the room. It’s a little after ten at night and other than a small light that illuminates the whiteboard, it’s dark. On the board, it shows he was just checked on, so I know we’ll be alone for a while.

  Dragging a chair next to his bed, I sit down and look over every inch of him. He’s so handsome, and I’m so overwhelmed with emotions at seeing him after the hours it took to get here, I give in to the tears that have been trying desperately to fall as I silently sob.

  What would I do if something had really happened to him? If he had died? I try not to think morbidly like that, but after losing Clare, it’s something I think about constantly—losing someone I love. The pain from the first time was beyond anything I could have ever imagined, and I don’t think I could survive it twice.

  Running my fingertips down his arm, I notice his skin is cool from not being tucked under the blanket, but it’s still warm. I tangle my fingers with his and lay my face on top of his hand. I listen to him breathe, listen to me breathe, and chant to myself on repeat that everything is okay.

  “Stop crying, I’m fine,” he mumbles.

  His voice startles me and my head shoots up to look at him. His eyes are still closed—he looks exactly the same.

  “I can’t help it,” I tell him, quietly as to not add to the headache he probably has.

  “Well, try.” He scrunches up his face with pain.

  His voice is deep and raspy. It sounds angry, but then again, I probably would be too if I was hit by a car.

  “You didn’t have to come here. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” He takes his hand out from under mine and lays it on his stomach. Watching him pull away from me pings my heart and leaves me slightly confused.

  “Yes, I did,” I tell him.

  “No, you didn’t,” he practically growls, and this has me feeling uncomfortable, out of place. Never in my mind did this scenario play out—that he genuinely wouldn’t want me here. I mean, I already missed him and was hoping I’d get to see him sometime soon, obviously not like this, but was he not thinking about seeing me?

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you would have come for me . . . wouldn’t you?”

  He doesn’t say anything as his eyes crack open and find mine. They’re slightly glazed, and I don’t know if that’s from the medicine or because of me. I really don’t understand why he’s so angry that I’m here. We didn’t leave things badly, at least I didn’t think so, and I’ve done everything the way he wanted us to.

  Feeling uncomfortable, I lean back in my chair and away from him. He watches me, those green orbs glaring, the only movements him blinking and licking his dry lips. Minutes pass, and eventually his eyelids droop then he falls back to sleep.

  Throughout the night, the nurses come in and wake him up. He doesn’t get sick again, but it’s clear he has one wicked headache. He also doesn’t speak to me again. He looks for me the minute he’s awake then proceeds to glare until he falls asleep once again. I don’t sleep at all, just sit there and wonder what I’ve done wrong.

  Shortly after eight, the door opens and the doctor walks in with his nurse following. She smiles a little too brightly at Reid then narrows her eyes as she sees me next to him.

  “Hello. I’m Dr. Armstrong.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. I stand and do so.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Camille, Reid’s wife.” The words slip out so effortlessly I don’t even realize I’m saying them. Next to me, Reid grunts, and all three of us turn to look at him. He’s scowling at me, and that’s when I notice he isn’t wearing his wedding ring. I don’t know why I thought he might still be. Maybe the hospital took it off because of the swelling? I know our arrangement is over and we haven’t talked as much as I would have liked over the last couple of weeks, but I find I am disappointed. Glancing back at his face, I get the impression he’s mad I said that, and now along with uncomfortable, I feel stupid, too.

  Sensing the tension quickly escalating between the two of us, the doctor clears his throat. “All right then. Reid, do you want to speak privately, or is in front of your wife okay?”

  “I’ll wait outside,” I answer for him, quickly heading for the door.

  Both the nurse and the doctor look at me with surprise and then skepticism. Heat climbs into my cheeks as a wave of embarrassment takes over. It really didn’t occur to me that Reid wouldn’t want me here, and I’m starting to wonder how wrongly I might have perceived our time together. That last night, in Savannah, I was certain he felt something greater, just like I did. His body language, his facial expressions, how he made me feel like I was the only person in his world . . . I don’t understand.

  I lean back against the wall and look down at my grandmother’s ring. I run my thumb over it, and a lump forms in my throat as I begrudgingly accept the fact that it’s time to take it off, too. It wasn’t a real marriage. The two months are essentially over, and so are we.

  The door opens and they both exit. The nurse wrinkles her nose at me as she walks away, and the doctor only makes brief eye contact after he’s done signing a bunch of papers.

  “We’re discharging him. He knows what needs to happen next, just make sure you wake him up every two hours for the next twenty-four hours, okay?”

  “I will,” I tell him.

  He nods and then wanders off.

  I DON’T KNOW why she’s here.

  I mean, I do—Jack called her—but why she came and is sticking around, I don’t know.

  For the last three days, she’s been waiting on me hand and foot, and I haven’t said one word to her. What is there to say?

  Mostly, I’ve been sleeping. The doctor said I probably would the first week, which is fine with me. Keeps me from moving, and keeps her off my
mind.

  The concussion, although not severe, was enough to jar my timeline of events a bit. It’s made it hard for me to focus on anything for too long of a period, and I’ve had a difficult time with balance, which means every time I go to get up, she jumps to help me, and I hate it.

  I also hate how she keeps looking at me. At first it was with pity, and I get that I look terrible, but she needed to knock it off with the doe eyes. As of this morning, she’s shifted to annoyed. I understand I’m not being very nice to her, but I didn’t ask for this or her, and she certainly doesn’t deserve pleasantness.

  Wrinkling my forehead, I feel the skin pull, and it hurts. I have six staples in my head just past my hairline, road rash covers the side of my face, shoulder, and left arm, and then there are these damn breaks. If I’m lying flat on my back, I don’t feel any pain, but the second I breathe too deep or try to move my upper body or arm, it all burns and stings, hurting like hell. Breaking a collarbone is no joke.

  Needing to get out of my bed, I’ve wandered to the couch, and I’ve been glaring at Camille as she moves around my condo, trying to keep herself busy. I don’t want her here, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is. Currently, she’s in the kitchen making me a protein shake, and the blender is so loud I feel like a knife is being rammed into my head.

  I’ve never broken a bone before, not even a stress fracture. I take very good care of my body, and now I feel completely out of control. All I’m thinking about is how I need to work out, but I can hardly move. My muscles are revolting from the need to be used, exercised, and it’s put me even more on edge than I already am.

  The blender cuts off and Camille pours the shake into a cup. I track her with me eyes as she walks over and hands it to me. She’s wearing low-slung pajama pants with donuts on them and a tank top that matches. She looks comfortable—too comfortable for my liking.

  I take a sip of the shake, peering at her over the rim of the glass, and then place it on the end table to my right.

  She glances at the cup, then at me, and her lips press into a thin line. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turns her head and looks out the large sliding glass doors leading to the balcony.