Chasing Clouds

by Kathryn Andrews

  “Can I get you anything else?” She’s attempting to pull off politeness, but she’s straight-up irritated. Well, that makes two of us, sweetheart.

  “Camille, just go home. I’m fine, and I can take care of myself.” My voice is thick and rough due to a terrible combination of medication, pain, and nonuse.

  Her eyes come back to mine and she frowns.

  “Oh, so he can speak. I was starting to wonder if you’d lost your voice along with your manners.”

  “Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at her and both of my hands—the one in the sling and the one resting on the couch—ball up into fists.

  “You heard me.” She leans forward into my space. “For days, you’ve ignored me, not once have you said thank you, and quite frankly, I don’t understand. What is wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?”

  Is she joking? She must be, because otherwise, along with being a liar, she’s become narcissistic—or maybe she always was.

  Using my good hand as leverage, I scoot to the edge of the couch, forcing her to move back. “What’s wrong with me is that I want to be alone. I don’t want you here.” My voice is loud. I sound like a dick, and I don’t care.

  “Why not?” She drops her arms and starts pacing back and forth in front of me. “You didn’t mind me here before. I mean, forgive me for being confused, but you aren’t telling me anything.”

  “That’s because I don’t want to talk to you. Why is that so hard to understand?”

  She takes another step back and props her hands on her hips. Her blonde hair is piled up on top of her head, and pieces of it have fallen loose. She blows one off her face and frowns again.

  “Are you trying to pick a fight with me? Is that what you need right now? Because I don’t want to fight with you.” She shakes her head and stands her ground.

  “What I need is for you to leave.” I slowly stand up without flinching or swaying and glare down at her. Her head tips back as she stares up at me and her cheeks turn pink.

  I have to admit, I’m surprised she’s still standing here. I’ve already told her several times that I basically want nothing to do with her, and instead of withdrawing and leaving like she would have when I first met her, she’s calling me out on my bad behavior.

  “Leave,” she mumbles to herself, the initial annoyance slipping, leaving something like bewilderment and hurt in its place. Whatever—she’s hurt me more than anyone ever has. This is why I don’t do relationships. None of this is worth it.

  “Reid.” She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. The pink in her cheeks runs down her neck and flushes the top of her chest. She drops her head, runs a hand over the messy pile of her hair, and then looks back at me with discontentment in her eyes. “You’ve strung me along for weeks since you left Savannah, and now after these last couple of days, you’re just going to blow me off? I think . . .” She looks around the condo like she’s looking for an answer, and then she finds her way back to me. “I think it’s time we had that conversation.” She crosses her arms once again. It’s a protective move, and it’s confrontational.

  “What conversation?”

  “You know, the one where you tell me nothing has to be decided today. Well, I think it does. Not to put you on the spot after all you’ve been through, but apparently you’ve already made up your mind, and I need to hear you say it. So, time’s up. Go ahead.” She throws her hand up in the air in front of me in a the floor’s all yours gesture then tucks it back in. “Tell me what happens next between us.”

  What happens next? She lied to me for months and divorced me without talking to me first. I had no say then, so asking me now is irrelevant. It’s pretty safe to say there will never be a next after all this.

  “Between us? Camille, you can’t be so naive as to think we were going to work out.”

  She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t confirm or deny; she just stares at me, waiting for me to say more.

  I look past her shoulder and around my condo. In three days, she’s infiltrated it even more than when she was here for two weeks. There are yellow pillows on the couch, yellow flowers in the kitchen, and bits and pieces of her everywhere: magazines, her Kindle, shoes, a coffee cup from the shop across the street on the island, a hat hanging off a kitchen chair, the blanket from the guest bedroom draped across the loveseat. So many things are out of order and out of place.

  Looking back down at her, my eyes bounce back and forth between hers as I provide her with the only explanation I can give. “I don’t love this life, nor do I want to. This, you and me”—I wave a finger between us—“it was a means to an end for you, nothing more. It ended. We’ve ended.”

  Little wrinkles form between her brows. “You don’t love this life? What does that mean? You don’t love sharing a life with me?” she says incredulously.

  With my lips sealed shut, I shake my head, and she exhales sharply while taking a step away from me.

  “Wow, I guess I was wrong.” She places her hand over her chest and rubs it like it’s aching. “I thought all those weeks together were amazing. I thought you and I together were amazing . . . weren’t we?”

  The dejected and confused look on her face has my brain stuttering. She’s blinking faster and breathing harder. Her physical reaction to my rejection of her is causing a visceral response, and all my muscles are coiling tight. I didn’t think this conversation would go this way; I thought this was what she wanted. I certainly didn’t expect her to come off so wounded.

  “Look, don’t go acting like a stage-five clinger. Yes, we had a good time together, but this was never going to last. You knew that, and I told you time and time again. Besides, not only is my season going to be starting soon, now I have to deal with all of this. I won’t be distracted—not by you, not by anyone.”

  I’ve never had to break up with a girl before. They’ve always known we were just having a good time together until things ran their course. I’ve never had to deal with any of this, and it confirms to me that I chose the right path—the one that includes none of this bullshit. Incidentally, she already ended it with those divorce papers, so the fact that she’s making me do this right now pisses me off even more.

  “So that’s it?” She shrugs her shoulders. “You’re just going to pretend like we never happened?”

  “We didn’t happen. Yes, we had a good time, but it was fake and only situation induced. I barely even know you, and you certainly don’t know me since we’re having this conversation.”

  I mean, how did she think I was going to react to being served divorce papers at my place of employment? I deserve better than that.

  “That’s not true and you know it.” Her eyes have widened and they’re slightly glassy. This fuels my animosity, and I step closer to her.

  “Do I? ’Cause with what I’ve seen and heard, I’m quite certain I don’t know who you are either.”

  Her lips part and she shakes her head in confusion. “What are you talking about?” She throws her hands out. “You’re making no sense, and why—why are you so angry with me?”

  “Because I wouldn’t even be in this situation if it wasn’t for you!” I yell at her, my voice echoing around the condo.

  “What situation?” she yells back, not flinching or hesitating at my outburst.

  “Oh, for the love of God.” I walk around her and toward the hallway to my bedroom. I’m done with this conversation. It’s making my headache unbearable, and I’m done with the drama of her. Facing her one more time, with a sincerity in my tone that breaks even my own heart, I tell her, “Camille, it’s over. It’s all over. I signed the divorce papers. There’s no reason to drag this thing out any longer. It’s time for you to go.”

  She wraps her arms around her middle and as her chin quivers, she takes an involuntary step back, like I somehow pushed her. “But . . .”

  “Answer me this one question: did you or did you not kill your sister?”

  Her skin pales, her eyes widen as she stares at me, and he
r jaw drops open. Her extended silence is more telling than any words, and the air between us seems to shift. It’s no longer filled with tension, but guilt and grief are pouring off her. Whatever, not my problem anymore—not that it ever really was. How she could have looked me in the eyes for weeks and not told me this, I’ll never know, but then again, she liked not telling me things.

  “I did,” she finally whispers, a single tear falling. “How did—”

  I don’t even let her finish. “Go home.”

  The finality of those two words is so on point, even she knows there’s nothing left to say.

  God, I was such a fool, blinded by so many things. When did I become that guy where a pretty face had me losing sight of what’s important to me—character? I could never be with someone who, after all the time we spent together, lies to me—and yes, omission on that large of a scale is lying. I don’t know how she did it or why, but it doesn’t even matter. I don’t want to know. At this point, I know enough, and it’s that I’m done.

  Her shoulders slump as she looks at the ground, her chest rising and falling forcefully with each breath. A dozen emotions flash across her downturned face. I know she doesn’t want me to see them, but I do. I’m not sure why she’s so surprised; this is what she wanted. She set all of this in motion, and now I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces—literally. I have to deal with the broken pieces of my body, my heart, and my pride.

  Licking her lips, she wipes her face then brings a shaky hand to her mouth and holds it there while she thinks. Is she trying to find a way out of this mess? Is she hoping to come up with some excuse that’ll cause me to change my mind? Because it’s not happening. There’s nothing she can say or do to dig herself out of this one. From the papers to Patrick and the accident to the lies, one man can only take so much.

  Finally, she lifts her head and pins me with a cool, detached stare. I’ve seen this expression on her before, and I’m appalled as I watch her go through the motions in front of me, to me. Reaching up, she tucks a few strands of loose hair behind her ear, clasps her hands in front of her, and pulls her shoulders back. My eyes narrow and my nose flares as I take in her stance. She’s shifted back into her socialite persona, and nothing in this world could infuriate me more.

  “Reid.” She glances to the side, her eyes roaming and stopping on her tools outside.

  “What, Camille?” My tone expresses my impatience for this to be over and done.

  Her eyes slide back to mine and the sharp disinterest they radiated just a few moments ago has now thawed, leaving them dull and gray—thundercloud gray. Not once have I ever seen them this color, and my breath catches in my throat. She appears so calm, poised on the outside; it’s what she’s mastered, but her eyes are telling me she’s raining on the inside. Adrenaline sends waves of tiny sparks under my skin, and I brace myself for what’s to come.

  She licks her lips, tips her chin up, and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Reid. Thank you for all you did for me, and for all the time you spent with me.” Her words are slow, soft, but so heavy with meaning my heart rate picks up and pounds forcefully against my chest. “I want you to know you were the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and . . .” She pauses, swallows, and blinks, forcing the desolation to disappear from her eyes. “I will remember you for the rest of my life.”

  Turning, she stoically makes her way to the kitchen, grabs her purse where she left it on the end of the counter, and walks to the front door, not stopping to pick up any of her things along the way. She slips on her shoes, and without looking back, she’s gone.

  I’m not sure I even take one breath, but the second the door clicks shut, my heart splinters right down the middle, leaving me gasping for air.

  DIVORCE PAPERS.

  I didn’t think it would all happen this fast. Actually, I was hoping it wouldn’t happen at all, but I guess it did. He said he signed them, and now I’m just waiting.

  It’s been two and a half weeks since I last spoke to or saw Reid, and every day my heart hurts exactly the same. I wish it wouldn’t, especially after the way he treated me, but it does. I’ve tried to think of him less and find a new normal for life now, but I haven’t succeeded yet. I get that he’s angry—I was angry for him. Football is his life and he came really close to losing it, but the way he talked to me seemed to go above and beyond that.

  I regret not telling him about Clare. I should have, and it was wrong of me. Somehow he still found out, and his reaction was exactly what I was expecting—terrible. I would’ve liked to talk to him about her, but he’d made up his mind and I guess now I’ll never have that chance.

  I know relationships come and go; that’s the nature of life. If we’re lucky we find someone who brings out the best in us, who understands us when we’re at our worst, and we get to spend an indefinite amount of time with them. That isn’t always the case, though—the time part—but for a brief period, with Reid, it sure felt like it, and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  At this point, I can’t go back and change anything, and as heartbroken as I am about losing him, I’m trying to look on the bright side. After all, I did put myself out there, even after the last five years, and I’m proud of myself for that.

  Hearing the back gate swing open, I look up and find Patrick walking toward the doorway to my workshop. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he showed up outside Reid’s building, and I’m over fighting with him. Based on the defeated lines on his face, he looks over it with me too.

  Turning away from him, I lower the volume of the music, and I take this moment to pull myself together and prepare for whatever it is he has to say. I mean, haven’t we been through enough? I know I sure have.

  “Do you care if I come in and sit down?” he asks, waiting for me to invite him in.

  “Nope.” I look at him over my shoulder. “Not at all.”

  Quietly he walks in and drops down in one of the two lounge chairs I keep for company here in the coach house. I can only think of one other time he’s visited me here long enough to sit, stay, and watch, and he wasn’t himself that night; something was off. It was one of the most casual and easy nights we’ve ever had. He never said what was wrong, but he wanted to be near me, and that made me feel important. It made me feel like more than the arm candy I usually felt I was. It was a night like that one that had me thinking we could do this marriage thing, but it wasn’t enough.

  Tonight, Patrick is wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, navy blue slacks, a brown belt, and brown dress shoes. He looks every bit the part he was groomed for. Actually, he looks every bit like the man he wants to be.

  Only, today he looks tired. There are deep purple shadows under his eyes, his skin is ashen, and his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His perfect composure isn’t so perfect, and that has me feeling uneasy.

  Putting the lid back on the can of dark wood stain I was working with, I walk to the sink to rinse and clean the brushes. He watches.

  “Do you want something to drink?” I glance at him over my shoulder.

  He hesitates and then says, “Beer.”

  Patrick loves beer. Local craft IPAs are his favorite, but not a lot of people know that. In social settings, he reverts to scotch. After all, appearances are everything.

  Pulling two from the refrigerator, I pass one over and take the chair across from him.

  “You look like you,” he says, and a small smile tips my lips up. “Not that you didn’t before, uh . . .” His cheeks turn red and he looks away. “I just mean you look like the you you used to be, before everything changed. You look good.”

  I think this is the first time in five years he’s complimented me for being me instead of scolding me for not being who he thinks I should be: Clare. Part of me wants to point this out, but watching him play with the label on his bottle, I can tell he already knows.

  Birds from outside are chirping, and somewhere in the distance, church bells are
ringing. The air between us is calm, exhausted, and I watch as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hair falls over his forehead and he lets out a deep sigh.

  “Patrick, what happened to us?” I pull my legs up into the chair with me.

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head then lifts it to look at me. “I’ve thought about this so much over the last couple of weeks, and I can’t pinpoint when things changed, when they started to go wrong, how I changed . . . I am so sorry, Camille, I really am—for all of it.”

  His eyes are pleading for me to believe him, so I do. In all the years I’ve known him, Patrick was never a bad guy. He was loyal, kind, and he cherished my sister. I think maybe deep down he knew we weren’t supposed to be together, and the pressure of it all finally got to him. That doesn’t excuse his behavior, but where he lashed out, I ran away. We each dealt with the situation differently.

  “Me too,” I tell him, and I mean this. I hate how bad things got and how they ended. Patrick and I have been through so much together, and I think maybe that’s why I was hanging on for so long—hanging on to the memory, memories of our childhood, memories of Clare that only he and I can share, and memories of what our friendship used to be.

  Taking a swallow of his beer, he turns his head away from me and looks out the window. I have nothing to say to him. He came here to talk, so when he’s ready, he will. In the meantime, I drink my beer and watch him sink even farther into himself.

  “I miss her, every day, and I think I just got so caught up in the life she and I had planned, and then you so seamlessly stepped into the role, I just didn’t see how bad things had gotten.” He looks back and his eyes trail over me. “And of course it doesn’t help that you look like her. I mean, I know you aren’t her, but the vision I had . . . it was always her face, and I tried to make you her. I’m sorry.”

  I understand what he’s saying. After Clare died, I went out of my way to look like her, talk like her, and be like her, so everyone around me would suffer less. They always wanted her more, loved her more. She was the perfect daughter, girlfriend, and sister, and it was my fault she was gone, so giving them what they wanted seemed less like a penance and more like a reprieve.