“I accept your apology, Patrick, I really do, but there are so many things I’m angry at you for, things I don’t see myself letting go of for a long time.”
“I know, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, not yet at least, but I’m hoping to get it one day.”
“Maybe. One day,” I answer earnestly.
He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face and around to the back of his neck. “I miss you, too.”
“And I’ve missed you, but I don’t miss who you’ve been the last couple of years. You were my best friend for a long time. I gave you way more allowances than you deserved, and well, now you’re not. It’s hard, too, because we navigated this life together and now I’m alone. That’s okay—it is what it is—but everything is so off and so unsure. You know what these people are like, so you know what life is like for me now. My father won’t speak to me, the people here in this town . . . well, let’s just say the invitations aren’t exactly rolling in. I don’t want to go back to New York, but I feel out of place here, and then there’s Reid.”
My voice catches on his name and I look away toward the window of the main house where his paper airplanes sit. It hurts, but I’m not talking about Reid with Patrick. Of all the things sitting foremost on my heart, he is front and center, and he would not like me discussing him with Patrick of all people.
Letting out a deep sigh, I look back at Patrick and watch as he pulls a piece of paper from his suit pants, opens it, and lays it on the small table between us. It’s a printed out photo of Reid and me on the beach.
With shaky fingers, I pick up the piece of paper and stare at it. The people in this photo are not the people we are today, and my heart cries out from the loss.
“Why do you have this?” I ask, searching his suddenly tortured face.
“I hired a private investigator and he found you at the beach. This was the day before you left—”
“I know when it was—I was there!”
“Right.” He looks down at the photo and frowns. “I didn’t know where you went after you left Tampa. He found you then reported to me where you were. Before I could decide what to do next, you were home. At the time, all I cared about was where you were, not what you were doing, and then you were here, where I needed you. He emailed me your file and all the images, which I’ll forward to you when I leave, but I didn’t look at them until last week. I kept thinking you’d reach out once you got back, but you didn’t.”
“You had me followed?” My eyes narrow. This feels like such a breach of my privacy, of my life, and my ears start ringing at his audacity. I’m shocked, hurt, outraged.
“I wasn’t following you and I wasn’t trying to spy on you, I promise. I just wanted to know where you were.” His words are rushed, his voice distressed. He gets up and starts pacing. “Camille, you walked out on me. I know that doesn’t make this right, but I had Clare, and then she was gone. Then I had you, and you were gone. Part of me was panicking, and the other part of me had your father barking orders in my ear.”
“Patrick, this is not okay!” I stand up and move behind the chair, away from him.
“I know that!” he yells back.
From his other pocket, he pulls out another paper with a photo of him and me at the rehearsal dinner. He walks over, snatches the photo of Reid and me out of my hands, and places the two side by side on the table.
“What being with me does to you”—he points at our photo—“and what being with him does to you.” He places his hands on his hips and drops his head. He’s breathing hard, pausing so I can take in the two images. “I see it now, Camille. I really do.” His voice is low, crestfallen.
I see it too. The girl in these two photos looks completely different.
At the dinner, I’m pale, thin, and impeccably polished. There are dark circles under my eyes, and I look so withdrawn. We’re standing next to each other and his arm is around my waist, but my arms are down with my hands clasped in front of me. We’re supposed to look together and happy, but we both look stiff, like strangers.
On the beach, my skin is golden and glowing, my hair is wild and wavy, and my eyes are bright. I’m laughing and looking at Reid as he gazes down at me adoringly and grins from ear to ear. We’re walking and his arm is thrown over my shoulders, keeping me tucked in close, and both of my arms are wrapped around his middle. We look relaxed. We look happy. We look in love.
We were in love.
No, I am in love. I still love him, no matter what.
Picking up the photo again, I look at myself. I don’t even remember laughing with Patrick, at least not since Clare died. A knot forms in my throat and I try to swallow it down.
“At the wedding, and even right after, I was so mad at you,” he says quietly.
I hug the picture to my chest and look up at him. He’s watching me, frowning as he shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I didn’t understand why you would just leave me the way you did, knowing everything that was at stake. I needed to change your mind. But, the more time that passed, the more I began to see just how wrong things were. You wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t return my texts, and then when I approached you on the street, your reaction to me wasn’t one of avoidance, but of fear. You genuinely looked afraid of me, and that made me take a step back and pause. For the first time in a long time, I started questioning what the hell I was doing—not even just to you, but to me too.
“And then, to make things worse, there was your dad breathing down my neck all day, every day, and I just felt stuck. You know how he is. It’s easier to go along with him than to fight it, so that’s why I did it.”
“Did what?” I clutch the photo closer to me, afraid to hear what he’s about to say.
His forehead wrinkles with confusion and he tilts his head like I should already know.
“Issued Reid the divorce papers on your behalf.”
“You did what?” I yell, thinking back to those last couple of days when he was so angry with me. Of course he was—I would have been destroyed to receive those without any warning.
“I never should have done it.” He shakes his head. “I knew it was wrong, and I’m sorry. I just wanted you to be mine again, but I didn’t expect him to react the way he did—”
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “You saw him?”
His expression drops and suddenly he looks sick. “I hand-delivered them—don’t you already know this?”
“No.” I shake my head, eyes wide with horror. “Oh my God . . . when was this?”
He lets out a sigh and pulls one hand from his pocket to rub the back of his neck. “Shit,” he mumbles. Slowly, his eyes move over my face to find mine, and they’re sad, haunted. “A few minutes before he was hit by that car in the parking lot. It’s my fault. I ambushed him and basically forced him to sign them. He was distracted and not paying attention, and it was raining really hard. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard the impact of the car hitting him. I knew it was him, and then his teammate was yelling for help as he ran over from his car. I’ll never forget it.”
“Did you stay to help him?” I know my eyes are begging for the answer I want to hear. I so badly want him to tell me he stayed to help, that he wouldn’t leave this person who obviously means something to me lying on the wet concrete.
“No. His teammates came running and I overheard one of them calling 911, so I left.”
My mouth falls open. Who is this person standing in front me? How could he do that?
“Patrick, how could you?” Tears flood my eyes as my heart beats wildly. Reid said this was all my fault, and now I know why.
“Don’t worry, Camille, I have more guilt about this than you can imagine, and I have to live every day with the choices I’ve made. There’s nothing you can say that will make me feel worse than I already do.” He frowns and his gaze droops with the weight he’s now carrying.
“Why didn’t he say anything to me about this?” I ask, more to myself than to Patrick, bu
t he answers anyway.
“I don’t know.”
Oh God—no wonder his hatred toward me was off the charts. I’m surprised he even allowed me to take him home. I would have had him removed from my room at the hospital had it been me. And after everything he did for me, too . . .
Slowly, tears begin to fall from my eyes. Unbeknownst to me, it seems I hurt the one person who has come to mean more to me than anyone else, and this has me dying on the inside.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a set of papers that are stapled and folded in half lengthwise.
“What’s this?” I ask as he hands them to me.
“A copy for your records.”
Opening them, I see on top is a form titled Final judgment and decree of divorce incorporating settlement agreement. It’s dated two weeks ago and is signed and notarized by a judge who is a friend of my father’s, along with Reid, and . . . me.
“I didn’t sign this!” I shake the papers in front of him.
He gives me a look that tells me everything. Of course. This has my father’s dirty fingerprints all over it.
“And Reid saw this? With my fake signature on it?”
“Yes,” he answers solemnly.
I don’t respond. There’s nothing I can say to change this or make it better. I’m so disappointed in Patrick, so heartbroken over what’s happened to Reid.
Poor Reid.
All he’s ever done is be there for me, and look what that got him—a broken heart and broken bones. Despite what he said a few weeks ago, I know he cared for me, very much. You don’t do the things we did or act the way we did if you don’t care deeply, and knowing this hurts me the worst.
Picking up the two photos, I stack them on top of the papers then walk past Patrick and straight out the coach house door. Behind me, Patrick calls out, but I’m done. I don’t want to see him anymore. He was supposed to be my friend, but he was instrumental in hurting not only me, but now Reid, too. This time, the choices are mine. Patrick mentioned he has to live with his, and well, I have to live with mine, too, including who I allow in my life and who I don’t.
As the kitchen door closes behind me, I lock it and close the chapter of my life that is Patrick.
No more.
No more manipulation, no more control, and no more of me giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. They’ve all shown their true colors one too many times, and I finally see it all for what it’s worth—nothing. Reid talked about character, how it’s the most important to him, and I fully agree. It may have taken me a while, but I finally got here.
Moving through the house, I make my way upstairs and to my room. There sitting on the pillow, right where I left it, is Reid’s paper airplane. It’s not the fanciest of the three, but it’s simple and perfectly folded.
Laying the papers and the photos down, I climb into my bed, under the covers, and stare at the plane. Of all the gifts in the world, it’s true what they say about how the ones from the heart mean the most. He didn’t have to give them to me, which is how I know all three came from the heart—his heart.
Reaching over, I run my fingers along the wings, the center unfolds, and I see the markings of ink. My breath catches as I sit up, pick up the plane, and gently unfold it. There, written across the top in all caps, are three words: I love you. Underneath it says, You asked me why I did all this, and the answer is simple: it was love at first sight. I might not have recognized these feelings in the beginning, but they made themselves very clear, very quickly, and I would do anything for you, any time. I’ll always be here for you.
Heat rushes through me as my fingers tremble and I read the words over and over again.
He loves me?
Why didn’t he just tell me?
But I already know—he’s not a words guy; he’s all action. On and off the field, he takes care of others the only way he knows how: by doing. He’s decisive, protective, and strong. He’s attentive, generous, and so very thoughtful. I should have known then, because it’s so easy to recognize now.
Jumping off the bed, I race down to the table in the living room that holds the other two airplanes. I pick up the first one he gave me over two months ago on our wedding day, flip it over, and carefully pull out the tail. There, scrawled across the white page in black ink is: I never thought a girl like you would ever marry a guy like me. Thank you for saying yes.
My chin involuntarily quivers, tears roll down, and I start to shake. I don’t know how to feel. I’m elated to know he loves me like I love him but destroyed at the same time because I might have inadvertently ruined it all just by being born as who I was and because of who I know. No one would blame him for walking away and saying enough is enough. Love isn’t always enough.
Reaching for the second, I delicately unfold it, and inside it says: This is already the best honeymoon I’ll ever have. And it was—the best honeymoon I would ever have. For a man who never wanted to get married or be tied to someone else, this gesture, his words . . . they’re so kind and so true. They’ve given me hope, but they’ve shattered my heart, too.
Clutching them to my chest, my eyes catch on the jar of shells I placed next to the planes. Some are broken and some are whole, but together they are all beautiful, just like Reid and me, and now, knowing he feels this way, I can’t give up. I won’t give up, at least not until I’ve given it my all.
THERE’S A KNOCK on the door that has my head swinging toward it. No one ever knocks on my door. Jack just walks in, and we have security downstairs. Making my way over, I crack it and find the last person I ever expected to be standing on the other side: Camille’s grandfather.
I’m openly staring at him, and he’s staring at me. It’s not awkward; it’s confusing.
“Sir.” I feel my brows pull down as I open the door wider.
“Son.” I watch as his eyes drop and look over every injury visible, not seeing the one that hurts the most, the one inside my chest.
“Please come in.” I step out of the way as an invitation.
He smiles, walks in, and makes his way toward the windows on the far back wall. Following, I move into the living room, turn off the television, and then stop, leaving the full length of the room between us.
“Can I get you anything?” I offer. I may not be happy with how everything worked out between Camille and me, but being rude to someone for no real reason isn’t the right way to go about things either.
He turns and looks around the condo before making his way to the couch. “No, thanks. Nice place you have here.” He sits right in the middle.
“Thanks, I like it. My friend Jack lives across the hall, so that keeps things interesting.”
He chuckles. “I bet it does. I also bet Camille liked it here.” His gaze travels and stops on a piece of wall art I found in Camille’s room once I returned from Savannah. It’s just like her, too, to have hidden a present for me. I hung it right away so anyone who comes in will see it, and I can’t bring myself to take it down now.
Sometime during her stay here, she found an old four-paned window, stripped the paint off the wood, and repainted it a distressed white. She popped the glass out, covered it with chalkboard paint, and wrote the lyrics of the choruses from four of my favorite jazz songs by Mr. Dan, in cursive, in white chalk. The black and white matches the color scheme of my living room, and it looks perfect on the wall.
“She said she did, but I think she preferred sitting on the balcony the most.”
His gaze drifts over and he sees the mini workshop she set up outside with the drop cloth, makeshift wooden workbench, and tools. I should have gotten rid of them by now, but I haven’t.
“She always did love the outside the most,” he says, thinking about something unrelated to being here.
It’s funny, when I first met her, I would have never guessed she loved being outside. Her appearance and apparent upper-class upbringing gave off the impression that she would be more high-maintenance than laid back. But, he’s right—as I got to kno
w her and she relaxed some, she did transition and spent a lot of time outside. Deep down, though, I loved both sides of her, because they’re part of who she is.
“My Camille,” he says gently, interrupting my thoughts. “She’s always had this inner strength her sister never had. Clare loved this life, our life, because it was easy and it was handed to her. She was that child who was always content just sitting inside and playing with one of her toys, because that was what she was expected to do. Don’t get me wrong, she had her own ambitions, but they revolved around making those around her happier than she made herself. Not Camille, though. She never needed approval from someone else to be happy, because she found happiness within. From the moment she was born, everything was an adventure, and everything became a challenge. Recipes were meant to be created, not followed. Music was best loved by making it, loudly, not listening to it. She couldn’t just climb a tree, it was how high can I go? And don’t get me started when it comes to her free will versus my son’s determination to break her.”
Images of Camille losing herself while working on the mirror, dancing on the beach, and cooking me dinner with food smudged on her clothes flash through my mind. When she wasn’t feeling pressured or confined, she was adventurous and spread her wings. She surprised me, but in the best way. Of course, she also surprised me in the worst.
“Please, come sit with an old man.” He gestures to the chair perpendicular to him.
I sit, he stares at me, and then he lets out a deep sigh while frowning.
“Patrick told me what he did.”
My brows furrow with displeasure at his name and I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m really sorry you were injured because of it.” His gaze travels over my face. The road rash has faded, the stitches are gone, and I’ve taken my sling off. The only thing visibly remaining is the cast on my lower arm.
Chasing Clouds Page 24
