“He didn’t do anything. I walked in front of the car—the accident is all on me.”
“I don’t think he sees it that way.”
Turning my head, I look away as my jaw tightens. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t care how he sees it.”
“Patrick isn’t a bad guy.” He throws one arm out across the back of my couch. I look back at him and raise one eyebrow in question, and he chuckles.
“Please tell me you didn’t drive down here just to tell me that.”
“I didn’t drive here, I flew, and my plane is waiting for me when we’re done.”
Of course he has his own plane. Then it hits me why he’s here, and my heart falls into my stomach. I knew eventually I’d have to give it back, know it’s not mine to keep, but for some stupid reason, I still wanted to.
Getting up, I go retrieve his wedding ring from the top drawer of my nightstand.
For weeks, this ring was stuck on my finger. I was certain I’d need the Jaws of Life to remove it, but the day after Camille left, I was in the shower and it slid right off. I was so surprised I dropped it on the floor. Even now, just holding it, it feels warm and familiar, and it hurts to know it’s no longer going to be mine, just another piece of me that’s about to walk out that door.
“Here, I think this is what you’re looking for.” I hand him the ring and he frowns as he looks at it in the palm of his hand.
“No, son. This is yours now.” He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, raising it to hand it back to me, but I take a step back, away from him. Reality is, it was never truly mine.
“We’re divorced. It’s yours, and it should go back to you.” I sit back in my chair, and we both wordlessly eye each other. He’s impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, and I’m wearing a Tarpons T-shirt and pajama pants.
“Yeah, about that,” he says, placing the ring on the coffee table in front of him, sliding it toward me and then shifting uncomfortably on the couch.
My hands ball up in my lap as I feel my face dip into a scowl.
His gaze finds mine. There’s zero expression on his face, and the only hint of remorse evident is in the way the muscles twitch around his eyes. “She doesn’t know you’re divorced.”
“Yes, she does. She signed the papers,” I immediately respond.
“No, she didn’t.” He lets out a long, embarrassed sigh. “My son—her father—had the papers drawn up, and Camille’s mother forged her signature.”
What?
Sitting up straight, I pause and take a minute to gather myself.
Anger slowly builds and begins coursing through me, and not even for myself, but for Camille. She may not be my favorite person right now, but my immediate response is to lash out in her defense.
“She can’t do that. That’s illegal.” My voice is raised, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Well, she did, and in his typical controlling way, he convinced Patrick he had to deliver them and persuade you to sign them, aggressively if necessary. You should know, the papers have been filed. You and Camille are divorced.”
The way he speaks, there’s no inflection in his tone; he almost sounds bored. I get that stuff like this is probably commonplace in his world, but it’s not for me, and I’m appalled by the audacity of his family members.
“Who are you people?” I lean back to move a few more inches away from him and grip the fabric of the chair’s arms.
“I can assure you we are not all bad. I apologize for my son, and Patrick has been dealt with, but Camille, that poor girl—she’s innocent in all their scheming. None of this is her fault.”
I try to let this sink in. My original gut reaction was that there was no way she’d sign those papers, and I was right. The Camille I left in Savannah would have never had those papers drawn up and sent. Guilt digs in a little as I realize I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt when I should have. I should’ve taken a moment to call her, to hear it straight from her, but then again, Patrick gave an impressive performance with some very important details purposefully left out.
“Reid, I’ve spent some time with Camille over the last couple of weeks, and I have to say, she’s completely transformed from the girl she was not too long ago. I don’t know what you two did during your time together, how you treated her, or the things that were said, but she came home so different than when she left. Pieces of the old Camille—the younger Camille—were shining through, and I can’t thank you enough. She’s always been the light of my world, and I just want to see her happy. You did that.”
“A murderer is the light of your world?”
His eyes widen just a bit before he narrows them. The words taste wrong on my tongue, and I didn’t mean to blurt it out that way. I realize I’m being disrespectful, but I don’t care.
“Who told you she was a murderer?” he asks, tilting his head.
“He did. She did.” I shrug my shoulders as if this is common knowledge, and I start jiggling my leg with pent-up energy.
He leans forward and adjusts his tie so it’s sitting straight. “Oh, that girl. What happened to Clare was an accident. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not her fault.”
“So, what happened?” I ask, wanting him to tell me the truth—the truth no one has bothered to mention to me yet.
“If she didn’t tell you and you haven’t looked it up, I think that’s a story for her to share—that is, if you really want to know. Remember, Reid, things aren’t always as they seem. All of us have been dealing with Clare’s death the only way we know how: one day at a time. Admittedly, we all know Camille took it the hardest. I can’t imagine what being a twin and losing that person would be like, would feel like. So, show her a little grace. If anyone deserves it, she does.”
He stands and fastens the top button of his three-button suit jacket. I follow, feeling bereft. He can’t be leaving; so much more needs to be said.
“She lied to me,” I state, clinging to the anger I’ve used as fuel for the past couple of weeks.
He pauses, studies me, and asks, “Are you sure about that?”
Just like that, I’m not.
“I will take this.” He picks up the ring and slides it into his pants pocket. “Although, I still feel like it’s yours. I guess if you want it, this time you’ll have to earn it. If you decide to pursue Camille, be prepared to have your socks knocked off. You haven’t seen her light yet, but when you do, you’ll be in awe.”
With that he gently claps me on my good shoulder, gives me a small squeeze, and then he’s gone.
Sitting back down in the chair, I let the silence of the condo surround me while an eerie feeling settles over me. I think about the fake divorce papers—well, not entirely fake—and how they were used to once again make Camille a pawn in their game. When will it stop for her? I mean, this is just ridiculous, but I can’t help but wonder, does she know now? Someone had to have told her, right? Wouldn’t she have reached out to tell me? I’d like to think so, but with sharp clarity, I know the answer is no—not after the way I talked to her. I wouldn’t want to communicate with me either.
Oh God. I rub my chest as it’s started to ache.
Then I think about how I might have misjudged her based on Patrick’s claim of her being a murderer. Granted, she didn’t argue with me when confronted, but I never should have taken her word for face value. She started closing in on herself the minute I mentioned her sister, something she kind of did every time the subject was brought up during our time together. Clare was spoken of in passing, but we never talked about her, not really.
Her grandfather’s wrong—I have seen her light. In those rare moments, I was awed, and I went out of my way to see if I could get her to shine again and again.
Leaning forward, my elbows land on my knees and my head drops down. A heavy remorse capsizes my heart.
What have I done?
For so long, I’ve had this mentality that I had to be in charge—in charge of my family, in charge of my ca
reer, and in charge of me. No one controls me; I make my own decisions based on what I think is best, and I determine my own destiny.
What I don’t do is leave things to trial and error. I don’t expose any vulnerability or weakness in myself, and I don’t allow myself to be in situations where I could get hurt. These things come from being unprepared or entering an unknown, like a relationship, and look where I am now: on my ass at home, brokenhearted and miserable.
All of this mess is because I let Camille in. I let down walls that have been erect for so long, I thought they were impenetrable, but apparently they weren’t. Those walls were there for the sole purpose of protecting my heart—my seven, ten, and thirteen-year-old heart.
I always firmly believed marriage was not for me. I never wanted to get married, never had the desire to become so attached to someone. My mother, on the other hand, chased, revered, and wanted love so badly. She’s a hopeless romantic who’s never stopped believing her person is out there, and I always ended up the casualty as someone new would come and then eventually go. No one stayed.
As her son, I’ve never considered her life beyond being a mother. That was her role, and looking back now, I see a woman who was trying to enjoy her life and get through it the best way she could.
Mothers aren’t supposed to have a lot of boyfriends coming and going. In traditional families, there’s supposed to be a husband, a dad, and for us, there wasn’t, but the terrible thing I realize now is, as much as I hated what felt like her revolving door of men in our life, I’ve never thought about exactly how many that was. No, I don’t remember my father—he left after he found out she was pregnant with Nate—but all through my childhood, she only dated three guys.
Three.
As a boy, I looked up to each and every one of them. In the same way my mother wanted love, so did I, and with wide eyes, I fell hard for each of them. As a child, it feels like three role models—four if you include my father—who, in the end, walked away. Ultimately, it was about them not being compatible; I get that now, but back then, I didn’t. It felt like a rejection of me, who I was. To have someone present for years, to love them and then have them leave with no looking back . . . it does something to you that’s irreparable. It all made me who I am today.
Now, though, I can see it wasn’t really like that. She was a woman in her late twenties and thirties, the same age I am now, and three is nothing. I have friends who go through three a weekend, and all of this suddenly makes me question everything.
My thoughts drift back to Nate’s speech at our wedding. At the time I didn’t understand why he said it would be okay to be vulnerable, said I didn’t always have to distance and numb myself because those who truly loved me would stick by me, but now I do. I stopped letting people in, because subconsciously I thought they would eventually leave, but Camille didn’t. I forced her out.
Damn.
Maybe Camille isn’t the only one who deserves a little grace; maybe I deserve to give some to myself, too. After all, not once have I ever thought I was one who needed to be saved, but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I was wrong about a lot of things.
HEARING THE DOORBELL ring, I race down the stairs with my bag in hand and scowl at whoever could be here. It’s rude to show up somewhere unannounced, especially this early in the morning.
All night I lay awake and replayed the conversations Reid and I had over the last two months. They were real, and the moments were real; people can’t fake those kinds of emotions. He has to be lying to himself about me, because what other reason could there be?
Dropping my bag by my feet, I fling the door open, and there on the other side is Reid. He’s standing with his hands in the pockets of his favorite jeans—yes, I know they are his favorite because he told me so—a navy blue pullover from his athletic wear endorsement deal, a white shirt underneath, and flip-flops. His hair is all over the place, there’s stubble across his jaw, and he looks tired—so good, but tired.
I should say something, but I can’t. He’s here, at my home, and I think I might burst from the inside out.
“Hi,” he finally says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, hesitant, and my heart soars at the sound.
My eyes snap to his and I feel frozen—frozen with fear, frozen with hope . . . just frozen.
“You took your sling off,” I nearly shout at him. “It’s not time to take it off.”
His mouth twitches on one side. “The doctor said it was okay. The bones need to work their way back together through movement to heal.” His eyes fall to my bag. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes,” I reply, but I don’t tell him where. Instead, I just stand there, staring at him like he might disappear if I blink too many times.
Rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, he looks at our feet, frowns, and then back at me. “Okay, well, I don’t want to keep you, I was just hoping we could talk.”
“Of course! Come in!” I fling the door open. It’s quite possible that once he enters, I’ll lock the door and never let him leave.
He looks over my shoulder into the foyer and nods. I take a step out of the way and he walks in past me. Sunshine, sage, and fabric softener drift by. My eyes briefly flutter shut as I’m overwhelmed by the smell of him. I’ve missed his smell; I’ve missed him, so much.
“You drove all the way up here just so we could talk?” I close the door and follow him.
He nods.
“Did you drive all night?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder and his light green eyes penetrate straight through to the core of me. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Moving into the living room, I stand behind him and watch as his gaze travels to the table, the place I put his paper airplanes on display. The spot is empty and the muscles in his throat move as he swallows but says nothing.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, barely able to fumble out the words. My heart is racing and I’m incredibly nervous to have him here. I thought I’d have time to form coherent thoughts before I saw him, but he beat me to it.
Bringing his attention to me, he takes a good long look, blinks, and says, “Okay.”
Racing into the kitchen, I lean on the breakfast bar and squeeze my eyes shut. He’s here. I’m so happy he’s here. I don’t know why yet, but it can’t be terrible if he drove all this way, right? Plus, he doesn’t realize I know this, but he did tell me he loved me, and love doesn’t just go away.
I fill a glass with ice water and take it to him. His eyes immediately find mine and stay on me. That nervousness grows and flutters in my chest as I sit down on one end of the couch; he’s already sitting on the other. I angle my body so I’m facing him. I know what I’d like to talk about, but I’m not sure about him, so I wait for him to lead.
“Camille . . .” he starts off, but he says nothing more. Leaning forward, he places the glass on the coffee table. The sleeve of his pullover slides up, and the cast on his arm peeks out. Instantly my eyes burn, because I now know the real reason he was injured, and he was right: it was all my fault.
“Reid,” I say quietly, watching every move he makes.
Letting out a deep sigh, he scrubs his uninjured hand over his face and sits back farther into the couch. “I owe you an apology.”
What? He doesn’t owe me an apology; I owe him one—no, I owe him a thousand apologies. He did nothing wrong. This is all on me. I shake my head, because truly, I don’t want it. I just want him, and I’m so happy he’s here.
“Yes. I shouldn’t have said the things I said to you. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, and I should have taken the time to listen to you.” His eyes are so remorseful it nearly rips my heart out. “I know I’m an in-your-face type of person and have a tendency to be overbearing, but that doesn’t excuse it. I took things too far, which resulted in you completely shutting down on me. Who could blame you? I don’t. You deserved better, and I’m sorry.”
“I was on my way to you,” I blurt out.
&nbs
p; “You what?” His brows rise up his forehead and his fingers curl into his palms.
“Yeah, see, the thing is . . .” I scoot closer to the edge of the couch and a little closer to him. “I’m not done fighting for you.”
Surprise flashes through his eyes. It’s only there for a split second, but I see it.
“Fighting for me?” he questions, his lips twitching as he tries not to smile.
“Yes.” I want to tell him everything, need to tell him everything. No secrets, no more. “Patrick came here yesterday and told me what he did.”
Reid’s lips press into a flat line and he looks away. I understand why the mention of Patrick would make him react this way, but I need him to believe I wasn’t part of it.
“I swear, I didn’t know about the papers, and when you said it was my fault, I should have pushed you harder for an explanation.”
His eyes slide back to mine and I twist my fingers in my lap. I’m apprehensive. He makes me jittery. I don’t want to say anything that might upset him and make him want to leave.
“It wasn’t your fault, and your grandfather paid me a visit yesterday, too.” His voice is deep, smooth, forbearing.
“He did?” I sit up a little straighter.
He nods.
That means Reid knows, and relief trickles in. He knows I wasn’t being deceitful, knows I wasn’t being dismissive of our time together and am still in this, more than ever. But, he still needs to understand that I’m always going to fight for him, too.
“I’m glad to hear that and I hope he was able to ease your mind about a few things, but even if he hadn’t, I was still coming for you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just chews on the inside of his cheek.
“The thing is, I hate conflict and confrontation. It’s always been in my nature to bow out, whether I just decide to go with the flow or remove myself completely. But, I do realize that by forfeiting, I’m not allowing my voice to be heard, and for too long, I’ve had to accept that. Not today, though—not about this. You aren’t just important to me, Reid, you are everything. When it comes to you, I will never be quiet, never again, because I get it. I get you, and I know who you are, inside and out. You’re the rock for everyone in your life. You’re protective, and you give and give and give. I want to be that for you if you’ll let me.”
Chasing Clouds Page 25
