“Clara,” I start, my voice raspy and cracking. I clear my throat, not wanting to sound like an idiot. She deserves better. So much better.
“When we met, I thought you were hot, but more trouble than you were worth. You thought I was an asshole. You weren’t wrong.”
Scattered laughter greets that, like it’s a joke. But it’s not. It’s true.
“Nothing about the last few months has been easy. Nothing has been straightforward. You fight me on every damn thing. And you’re right more often than not. I fucking hate that.”
More laughter greets that, but Clara, her hand clenches in her billowy pants, while her mouth twists into something between sorrow and resignation.
“But I’ve learned more from you than I’ve been able to teach you. I’ve learned to trust you. Trust your judgment, even when the shit you do looks like chaos, and the aftermath looks like the emotional equivalent of a tornado. You’ve ruined half of my plans but fixed at least as many.”
When I reach for her hand, the one not crumpled in her pants, mine shakes. “You’ve made me kinder. You’ve made me laugh. You’ve made me care.”
I look up at her, those tears now running down her cheeks again, her breath shaky and shallow. “Will you take this asshole and spend forever teaching him to be a little bit nicer?”
Her gaze is dark, haunted, and she doesn’t respond right away. Or at least it feels that way. Like maybe she’s working up to one of her crazy plans, and we’ll bust out of here and away before things get worse. More tangled. More trapped.
But then, she nods, and I’m on my feet, pulling her against my chest, not wanting these strangers to see any more of her tears than they already have. The room erupts in sound, but I don’t hear any of it. I’m too focused on small hands squeezing mecloser, on the way the box with the godawful ring is still in my hand, not on her finger, on that damn floral scent that wafts up at me. On her. On this fucked-up moment that was pure theater but somehow felt real.
And when she collects herself, and we take a round of the room, like we’re expected to, my father’s subtle nod tells me that no dire consequences will come, that I did well enough. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. Not at all.
I’m stuck on one thing: it felt real.
And I don’t know what to do about that.
Chapter 7
Walker
We’re all waiting for the car to come back. Not that any of us have said that specifically, but we’ve been in the kitchen since noon, none of us doing much of anything. I’m adding unnecessary shading to a sketch, RJ has his tablet out at the counter, and Jay’s just sitting on top of it, tossing an apple from one hand to the other.
“Has anyone gotten an ETA?” I ask, more to break the silence than anything.
They both shake their heads.
“And I’m assuming no one got messages last night from either of them?”
More head shaking.
“Do we think they can’t, for some reason?”
RJ taps on his screen a few times. “I don’t know. The storm was huge, so maybe their tower was knocked out for a while. Butanything sent would have come through by now—they’re all up as of about two hours ago.”
“So, it wasn’t just me that didn’t hear anything?” Jansen asks, the electric hum about him amplified today.
“No,” I say, happy when a little of that nervous energy melts out of him.
“Good. That’s good.”
RJ and I share a look when Jay goes back to watching the back hallway, our new curtains a sunshiny yellow instead of green, making Jay look a little less ill than yesterday. But he isn’t. He’s not getting any better, and Clara’s absence, even overnight, has amped him up higher than ever.
Another hour passes, the three of us holding silent vigil in the kitchen.
Jay spins without warning. “Should we text and find out? I feel like they should be back by now.”
“I have no idea how long these things take, do you?”
RJ shakes his head while Jansen’s face crumples. “I just need, I don’t know, confirmation. That they’re coming back.”
