Page 82 of Chasing Clouds

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.