Page 20 of Chasing Clouds

“What are you sorry for?” I reach out and run my hand down her side then lightly grip her hip.

“Getting you involved in my mess.” She squeezes her eyes shut and a tear falls down the side of her face.

“Trust me when I say, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

Large, remorseful eyes blink at me, and I move my hand to brush her hair off her face and behind her ear. Leaning forward, my lips graze the corner of hers, and she lets out a soft sigh.

“Do you want me to sleep in the other room?” I ask her.

“No, please stay.” She scoots closer, tucking her face under my chin and her body right next to mine.

“All right then.”

As I wrap my arm around her, her leg tangles between mine. She’s so small, but so perfect—too perfect for me, but I guess we’ll deal with that another day.

I SHOULD BE surprised to wake and find myself in the arms of a guy I’ve only known for a day, but I’m not. Vaguely, I remember him carrying me inside, and I kind of remember having a conversation with him in the middle of the night, but what I know for certain is I’m glad he’s here—really glad.

Closing my eyes, I rub my forehead to try to ease out some of the lingering effects of last night. I know I drank too much, more than I ever have in a social setting before, but no one stopped me. Maybe they understood, or maybe not; I remember the unabashed stares from my father’s friends.

At one point in the evening, I had gone to the bathroom to find a few minutes of reprieve, and I was just sitting in a closed stall when a couple women walked in and started talking about me.

“It’s really a shame what she did to her family after everything she’s put them through and all they’ve continued to give her. I mean, how ungrateful.” The sound of a zipper filled the room as one of them dug through her bag.

“I know, and poor Patrick. Why he ever thought she was going to be good enough for him, I’ll never know. He’s going places and will ultimately do so much better than her.”

And that’s the core of it right there: no one has ever thought I was good enough, for anyone or anything. My vision clouded with years of repressed anger. As much as I had felt uncertainty leading up to the wedding, in making the decision to leave this life, these people, I have complete clarity. Everyone has their breaking point, and it turns out I’ve reached mine. No more.

Pushing the stall door open, I walked over to the sink to wash my hands. The two women, both of whom I don’t know but have seen at other functions, froze up. My guess is they’re the spouses of my father’s colleagues, political wives, something I never ever want to be. Looking at them once in the mirror, I tucked a few strands of loose hair behind my ears, smoothed down my dress, and brushed past them as I walked out. Nothing needed to be said. They knew I heard them, and for the first time, I realized I didn’t care.

Not caring—such a strange concept to me.

I didn’t care about any of it—the politics, the cattiness, the expectations—and for the first time, I felt free.

Letting out a sigh, I release years of unwanted disappointment into my pillow, and Reid’s arm tightens around me as he scoots a little closer. He’s behind me, cuddling with me, and I like it way more than I should. He’s warm, still smells good a day later, and I swear he has the biggest arms I’ve ever seen.

Patrick and I hardly ever shared a bed, maybe a few times in the beginning because we needed each other, but after a while, that need faded and so did we—or maybe his need didn’t, he just satisfied it somewhere else.

Oh, Patrick.

Just thinking about him has me squeezing my eyes shut, wishing for a few more minutes of sleep.

Over and over, I keep asking myself if I’m shocked that I found Patrick cheating, and I’m torn right down the middle. Half of me isn’t surprised at all; it’s easy to see how he’s become that guy. I mean, we attended different colleges, we were hardly ever together, and when we were, it was never fun, never about us. Even I have no problem admitting to being miserable. But, the other half of me is shocked, because I thought I knew him and his character. I’ve known him my entire life, and we’ve been together for so long. Where is the respect for me that should come with all that time? I was willing to spend my life with him, giving us all I had, because I thought we were solid. I guess not, and that hurts more than I would like it to.

Sneaking out of the bed, chills run over my bare legs, and I look down to see I’m wearing a large white T-shirt. Relief and gratefulness fill me as I tug down on the hem. I already feel awkward enough about this entire ordeal; I don’t need to add being naked in front of Reid without remembering it to the list.

Glancing at the bed, I see he’s lying half on top of the covers, on his side, facing me. No shirt, no shoes or socks, just his pants and layers of muscles running underneath the smooth tanned skin of his chest and back. He looks nothing like Patrick, and I find myself visually tracing the lines of his shoulder, neck, and face, hoping to sear it into my memory. My beautiful stranger . . . man, is he something else.

Needing a little space, I brush my teeth, change my clothes, and make my way downstairs to the living room. More than once last night, my mind drifted to Reid’s paper airplane, the thoughtfulness in the small gift bringing a smile to my face each time. Finding it by the window, I pick it up, contemplate throwing it to see if it flies, and decide, Why not? Pulling my arm back, I flick my wrist and watch as it soars across the room. My heart lifts in joy as it takes flight and also drops the moment it nosedives toward the ground. Racing after it, I grab it to keep it off the floor then put it back on top of the books. It’s too perfect, and I plan on keeping it forever.

Glancing out the window, I see the sky is bright blue today, my favorite shade, and I search it for clouds, but there are none. It’s vast and bright. Looking around the back yard, I admire all the blooming camellias along the perimeter of the property and watch as a bird lands on an old marble birdbath fountain I found at a garage sale. It’s a peaceful morning, a beautiful morning, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel a loss at the absence of clouds.

Most people have something, that one thing that’s a source of constant comfort to put them at ease, and clouds have always been mine. They’re always moving, always changing, and their freedom to float by uninhibited soothes me. The thought that somewhere someone else was looking at them too makes me feel like I’m not trapped and alone in this world, but today, I’m not watching the freedom in the sky—I feel it inside me. I feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, don’t know if I’ll stay here or where I’ll go, but I do know that yesterday I made the right decision. Today is a brand-new day; today, I am free.

Feeling inspired, I grab a cup of coffee and head out to my workshop in the carriage house.

The weekend after Grandfather gave me the house, I found myself in the carriage house that wasn’t home to cars, but several pieces of old large forgotten furniture. I immediately went to the store and bought a book on restoration, paint remover, a hand sander, wood filler, and a few other things. Hours turned into days, and very quickly I had made a workshop that became my place of solace.

Of course my father hates what I’ve done with the space and how I’m spending my time, but my grandfather loves it. It’s funny how they are so different, yet their professional goals were always the same—the same goals Patrick has. I feel a slight twinge of sorrow for how I’ve probably set him back quite a while, but then again, maybe he’ll rally some sympathy and use this to his advantage. It’s in this moment, thinking back to all the conversations we’ve had about the future and goals, that I realize not once did he or my father ask me about mine. They just assumed they knew best and planned everything for me.