Page 28 of Chasing Clouds

“What did you talk about?” His words are monotone. I knew the subject of Nate was going to come up sooner or later, and it’s better that it’s now. I don’t want him to think he’s crossed any line between him and his brother when he hasn’t.

“Day-to-day stuff—school, ballet, tennis, our friends.” Reaching over, I lay my hand on his leg, which is packed with very hard muscles, and he covers it with his own. “Reid, I love Nate and think he’s a great guy, but I don’t want there to be any confusion about my friendship with him. It was strictly platonic and really only social. I didn’t get together with him outside of our friends, didn’t talk to him on the phone. It wasn’t like that.”

“Okay.” He squeezes once then links his fingers through mine.

And so begins five hours of driving. He continues to hold my hand as one phone call after another rolls in, the ringing constantly echoing throughout the car, causing me more anxiety than I care to admit: Beau, his friends, his agent, teammates, the team’s PR department, his publicist, sponsors, news reporters, magazine reporters—you name it. It’s imagining what my phone will be like when I turn it back on that has tension tightening every muscle across my shoulders. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from feeling trapped to free, and now, after hours of this—the many, many phone calls—followed.

A few times, I feel Reid’s gaze on me, but I just stare out the window. Eventually, he’s had enough, gets tired of telling the same story over and over again and turns his cell off, too. The freedom I feel from both of us being disconnected from the world is exhilarating, and a deep sigh I didn’t know I was holding in escapes me. If only this could last.

Walking into the sunken living room of his condo, I run my fingers over a thick burgundy plush blanket that’s thrown across the back of his couch. I expected a bachelor pad, but this—this is so much more. Dark wood floors with pale gray walls, leather furniture, and silver accents are laid out before us. It looks like it’s straight out of a Restoration Hardware catalog; it looks perfect.

“Wow, so this is where you live?” I ask, taking a full spin to get a good look at everything. There are windows stretching across the back wall, giving him the most beautiful view of the city and the water behind it, an open floor plan, a modern kitchen with a white marble breakfast bar, and a chunky wooden six-person dining room set. Of course there’s a huge flat-screen TV mounted over a decorative gas fireplace, and the walls are covered with black and white photos of different styles of planes, a few city scenes, and a blues musician—the same musician playing the saxophone, the piano, and the bass guitar.

“Yep,” he says, setting our bags down behind the couch. “A friend of mine, Jack, another player on our team, lives across the hall. This unit had just opened up, so right after I signed with the team, he approached me about checking it out. Living near another player makes things easier when it comes to practices, meetings, and games. Plus, it’s nice to be near a friend.”

“I can totally understand that. I lived on the Upper East Side of Central Park and school was on the west, so no one lived near me. The commute was lonely.”

“Do you miss it? The city and the dancing?” he asks as he walks into the kitchen and grabs two glasses, filling them both with water from the refrigerator.

“Yes, but at the same time, no.”

“Really? Why?” He’s moved back in front of me and is handing me the second glass of water.

“I love dancing, but it was always more of Clare’s thing. I just tagged along over the years to be with her, and then one thing led to another and I ended up in New York City. It’s like once I was thrown on the path, I couldn’t get off.”

“Was Clare with you in New York?” He takes a sip of the water and then licks his lips . . . lips that have kissed me.

“No.” I clear my throat and glance away. She was supposed to be there, supposed to be the one dancing her life away, not me. I think about our family, the endless expectations just for the sake of appearances, and I frown. My father was so happy when I told him I would pursue dance. He said, “The continued discipline and grace ballet requires will serve you well, especially when you become a politician’s wife.” Only, I never wanted to be a politician’s wife; he just neglected to ask me, or even care.

“I think I saw a picture of her in your room. You’re with another girl, you’re both younger, and she has pink hair. She looks like you, but she was laughing, so I couldn’t be sure.”

I know what picture he’s talking about. I love that picture of us. Every time I see it I think about putting out a few more, but something always holds me back and I don’t.

“Yes, that’s my sister in that photo. We’re actually twins—identical.”

“Really? I didn’t see it, but I guess I saw the personalities more than the features.”

Personalities. Within five minutes of meeting us, our personalities made us look drastically different. One of us was perfect; the other was the black sheep.

“You’d see it if she were next to me, and it actually goes one step further—we aren’t just twins, we’re mirror twins.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we have identical but asymmetric features. When I stare in the mirror, I see her. See this?” She points to the dimple on her right cheek. “On Clare, it’s on her left cheek. She writes with her right hand, I write with my left. She’s more right-brained and I’m more left. Experts say our personalities are more based on life experiences, but I don’t know. It just seems like we’re opposite in every way.”

“Huh,” he mumbles, thinking about this and studying me, the different features in my face. “What’s she doing now?”

I shrug my shoulders and take a sip of the water to cool off the emotions trying to settle in. “Whatever she wants.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.” His lips press into a thin line, and I realize I’m staring at them.

Moving to the kitchen, I pull out a stool at the bar and sit down. “Well, you know what they say—life isn’t fair. Really, though, I was just trying to do right by my family.”

Reid follows and takes the seat next to me. “I understand that. Growing up, my mother used to work long hours during the day—well, ‘used to’ isn’t right, because she still does. I have a little sister, Tally. She’s thirteen years younger than me. She was unexpected, but I can’t imagine our family without her.”

“Nate’s mentioned her. He helps your mother sometimes,” I tell him.

“I know. Tally tells me.” He smiles. “I had hoped after I signed with an NFL team she would cut back some with work, and she did a little, but not enough for my liking. I asked her once why she continues to kill herself day in and day out, and all she said was, ‘I don’t take handouts from no one.’ I don’t consider me contributing to our family a handout, but in her defense, she’s never been able to depend on anyone else for any stability. Maybe I’m like her, but I find that to be a strength in character, not a flaw.”