Page 40 of Chasing Clouds

Through the black tint of his sunglasses, he pins me with a narrowed stare. “What are you doing?”

I give him my perfected polite expression and lightly shrug my shoulders to play off my actions as no big deal. Looking around the patio, I take in where I’m sitting and what the background of the photos might entail.

“Don’t you know appearances are everything? I learned a long time ago to always be prepared. I’m actually surprised I slipped like I did by allowing myself to get so casual. Maybe it’s because we’re here and it’s so easy to be with you, I don’t know, but in Savannah, I can’t go anywhere without being recognized. Here it’s probably you. People know you.”

His frown deepens as if I’ve somehow insulted him.

“Reid, one hundred times over, they’d rather have the bad shot instead of the good one. The tabloids and the general public eat that up, which is why I can’t give them an opportunity.” I’m feeling defensive, and I hate that he’s making me feel this way—or is he? Maybe I’m making myself feel this way.

“You know you’re being crazy, right?”

“Am I? Messy hair means I’m stressed. No makeup means I’m letting myself go or I’m depressed. A lot of food on my plate and I’m eating for two. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. You’ll be in these photos, and I am now a reflection of your choices, too.”

“Camille.” At the way he says my name, the tenor of it on his lips, my chest tightens with affection. “Who cares? I certainly don’t care what you look like. I think you’re beautiful whether you’re dressed up for our wedding or climbing out of bed in the morning. It’s all the same to me, because all of it is you. You have to live your life, and you can’t be worried about what others think all the time.”

He said ‘our wedding,’ and I think a piece of my heart broke off and blew his way.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Leaning back in his chair, his fingers grip the edge of the table as he watches me. “Probably, and I’m not trying to take anything away from you. Based on what you’ve told me, I understand how you’ve lived your life up until last weekend, but you walked away from that life to find a different one. It doesn’t matter anymore. Appearances don’t matter to me. Character does.”

I want to say it does matter, because even if the photos aren’t about me being here, in his world with him, his face and his name are his brand for his profession, and I never want to make him look bad—not that I think I looked bad a few minutes ago . . . oh, I don’t know.

Letting out a deep sigh, I break eye contact and look out over the boats in the marina. Back and forth they sway in the water, just like my emotions. Part of me feels justified for what I said and for my actions, and then another part of me feels shame. Since that moment in the library at the rehearsal dinner, he’s never tried to make me be anyone but myself, and he seems to want me just as I am, so why do I feel I have to put on the act now?

“I think you have beautiful hair. Take it down.”

My eyes skip to him and then away.

Shifting my gaze, I look and see that the photographer is still there, sitting next to a large yacht. He’s trying to look inconspicuous, but he knows we know he’s there.

Reid is right. I need to worry less about what others will think of me and more about what I think of myself, about my character, as he said, and that’s so true. It’s the character of the people back in Savannah—that’s why I left and why I’m searching to find me. I really am trying, so, taking a deep breath, I keep the hat on but pull the rubber band out and let my hair fall free.

TODAY, I WOKE up feeling off. I couldn’t tell you why, but I feel on edge and I don’t like it.

The condo is dark and quiet as I walk into the kitchen. I heat up some eggs and sit down at the large breakfast bar to eat. Camille’s clutch and hat from yesterday are sitting on the other end and as I stare at them, it occurs to me that I like them there. I’ve always loved living by myself and swore I always would, but I don’t mind her things blending with mine. In fact, I don’t mind her being here at all.

Why did I think living with someone would be so bad? Granted, our setup is that we’re roommates; I still have my room and she has hers. That gives me space, so maybe that’s the difference. We aren’t on top of each other one hundred percent of the time—although I wouldn’t mind if she were on top of me now and then.

Shaking my head to clear it, I rinse the bowl, drop it in the sink, and head down the hallway to peek into Camille’s room. She leaves the door cracked, and before I head to the gym, I can’t help but watch her sleep. I know that makes me sound like a total creeper, but I need to see her before I leave to remind myself this is reality and I am married.

Man, do I hate that word.

Light from the hallway and her window spills in. She’s curled up on her side with one leg sticking out from under the covers, and she’s hugging a pillow. She looks tiny, sweet, at peace. I hate that she doesn’t look like this during the day, and the thought leaves me feeling very protective over her. I still don’t really know why. We aren’t a real couple, and none of this should matter as much as it does, but that doesn’t change how I’m feeling, nor has it stopped new feelings from taking root.

All week, she stayed in the condo. She wore what girls call yoga clothes, and although she looked a little lost in her head, in her own thoughts, she seemed somewhat relaxed, seemed okay. I got to know her this way, with her messy hair, a smile that got bigger and brighter each day, and a laid-back personality that made us living together effortless, but the second she felt watched at the restaurant, she became someone completely different. All day she felt like mine, and then within two minutes at the end of lunch, she didn’t. It’s like the air shifted and even though it was warm out, a chill drifted over our table.

The way she transformed and looked around made me uncomfortable. She became the girl from the rehearsal dinner. She looked poised, elegant, and every bit the high society girl she is, a harsh reminder of how different we are and how not real this will ever be. It’s not that I want it to be real—because, let’s face it, I don’t—but listening to her talk about the photos and people’s opinions made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to be sitting there with her, which had me questioning myself, and I never question who I am or who I keep company with.

Minutes pass, and it’s as if she somehow senses me, rolling to her back and letting out a small noise. Something in her dreams causes her to smile, and my chest tightens with an unexplainable longing. Yesterday she smiled. She smiled a lot, and not that fake closed-mouth smile she gives people out of polite obligation, but one that feels like maybe it’s coming out just for me. I liked it, more than I should.

A knock on the front door lets me know Jack is ready, so I walk away from her and grab my bag.

Jack and I always ride together to the franchise headquarters, the stadium, and training facilities. It keeps us accountable. Plus, this early in the morning we can both tolerate each other fairly well.

“What’s wrong with you this morning?” he asks, glancing over at me in the passenger seat. My bag is on the floor between my feet and one of my legs is bouncing nonstop.

“Nothing.”