Page 77 of Chasing Clouds

“Me too,” I tell him, and I mean this. I hate how bad things got and how they ended. Patrick and I have been through so much together, and I think maybe that’s why I was hanging on for so long—hanging on to the memory, memories of our childhood, memories of Clare that only he and I can share, and memories of what our friendship used to be.

Taking a swallow of his beer, he turns his head away from me and looks out the window. I have nothing to say to him. He came here to talk, so when he’s ready, he will. In the meantime, I drink my beer and watch him sink even farther into himself.

“I miss her, every day, and I think I just got so caught up in the life she and I had planned, and then you so seamlessly stepped into the role, I just didn’t see how bad things had gotten.” He looks back and his eyes trail over me. “And of course it doesn’t help that you look like her. I mean, I know you aren’t her, but the vision I had . . . it was always her face, and I tried to make you her. I’m sorry.”

I understand what he’s saying. After Clare died, I went out of my way to look like her, talk like her, and be like her, so everyone around me would suffer less. They always wanted her more, loved her more. She was the perfect daughter, girlfriend, and sister, and it was my fault she was gone, so giving them what they wanted seemed less like a penance and more like a reprieve.

“I accept your apology, Patrick, I really do, but there are so many things I’m angry at you for, things I don’t see myself letting go of for a long time.”

“I know, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, not yet at least, but I’m hoping to get it one day.”

“Maybe. One day,” I answer earnestly.

He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face and around to the back of his neck. “I miss you, too.”

“And I’ve missed you, but I don’t miss who you’ve been the last couple of years. You were my best friend for a long time. I gave you way more allowances than you deserved, and well, now you’re not. It’s hard, too, because we navigated this life together and now I’m alone. That’s okay—it is what it is—but everything is so off and so unsure. You know what these people are like, so you know what life is like for me now. My father won’t speak to me, the people here in this town . . . well, let’s just say the invitations aren’t exactly rolling in. I don’t want to go back to New York, but I feel out of place here, and then there’s Reid.”

My voice catches on his name and I look away toward the window of the main house where his paper airplanes sit. It hurts, but I’m not talking about Reid with Patrick. Of all the things sitting foremost on my heart, he is front and center, and he would not like me discussing him with Patrick of all people.

Letting out a deep sigh, I look back at Patrick and watch as he pulls a piece of paper from his suit pants, opens it, and lays it on the small table between us. It’s a printed out photo of Reid and me on the beach.

With shaky fingers, I pick up the piece of paper and stare at it. The people in this photo are not the people we are today, and my heart cries out from the loss.

“Why do you have this?” I ask, searching his suddenly tortured face.

“I hired a private investigator and he found you at the beach. This was the day before you left—”

“I know when it was—I was there!”

“Right.” He looks down at the photo and frowns. “I didn’t know where you went after you left Tampa. He found you then reported to me where you were. Before I could decide what to do next, you were home. At the time, all I cared about was where you were, not what you were doing, and then you were here, where I needed you. He emailed me your file and all the images, which I’ll forward to you when I leave, but I didn’t look at them until last week. I kept thinking you’d reach out once you got back, but you didn’t.”

“You had me followed?” My eyes narrow. This feels like such a breach of my privacy, of my life, and my ears start ringing at his audacity. I’m shocked, hurt, outraged.

“I wasn’t following you and I wasn’t trying to spy on you, I promise. I just wanted to know where you were.” His words are rushed, his voice distressed. He gets up and starts pacing. “Camille, you walked out on me. I know that doesn’t make this right, but I had Clare, and then she was gone. Then I had you, and you were gone. Part of me was panicking, and the other part of me had your father barking orders in my ear.”

“Patrick, this is not okay!” I stand up and move behind the chair, away from him.

“I know that!” he yells back.

From his other pocket, he pulls out another paper with a photo of him and me at the rehearsal dinner. He walks over, snatches the photo of Reid and me out of my hands, and places the two side by side on the table.

“What being with me does to you”—he points at our photo—“and what being with him does to you.” He places his hands on his hips and drops his head. He’s breathing hard, pausing so I can take in the two images. “I see it now, Camille. I really do.” His voice is low, crestfallen.

I see it too. The girl in these two photos looks completely different.

At the dinner, I’m pale, thin, and impeccably polished. There are dark circles under my eyes, and I look so withdrawn. We’re standing next to each other and his arm is around my waist, but my arms are down with my hands clasped in front of me. We’re supposed to look together and happy, but we both look stiff, like strangers.

On the beach, my skin is golden and glowing, my hair is wild and wavy, and my eyes are bright. I’m laughing and looking at Reid as he gazes down at me adoringly and grins from ear to ear. We’re walking and his arm is thrown over my shoulders, keeping me tucked in close, and both of my arms are wrapped around his middle. We look relaxed. We look happy. We look in love.

We were in love.

No, I am in love. I still love him, no matter what.

Picking up the photo again, I look at myself. I don’t even remember laughing with Patrick, at least not since Clare died. A knot forms in my throat and I try to swallow it down.

“At the wedding, and even right after, I was so mad at you,” he says quietly.

I hug the picture to my chest and look up at him. He’s watching me, frowning as he shoves his hands into his pockets.