Page 79 of Chasing Clouds

All he’s ever done is be there for me, and look what that got him—a broken heart and broken bones. Despite what he said a few weeks ago, I know he cared for me, very much. You don’t do the things we did or act the way we did if you don’t care deeply, and knowing this hurts me the worst.

Picking up the two photos, I stack them on top of the papers then walk past Patrick and straight out the coach house door. Behind me, Patrick calls out, but I’m done. I don’t want to see him anymore. He was supposed to be my friend, but he was instrumental in hurting not only me, but now Reid, too. This time, the choices are mine. Patrick mentioned he has to live with his, and well, I have to live with mine, too, including who I allow in my life and who I don’t.

As the kitchen door closes behind me, I lock it and close the chapter of my life that is Patrick.

No more.

No more manipulation, no more control, and no more of me giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. They’ve all shown their true colors one too many times, and I finally see it all for what it’s worth—nothing. Reid talked about character, how it’s the most important to him, and I fully agree. It may have taken me a while, but I finally got here.

Moving through the house, I make my way upstairs and to my room. There sitting on the pillow, right where I left it, is Reid’s paper airplane. It’s not the fanciest of the three, but it’s simple and perfectly folded.

Laying the papers and the photos down, I climb into my bed, under the covers, and stare at the plane. Of all the gifts in the world, it’s true what they say about how the ones from the heart mean the most. He didn’t have to give them to me, which is how I know all three came from the heart—his heart.

Reaching over, I run my fingers along the wings, the center unfolds, and I see the markings of ink. My breath catches as I sit up, pick up the plane, and gently unfold it. There, written across the top in all caps, are three words: I love you. Underneath it says, You asked me why I did all this, and the answer is simple: it was love at first sight. I might not have recognized these feelings in the beginning, but they made themselves very clear, very quickly, and I would do anything for you, any time. I’ll always be here for you.

Heat rushes through me as my fingers tremble and I read the words over and over again.

He loves me?

Why didn’t he just tell me?

But I already know—he’s not a words guy; he’s all action. On and off the field, he takes care of others the only way he knows how: by doing. He’s decisive, protective, and strong. He’s attentive, generous, and so very thoughtful. I should have known then, because it’s so easy to recognize now.

Jumping off the bed, I race down to the table in the living room that holds the other two airplanes. I pick up the first one he gave me over two months ago on our wedding day, flip it over, and carefully pull out the tail. There, scrawled across the white page in black ink is: I never thought a girl like you would ever marry a guy like me. Thank you for saying yes.

My chin involuntarily quivers, tears roll down, and I start to shake. I don’t know how to feel. I’m elated to know he loves me like I love him but destroyed at the same time because I might have inadvertently ruined it all just by being born as who I was and because of who I know. No one would blame him for walking away and saying enough is enough. Love isn’t always enough.

Reaching for the second, I delicately unfold it, and inside it says: This is already the best honeymoon I’ll ever have. And it was—the best honeymoon I would ever have. For a man who never wanted to get married or be tied to someone else, this gesture, his words . . . they’re so kind and so true. They’ve given me hope, but they’ve shattered my heart, too.

Clutching them to my chest, my eyes catch on the jar of shells I placed next to the planes. Some are broken and some are whole, but together they are all beautiful, just like Reid and me, and now, knowing he feels this way, I can’t give up. I won’t give up, at least not until I’ve given it my all.

THERE’S A KNOCK on the door that has my head swinging toward it. No one ever knocks on my door. Jack just walks in, and we have security downstairs. Making my way over, I crack it and find the last person I ever expected to be standing on the other side: Camille’s grandfather.

I’m openly staring at him, and he’s staring at me. It’s not awkward; it’s confusing.

“Sir.” I feel my brows pull down as I open the door wider.

“Son.” I watch as his eyes drop and look over every injury visible, not seeing the one that hurts the most, the one inside my chest.

“Please come in.” I step out of the way as an invitation.

He smiles, walks in, and makes his way toward the windows on the far back wall. Following, I move into the living room, turn off the television, and then stop, leaving the full length of the room between us.

“Can I get you anything?” I offer. I may not be happy with how everything worked out between Camille and me, but being rude to someone for no real reason isn’t the right way to go about things either.

He turns and looks around the condo before making his way to the couch. “No, thanks. Nice place you have here.” He sits right in the middle.

“Thanks, I like it. My friend Jack lives across the hall, so that keeps things interesting.”

He chuckles. “I bet it does. I also bet Camille liked it here.” His gaze travels and stops on a piece of wall art I found in Camille’s room once I returned from Savannah. It’s just like her, too, to have hidden a present for me. I hung it right away so anyone who comes in will see it, and I can’t bring myself to take it down now.

Sometime during her stay here, she found an old four-paned window, stripped the paint off the wood, and repainted it a distressed white. She popped the glass out, covered it with chalkboard paint, and wrote the lyrics of the choruses from four of my favorite jazz songs by Mr. Dan, in cursive, in white chalk. The black and white matches the color scheme of my living room, and it looks perfect on the wall.

“She said she did, but I think she preferred sitting on the balcony the most.”

His gaze drifts over and he sees the mini workshop she set up outside with the drop cloth, makeshift wooden workbench, and tools. I should have gotten rid of them by now, but I haven’t.

“She always did love the outside the most,” he says, thinking about something unrelated to being here.