23. Clara
Chapter 23
Clara
W e’re halfway to Chicago and I still can’t get Walker to talk to me. I tried easing into it—he changed the subject to the weather, of all the damn things. I tried an awkward silence. He turned on the radio. I even tried holding his hand, but he wiggled out to take a sip of his kombucha and pointedly put his hand back on the steering wheel.
We’re almost to Wisconsin Dells and I’ve run out of ideas. Tucking my knees under my chin, I stare at the passing landscape, a violent wind buffeting Walker’s SUV as we go. I’m glad I’m not the one driving. Holding the car steady when the wind picks up like this is exhausting. I take out my phone, pulling open my chat with Jansen.
SO S
I wait for a response, sipping the Diet Coke I grabbed for the road.
Hey beautiful! What fire are we fighting?
I grin, happy to hear from him, even if it’s just texting. I’ve been trying not to distract him from whatever it is he’s doing down in Kansas City so he can get home sooner.
Is a mopey Walker a fire? If so, I need some help finding the extinguisher.
LOL. You could always just dump some water over his head. Always gets him sputtering.
I laugh out loud, and Walker glances at me, but switches back to the road before we make eye contact.
I take it this is from experience?
Ask him about the time we went to Duluth.
Huh. That’s an idea. “So,” I say, coaxing him into talking. Please let this work.
“So,” he says, staring at the road .
“So I’m chatting with Jansen, and he wants me to ask you about a trip you two took to Duluth?”
Walker sighs, rolling his eyes. “The idiot dumped a Big Gulp of sweet tea on my head when I threatened to leave him on the side of the road if he didn’t sit still. I had to have my car deep cleaned after the damn stuff started a mold bloom in my seat. He still owes me for that, too, by the way. I would like my $278 back, thank you very much.”
I giggle, thinking about the two of them stuck in a car, bickering, but still loving each other. And I realize that’s the key to these guys. As different as they all are, as unique and crazy, they all love each other. And I want in on it.
Maybe I am selfish.
“Have you guys gone on a lot of road trips together?”
“No. It’s usually RJ and Jansen who do surveillance. I only go when they need a forgettable face. Trips goes if they need his name, his angry rich guy vibes, or his right hook.” He shrugs. “So not a lot of road tripping for me.”
“Do you like doing that kind of thing?”
“What kind of thing?”
“Pretending to be one thing while being another? Didn’t you call yourself the smiling snake?”
His face falls, and I know, I just know, I’ve somehow made everything worse. The angst is palpable.
He downs the last of his kombucha, leaving a tiny amount of culture in the bottle, before answering. “Clara, I’m always pretending.”
“Always?”
He looks at me, holding my gaze. “Always. ”
His lips twist into a smile that’s made of broken glass and gasoline. He winks, then turns back to the road.
I can physically feel my heart break. I know he’s lying. I know that’s total bullshit, but this Walker, this cold, mechanical shell beside me? How do I even talk to him, work with him, care for him, when he’s lying to us both?
Biting my lip, I hold in the tears, my right hand tapping on my leg, calming me, centering me, giving me the outlet I need so I don’t fall apart two hours outside of Chicago stuck with a man desperate to push me away.
“Okay,” I say.
I hear a choking sound before he sneaks a glance at me. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. In that case, who are you pretending to be this weekend? I need to make sure I’m the right pretend girlfriend for that guy.”
Walker’s silent for a full minute. Maybe this was the wrong tact? He swallows twice before he opens his mouth again. “I’ll be playing the part of the avid art student. We’ll hit up a bunch of museums, make sure we only eat organic, free-range food, and drink the fanciest craft cocktails. I want to be the worst parody of an artist I can. Speaking of which, we should probably stop at a thrift store in the suburbs and put together outfits that don’t quite fit but have lots of patterns and colors.”
“So I’m an artist too?”
He smiles, a hint of actual Walker showing in his eyes. “No, you’ll be my muse.”
I recline my seat, curling to face him, propping my head up on my fist. “What exactly does a muse do? ”
A grin, a real one, crosses his face. “You’re a beautiful free spirit that encourages my struggling artist to experience life out from behind the canvas.”
“But? I feel like there’s a but here.”
He chuckles. “But poor struggling artist only uses real life to create more art, never fully joining the living.”
“Is this a tragedy? It’s sounding like there’s a sad ending on the horizon for struggling artist and his muse.”
“Muse gets wise, figures out that artist will never actually live with her, and leaves. Artist then either offs himself or uses his broken heart to create the best work of his life, forever tying pain to success.”
I sigh. “I’m glad you’re not a professional storyteller, Walker. That’s depressing.”
He taps the wheel once, his smile gone. Did I already lose him? “So where are we in this tragic love story?”
He taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. “We’re in the muse forcing the artist to experience life part. We’ll be out on the town, but eccentric. Basically, anything that pops into your head and that little voice says, ‘Don’t do that. That’s a terrible idea.’ Yeah, ignore that voice. That’ll be your part.”
“So crazy, rainbow chasing, slightly manic, and likely high?”
Another mini laugh—I’m getting there. “More or less. I’ll be in awe of your free spirit, but I’ll keep trying to stop you, so we can record moments for later drawings and paintings. Maybe even sculptures.”
“Should I always be camera ready?”
He shakes his head. “No, just be you. I’ll force those moments. Don’t worry. ”
“Do you usually have your characters planned out like this? Do you all do this? Or is this a Walker special?”
The pause makes me worry I’ve messed up again, but eventually, he answers. “Sometimes it’s on the fly. But most of the time, I take at least a minute to tug some thread of myself to the surface and riff off that. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it’s like there are bits and pieces of myself that I can mix and match to make a different version of myself as needed.”
I nod along. “I have something similar, but it’s not that easy for me. It’s like there are three or four Claras, and they all are there, all the time, but I can only really be one of them at a time.” I shake my head, confused. “That sounds like I’m crazy, but it’s more like every moment I choose which Clara belongs, and that Clara deals with it. And that sounds even crazier.”
“No, I think I follow what you’re saying. Like, if the situation calls for you to be quiet and focus, that spitfire that throws flames back at Trips sits quiet and the focused Clara comes out.”
I laugh. “You put it better than I can. Yeah. That’s what I was trying to say.”
I watch a copse of trees out my window, a windbreak between fields, the calm in the car magic after all the tension. “Do you think other people have the same thing?”
A mile marker says we’re almost to Madison. They probably have great thrift shops by the university. Walker cuts into my thoughts. “I don’t think so. Jansen can’t really pretend to be anyone else, you know? Same with Trips. They are who they are, no matter what the situation is. Sometimes it works and sometimes…”
“Sometimes Jansen dumps a Big Gulp on your head while you’re driving?”
Walker bursts out laughing. “Exactly.”
I watch the joy fill Walker’s face, a hint of hope battling it out against the dread in my gut. How do I keep him smiling? How do I get him to talk to me so we can figure out where we went wrong?
I clear my throat. “Do you want to stop in Madison? I bet there are some good thrift stores by the campus.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Maybe a little.”
“We’ll shop, then get a late lunch. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
We sit in companionable silence for a few more miles. “One last question,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think struggling artist and muse need to roll into town wearing matching iridescent outfits? Because that’s what I’m imagining.”
He laughs for nearly a whole mile.
I might be able to make this work. Maybe. This needs to work. I need him. And he needs me, too. We have a little over forty-eight hours for me to get him to see how good we are together. A lot can change in that amount of time.
God, please let it be enough time to fix us. And please don’t let it be the perfect amount of time to destroy us completely.
We didn’t get matching iridescent outfits, but we’re not far off. Walker’s decked out in an orange dress shirt, paired with tight black jeans, army boots, and a purple wool trench coat. He looks like Halloween vomited him up, but in a cool way.
My getup is equally preposterous. I’m wearing a full-length sleeveless lime-green dress, three belts on my waist, and all the costume jewelry we could find, including a crown. Under the dress, I have a long-sleeved black and white chevron blouse, as well as my own thrifted army boots. My hair is in a braided crown that took me the forty minutes we sat, unmoving, on I-90 to get right.
I pull my backpack over my shoulder and grip tight to my bag of thrifted costumes as I wait in the parking garage for Walker to get his things from the back of his SUV. “Guess what,” I say.
“What?” he asks, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“You match your car.”
He looks down at his shirt, then over at his car. “Orange has always been my color.”
I giggle, and he ducks in, planting a soft kiss on my lips. “Ready to be my muse?” he whispers.
I grab a handful of his shirt, pulling him flush with me. “Only if you promise to hold me back if I get too crazy. Clara off the rails? Even pretending? I have no idea where this is heading. ”
He rests his forehead against mine, so close after so long separate, and I want to weep with relief. “I’ll keep you safe, always.”
I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “When do we start?”
“How about now?”
Grinning, I slap his ass before sprinting to the elevator, giggling the whole way.
“Really?” he hollers, but I can hear his boots dashing after me as I punch the Up button. The door slides open, and I duck in, hitting the button for the ground floor, pounding the Door Close button. Slowly, too slowly, the doors inch shut.
“Please, please, please,” I whisper, watching Walker reach out, his fingers almost in the door as it shudders shut. I burst out laughing, breaking out a happy dance as the elevator brings me to the lobby above.
I rush out of the elevator, still giggling, and into a gorgeous lobby. Plush velvets in jewel tones fight with bold black and white walls. My lime-green outfit almost matches, but it’s obvious thrifted-ness guarantees I do not belong in this lobby.
My anxiety sparks. Only this weekend, I’m not Clara. I’m the muse.
Would the muse let a fancy lobby knock her off her game? Of course not.
That thought in my head, I smile and nod at the desk clerk, perching on one of the big velvet chairs facing the elevator, crossing one leg over the other, casual as can be. The muse belongs wherever she deigns to land.
The elevator dings, and Walker stumbles out, shaking his head at me. “Princess, that was very mean,” he says, a smirk pulling at his lips .
“You loved it.”
His laugh fills the small, plush space. He pulls me to my feet, yanking me to him, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that belongs behind closed doors. Instead of freaking out, I melt into him, letting the kiss become my full reality, trusting the tiny voice that I usually ignore to lead me. I want to kiss him. Why the hell shouldn’t I?
He pulls back sooner than I want, but longer than I normally would have allowed, both of us breathless. His dark eyes tell me he’s missed this as much as I have, even if this distance is his fault. Trusting that little voice, I pop up on my tippy toes and nip his bottom lip. He shivers, and I grin. “Are we going to check in?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Yes.”
Neither of us moves, this moment too full of all the things we haven’t said to each other, neither of us wanting to let the other walk away, to fall back instead of forward into each other.
“I can help you over here,” the lady at the counter announces, breaking the spell. I wink at Walker before bending down and snagging my bags from the floor. He does the same, and we both head to the desk.
“Walker Lee. I have a reservation.”
Walker shifts his stance, projecting power and money. It takes a minute to place it, but he’s channeling Trips’ arrogance. I snort, and Walker catches my eye, winking.
“Yes, Mr. Lee, I have you booked through Monday.”
“Monday?” I ask .
He wraps his arm around my waist, dragging me close. “Then we don’t have to worry about leaving before we’re good and ready, princess.”
I crane my head to look at him, but all I get is his profile, his attention on the clerk. My fingers beat a rhythm on my leg once, before I once again remember that I’m not me, not really. Spinning out of Walker’s arm, I slowly turn to the beat of the lobby music. I feel Walker’s eyes on me, but I pretend I don’t, waiting until he finishes all the business stuff with the attendant. Key card in hand, he directs a valet to pile all our things onto a cart, then takes my hand, halting my solo dance party.
I think I’m going to love being Walker’s muse.
We follow the valet into the elevator, inching up to the twelfth floor, his hand warm in mine. I grin at him, and he shakes his head, trying to hold on to his rich-kid attitude, his lips pressed tight against his smile.
We make it to the room, the valet handed a wad of cash before the door clicks shut behind him. Walker scoops me up and tosses me onto the giant king-sized bed before yanking off his coat and diving next to me.
Rolling quickly, I get out of his way as he bounces on the spot I just vacated. “Clara, what was all that?” he asks, turning onto his side, one hand resting on my hip, like it belongs there, like it was never gone.
“I was being your muse,” I say. “What about pretending to be Trips? What was that?”
Walker laughs. “You caught that?”
I poke his shin with my boot. “Of course. ”
He rolls onto his back, his hand slipping from my hip, settling onto his stomach, leaving not one inch of us touching. Again. He unzips his boots before kicking them off. “How many middle-class kids end up as art majors, do you think? Let alone the pretentious kind?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
He curls onto his side, at least facing me. “Pretty much none. Either you’re rich enough that you know Daddy will support you until you land on your feet or join the family business, or you’re too poor and too hopeful to realize the odds of making it in the fine arts. And the poor hopeful wouldn’t have booked this hotel.”
Thinking about that, I take in the room. It’s big, with one gigantic king-sized bed, jewel-toned walls, and a teal patterned carpet. It somehow looks expensive instead of chaotic, and I kind of love it. I roll off the bed, intent on checking out the bathroom. “Did you book it? It matches our artsy-fartsy aesthetic.”
The bathroom is marble—real marble, with a separate shower and tub. I back out, afraid of breaking something.
Once out, I realize there’s more to the room around the corner from the bathroom, finding a kitchenette and sitting area/office looking out over the city. “Holy shit.”
“Do you like it?” Walker asks, moving past me to sprawl on the black patterned loveseat.
“I feel, I don’t know, outclassed? Can you feel outclassed by a hotel room?”
Walker pats the seat next to him, so I curl up there, my feet tucked under me. He crosses his ankle over his knee, the tight black pants straining over his thighs. Mmm. “I understand the feeling. The first few times I traveled on Trips’ dime? I felt like, I don’t know, Cinderella or something.”
“And now?”
“Now it just seems normal.”
I peer out the window, skyscrapers blocking most of my view of Lake Michigan, but it’s there, glinting in the distance. “So Trips got us the hotel?”
“Yeah. He does all the travel planning, so it’s always nice, even when we’re in the Podunk middle of nowhere.”
I lean over the back of the loveseat, trying to get a better view of the lake, gray in the late afternoon light. “So what now?”
Walker stands up, tugging at his too tight jeans, trying to get them where he wants them, before looking out the window with me. “I guess we get dinner and plan which museums we’ll hit tomorrow. I figured three or four tomorrow, and two or three on Sunday. When do you need to be back on Monday?”
“I have business law in the morning.”
“Right, with Trips.” Walker moves into the kitchenette, his back to me as he pulls down a glass and fills it with water.
The burgeoning closeness snaps shut, and I trail him, trying to force open the gap the muse left open, my palm hovering over his elbow. But he’s stiff, closed off. I scramble, tucking my hand into my green skirt, not sure how to get us back on track. “Walker, are we going to be able to pull this off?”
“This weekend? Or the Thanksgiving tryout? Or the actual Rubens heist?”
I run a finger along the edge of the counter, not looking at him, terrified I’ll see nothing but indifference in his gaze. “All of them, I guess. But mostly, this—you and me, this weekend.”
He sets his glass in the sink, turning toward the sleeping area. Leaving me. “I don’t see why not.”
He doesn’t tease, or touch, or smile.
He doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t look back.
Can’t he see that we’re bleeding, covered in microscopic cuts, oozing aches that stretch and tear? That every time he touches me for pretend, every inch of my skin lights up, thinking it’s real? That with each step he takes away from me, the pain grows, already unbearable?
He opens a drawer, folding his newly thrifted clothes and putting them away.
Can’t he see me?