30. Clara
Chapter 30
Clara
“ L ast one, right?” I ask as we snag our tickets for the newest museum. According to the tickets, we’re at the Museum of Contemporary Art—Chicago, shortened to MCA. Now I just have to hope this is a short stop as well.
Walker and I are back to playing artist and muse, while RJ is our shadow, our scout, always in the corner of my eye, but never approaching.
“Of course, princess,” Walker says, dipping in for a soft, lingering kiss.
Whatever ease we found last night on the dance floor, today, it’s gone. This is pure acting on his part, no spark leaving his lips as he kisses me.
His phone has been buzzing all day, presumably with birthday wishes. We went to a fancy breakfast place this morning, and they put candles on his West Coast hash, but not one smile has reached his eyes since he made his birthday wish .
I tried for the first two museums to make him laugh, but his dreary mood is bringing me down, too.
I grab his hand, dragging him farther into the museum, bright colors drenching the walls, wanting to get this last visit done as quickly as possible.
He pauses my forward march to gaze at a small canvas covered in blue ethernet cables, red splattered over the maze of wires, a black-and-white photo of a crowd barely visible, printed directly onto the canvas.
“What do you see?”
At first glance, I see a mess.
But I take a breath, trying to figure out what would have gotten this little piece a spot on the wall. “I see an allegory about technology murdering the masses.”
Walker’s eyes shine, a true, giddy smile on his face. “Exactly. Whoever did this, they see and create. This, this,“ he leans in to read the placard, glancing at the signature to verify he has the right piece, “Gem Black, they can tell a story using motion and color, found objects and a photo from the 1920s, and it all comes together in such a way that even the untrained can see it.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, but he doesn’t notice, drifting from one side of the piece to the other, focused on the structure of this messy bit of social commentary.
I step back, letting him have his moment, glad he’s happy, even if he was a little snarky about it.
A touch feathers my elbow, and RJ is there. “Excuse me,” he says. “I was wondering if you know when the next bus might be by? ”
Playing along, I grin, the weirdness of not actually talking to RJ all day, even though I’ve seen him, burning through me. “I’m actually from out of town. But I bet if you head that way, toward that one busy street, there are a ton of buses. Like, so many buses,” I chirp, my muse role demanding drama where none is necessary.
“Oh, you’re not from around here?” RJ asks, Walker still occupied with the art.
“No, I’m here with my boyfriend,” I say, the word almost choking me. Boyfriend? Is he my boyfriend? My fuck buddy? A confusing mess of mixed signals? He’s definitely that last one.
RJ glances around the gallery, playing it up. “I don’t see any boyfriends around here,” he says with a wink, and I giggle. A real one, but it fits for the muse too, so I guess it’s not a problem.
This breaks Walker’s concentration, and he strides toward us, the anger in his gaze feigned. “Princess, come on,” he says, slipping his hand in mine, pulling me away from RJ.
“Sorry. Good luck with the bus,” I call, stumbling a bit as I trail behind Walker.
RJ’s brows crease as he watches us, and suddenly I worry that Walker’s anger maybe wasn’t all feigned.
He was into the three of us last night, encouraging me to give RJ plenty of attention. Although we were all a little drunk. Maybe he regrets it now that he’s sober? But he’s shared me with Jansen, too. He has to be faking the anger, right?
We wander a few more rooms in silence, Walker’s fake anger fading into a frigid facade, not even muse able to drag out another smile, a single touch. We travel back to the hotel in silence, Walker’s face blank as he stares out the window at the passing buildings.
RJ follows us into the elevator, reaching for my hand after the door slips shut, squeezing my fingers, offering support. Only, this is between me and Walker. I just wish I knew what “this” was so I could deal with it, avoid it, maybe even fix it.
We follow him to our room, and he immediately starts shoving his stuff into his bag, not looking up from his self-assigned task.
“Walker?”
He turns to me, his pleasant mask taking a moment too long to settle on his face. “Yeah? What’s up?”
I’m not going to grovel, I’m not going to apologize, but I need this to be better. Every time he pushes me away, it’s like barbed wire tightens around my heart.
I tug on my shirt. “I’m worried about you, about us.”
“Why?” He flashes a chilly grin at me before turning back to his stuff.
I sit cross-legged next to where he’s crouched, pulling some of the thrifted clothes out of the dresser drawer, and tug him down next to me. “This isn’t working. I can’t keep getting pulled closer, only to be shoved away when I break some unknown rule. I’ve played this game before, Walker, and I’m not doing it again.”
The door clicks behind us, RJ making himself scarce.
His smile flickers. “You’re perfect, Clara. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m going to vomit every time you pretend things are fine, Walker? ”
He jams the clothes into his bag, standing up and turning away. “I’m not responsible for your anxiety, Clara.”
Closing my eyes against the sting of his words, I flounder. They cut far more than they should. I tried yelling at him; I tried ignoring the problem, I tried pretending things were fine, and nothing’s worked. We’re going to talk it out. It’s the only choice left. And if I get hurt when he’s throwing darts? I guess I just need to dodge faster and ignore any that hit. I can nurse my wounds later.
“You’re right, you’re not responsible for my anxiety. I am. But I’m not crazy. There’s something going on with you. Tell me, Walker. Please.”
He sets his bag on the bed, wandering into the bathroom to get his toiletries. I stay sitting on the floor, not sure if I should push or wait.
As he dumps the last of his things onto the bed, it dawns on me. I haven’t seen his sketchbook this whole trip. In fact, I haven’t seen it since before we fought. It hasn’t been sitting on the kitchen island or left on the living room coffee table. A part of him has been missing and I haven’t noticed. I slink to my feet, reaching for his elbow, his muscles rigid under my fingers. “Walker.”
His fake smile vanishes, his eyes searching me for something, for some answer. But I have no answers, only questions.
“I’m not making you happy, am I?” he asks.
I shake my head. “This isn’t about me, Walker.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket and—taking any excuse to avoid this conversation—he pulls it out. Reading the message, his eyes shutter shut, before his body folds in on itself. His hand clenches around the phone, then jams the thing back into his pocket. “If I’m not enough, then let’s stop kidding ourselves.”
“Wait, what?” I squawk.
His hands frame my face, his forehead pressing against mine, his actions telling me he cares. “This isn’t working, Clara. We tried. We failed. It’s time to move on.”
“Walker, I don’t want to break up with you. I want to talk with you.”
He does one last scan of the room. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I grab a fistful of his shirt. “Walker, you’re being ridiculous.”
“You just said I’m too hot and cold, that you don’t want to deal with that. You as good as said I’m not making you happy. Why would you stay with me? There’s nothing wrong with a rebound, Clara. I can be that. But whatever it is you think you want from me? I can’t give it.” He shrugs, peeling my hands from his shirt. “You’re good getting a ride from RJ, right?”
“Walker…” I back up to the door, keeping him in the room. What was it Jansen said? Sometimes you have to force him to say things out loud for him to realize how dumb he’s being? How do I force him to talk about something when I don’t even know what is keeping him from being, well, him?
He reaches around me, pulling the door against my back, gently but incessantly forcing me to move, until he can squeeze into the hallway. I fling open the door, chasing him out, watching his back as he strolls away like he hasn’t just taken a chunk of my heart with him .
The elevator dings while I waffle over chasing him, over asking for forgiveness, begging for everything to be better. “Walker,” I call, the held back tears turning my voice wobbly.
But I can’t make my feet move, I can’t force the words to leave my tongue, not anymore, not since I promised myself that I wouldn’t beg, not unless I’m the one who messed up. He steps into the elevator, not turning back, not saying anything, just letting the heavy metal doors separate us with a thud.
He left. Again.
And this time felt final.
RJ catches me from behind as a sob wracks through me, cradling me in the safety of his arms. He bundles me back into the room, pulling me into his lap on the couch, holding me as I weep. His fingers stroke through my curls, down my back, soothing, comforting.
I look up at him, his face blurry through my tears. “Why won’t he just talk to me?”
Not expecting any answer, I burrow my head into his chest, breath all but impossible to find.
His hand stills between my shoulder blades. “I don’t think Walker really talks to any of us.”
I blink back some tears. “What do you mean?” I gasp, a whimper following my words.
He’s staring at the wall across from us, brows furrowed. “I mean, I know he has three brothers, but I only know one of their names. I know he hates celebrating his birthday, but I don’t know why. He’s shared maybe three stories from before we started college. Walker is one of my closest friends, and I’d trust him with my life, with my future, but he doesn’t share, not really. I’ve heard more stories about Trips’ sister than Walker’s shared about himself, which is absurd.”
I press my cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart lulling me, the same as it did last night. “Do you think anyone really knows him?”
“If anyone has weaseled their way in, it’d be Jansen, but I think Walker just keeps his cards close to his chest.”
Taking one deep breath, then another, I calm myself, clarity alighting as my mind quiets.
Walker doesn’t share. Which means he probably has no practice with it.
How can I get him to understand that sharing is essential? That it’s not a weakness, but a way to show love?
That thought makes my mind stutter. There’s no way the “all the dicks, no pricks” plan includes love. I mean, it’s not like Walker just broke up with me. We were never really dating.
Only I feel like I just had my heart stomped on and flung against a closed elevator door, so maybe I’ve been lying to myself.
Maybe we both have.
How didn’t I realize my heart was on the line? I thought it was too bruised and battered to even enter the ring. And now the dang thing feels like it’s on life support.
I whimper again, the air once more thin and scarce as my thoughts spiral.
Too many labels, too much pressure to be something, to match some archaic idea of a relationship, to squeeze myself into a form that just doesn’t fit me.
But maybe the words, the labels don’t matter.
And if that’s the case, then what does matter ?
That Walker and I need to talk—to really talk. After that?
I press my lips together. After that, I’ll have to figure out what I’m feeling about all these guys. And whether this is still just for fun.
RJ’s chin settles on my head.
Because I might already have stepped too far over that line. At least three times too far over that line.