Chapter 6
SIX
“ I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago.I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
~Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
S tarting the day off with a run was not unusual for Elle. Every morning in California started with her solo treadmill jog, looking out her window at the pre-dawn sky. That was normal. What wasn’t normal was running with a former classmate turned hot farmer turned hot veterinarian Airbnb host.
Despite the veterinarian clinic being closed on Mondays, Clayton insisted on sticking with a six a.m. start time. Opening the door, she was startled to find him standing on the porch.
“Sorry. We never said where we’d meet this morning, so I just came to you.”He threaded his fingers into his short sandy strands. “I got here a bit ago but didn’t want to knock too early. I didn’t want you to feel rushed.”
With a nod, she smiled.
Walking to his pickup, he outlined the plan. Just knowing he had a plan made her knees wobble. She always had a plan. Her plans had plans. It was nice having someone else hold the map for once, even if she itched to take it back.
They drove to the Greenway, a former railroad track refashioned as a running trail cutting across several nearby towns. Two reusable water bottles sat in the cupholders filled with water for them. One of the bottles a simple black, the other with the words Go Pug Yourself in white lettering skating over a pug silhouette. Clayton explained the bottle had been a gift from his sister Natalie.
Elle claimed the plain bottle for herself, his thoughtfulness making her stomach somersault. Being near him was reminiscent of sitting too close to a campfire on a cold evening. The flames’ hot breath a comforting blanket wrapped around you, but if you get too close, you’ll burn, and if you step too far away, you’ll freeze. It was a complicated dance to experience his thoughtful fire while reminding herself she was only here for a month.
“Thank you. Just don’t tell Fitz. I don’t want him to think I’m anti-pug.”
“That’s a tall order. He’s my best friend, even if he hogs the bed.”
“How big is your bed?” The innocent question sounded more suggestive than she meant. Blushing, she twisted and looked out the window.
“Big enough.” He cleared his throat, making her turn, wide eyes meeting his winking ones.
Oh dear.
The morning air was already thick. The forecast called for near ninety-degree temperatures for the next few days. She’d dressed appropriately, but her running shorts and exposed sports bra strap poking out from her tank top somehow made her feel naked. Elle tugged the hem of her shorts, feeling the caress of his side-eye gaze.
He's so checking me out. Wait, do I want to be checked out?
“Fitz must be so disappointed in Natalie for becoming a human doctor,” Elle said referencing Clayton’s sister, who was completing her residency in Boston.
The joke was an attempt to ease the sexually charged energy in the pickup, but there was a new tension punctuated with the clench of Clayton’s jaw. Everyone, including Elle, had assumed he’d grow up to be his dad. Even if she’d witnessed him go green in the gills at the sight of her blood in high school, it had seemed a pre-destined role for him. Only he hadn’t fulfilled that prescribed destiny.
Questions swirled within her at his mournful expression. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back the urge to ask.
“Belly rubs soothe all of Fitz’s disappointments,” he said, his tone quiet.
“I may need to try that.” She shot him a smile, which he returned. “I always liked your little sister, even if she used too much glitter on her projects at day camp. She’d insist everything needed sparkles.” She wiggled her fingers like jazz hands. “Didn’t matter what it was. She once made a football mobile with rainbow glitter. Glitter was everywhere but on her. Somehow, I had it all over me, even in my bra. No idea how it got there, but I had bedazzled rainbow boobs.”
The tense muscles lining Clayton’s face eased, a rumbling laughter erupting as she gestured to her breasts. She grinned, choosing not to be embarrassed by the motioning to and speaking of her breasts. The relief that came with the relaxing of his rigidity was worth it.
“She used to do the same thing with frosting. Mom would find smudges and globs everywhere. We’d be covered, but she’d be spotless. I swear she’s made of Teflon. Nothing sticks to her.”
“I think I’ve heard you speak more since the barbecue than in the entire time I knew you growing up,” she blurted. “I’m not saying you talk too much. I’m not complaining, not at all. I like it, it’s nice. Now, I’m talking too much.” A line creased her brow. Where’s my filter around this man?
“I have a stutter,” he whispered.
What? Elle shifted in the seat to face him.
“It was pretty bad when I was a little boy. It’s why I went by CJ. Clayton was too hard to say. I would just stumble through my own name. My mom started introducing me to people as CJ, because I could say it without stuttering. My parents put me in speech therapy and slowly, very slowly, I learned to manage it. But it was easier to just not speak and to give one-word responses,” he explained.
“I had no idea. I just thought you were grumpy and didn’t like me. Well, that you didn’t like anyone but Noah. I feel bad that I used to call you Oscar behind your back.” Elle scrunched up her face in self-reproach.
“Oscar?”
“The Grouch.”
“Makes sense.” His eyes warm. “Noah’s mom and my mom are best friends. I’ve known him forever. I have no memories of a life before Noah Wilson. My stutter never bothered him. He’d say it was just how I talked. He knew it bugged me though, so he never forced me to speak. When I did speak, he never looked at me in the way my parents or teachers did.” A sad smile covered his face.
An uncomfortable fullness bloomed in Elle’s chest. She placed her hand on her heart, picturing a tiny, stern-faced Clayton, his mouth drawn tight at the expectant stares of adults. Some waited for this little boy’s words to stumble, while others for them to smoothly flow out of his mouth. Either way, a losing battle of expectations.
“We both had Ms. Lane for Kindergarten. I had to do show and tell and was terrified. When Ms. Lane called on me, I remember feeling like I was going to puke. I got up, looked at the faces of the other kids, and already imagined their laughter in my ears. I just stood there. Then the whole class began laughing, but not at me. At Noah who was making fart noises against his arm. It distracted everyone and by the time Ms. Lane got control of the class, it was time to go to Art. He saved me.”
“He had your back.”
That uncomfortable fullness in her chest filled with a warmth for the dimpled-smile Noah Wilson coming to the rescue of his best friend. The sweet-natured boy that by default received the role of Mr. Bingley in her imagined high school version of Pride and Prejudice lived up to that role. The boy with ocean-blue eyes was one of the kindest boys she knew. Where other boys teased, Noah complimented. Where other boys were hard, he was soft. Where other boys’ moods seemed to sway with the winds like flimsy tree branches, he was steady like an immovable oak.
“He always has. We’re still good friends. I’m not close to most people from high school, but Noah…” he paused, shaking his head. “I can’t get rid of him. My stutter sometimes comes out if I’m over-tired or emotional. You can’t cure a stutter, but you learn how to deal.”
“That’s so true for so many things. What about Evan, your little brother? Is he as impressive as his big brother and little sister?”
The air shifted again as the pickup rumbled down the gravel road to a parking area. Turning off the engine, he fiddled with the keys while his throat bobbed up and down with unsaid words.
“He died.” With Clayton’s whispered response an ache grew in her heart.
The pale grey of his eyes darkened to weary storm clouds. He clenched and unclenched his hands around the steering wheel as if locked in an inner debate; stay and speak or run.
Like a familiar book, she could read the question with each flex of his hand. She didn’t know when she learned how to read him, but she could. She didn’t ask how or when. She didn’t offer any condolences. Words always failed in moments like this. Evan was dead and Clayton was sad. How do words fix that?
Pulling his hand off the steering wheel, she threaded their fingers. “We can sit here. We can be quiet. I could listen. Or we can run. You choose.” She stared forward, not wanting to steer him in any direction but the one he chose to go.
“Thank y…” he started then stopped as he stumbled over the word.
She made no movement in recognition of his stumble. At that school dance so many years ago, his waiting arms caught her when she almost fell, and she would now catch him. Viet once told her that sometimes catching meant allowing someone to fall without saying anything.
Exhaling a shaky breath, he found his footing. “Thank you. Let’s run.”
“Ok.” She reached for the door with one hand, while his hand held her other.
There was a tug as each reached for their doors bringing them to a halt. Elle was surprised to find she didn’t want to let go.