Chapter Eight. Clara
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLARA
NOW
I LOWER THE CAMERA and turn, somehow knowing who will be standing there a second before our eyes lock.
Reid.
Reid is here. Home. A day early. Wearing a gray shirt and dark jeans and an expression that’s just as stunned as I feel. I’m pretty sure “Holy shit” tumbles out of my mouth, but I might just think it.
“Yeah,” he responds, a little breathless.
Okay, I definitely said it.
His gaze slowly traces my face, my body, like his fingertips used to. I’m wearing a short maroon skirt and black tee. A sliver of my stomach shows, and I tug on the hem of the shirt a bit to make sure my tattoo is covered.
I’m not ready for that conversation yet. With anyone.
He lingers on my bare legs a fraction longer than anywhere else, and heat flashes across my cheekbones.
I stare back. I can’t even pretend like I’m not hungry to take him in and absorb every detail.
Everything new (the shadows under his eyes), everything familiar (the way he taps the side of his leg when he’s nervous).
His longer hair falls in a slightly styled wave over his forehead.
My fingers twitch to weave through it and tousle it a bit. I always preferred it a little messy.
The deck creaks under my boots as I step toward him. But his shoulders go rigid the closer I get, and I force myself to stop. I fiddle with the camera strap and try like hell to play it cool. I don’t want him to know how untethered I feel.
“The guest of honor has arrived,” I say, my smile slowly rising.
An unreadable expression flickers across his features. Though the scent of woodsmoke floats around us from a neighboring fireplace reminding us it’s almost fall, his skin still carries the golden tan of summer.
When he doesn’t say anything, I try again. “I thought you weren’t supposed to get here until tomorrow.”
He clears his throat and doesn’t meet my eyes when he explains. “My class was canceled today. Figured I might as well beat the traffic.”
“Smart,” I say, nodding too hard. “It’s bad on long weekends.”
Traffic. Months of silence and we’re talking about traffic.
“You look—” I want to say “good.” And while he’s still every bit as devastating, he also looks wrung out. “Collegiate,” I finish instead.
“That’s code for ‘tired,’ isn’t it?”
Damn. I forgot how good he is at sifting through my words for the real meaning. When I smile, the corner of his mouth lifts. It unfurls the tension in my chest a bit.
Is he still upset about everything? Or worse, over it? Maybe that’s why he hearted the picture. Instead of it being a chance, it’s proof he’s moved on. Why is that only occurring to me now?
His eyes drop to my hands, and I release my twisted fingers.
“So, how are you?” I ask, lightly smacking his arm with the back of my hand. Casual, breezy. As if he’s someone I barely know instead of someone who’s trailed kisses down my spine. As if I don’t torture myself with wondering if he’s done that with anyone else. “Mitchell tells me nothing.”
His jaw—sharper than it used to be—jumps. “Yeah, you and Mitchell. That’s … new.”
There’s something I don’t understand simmering under his words. “We’re the last two standing from the group.” I shrug. “It’s chill, you know?”
Every line on his face sharpens with annoyance. He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, then closes it again as if thinking better of it. Shaking his head, he says, “Clara, I … don’t think we can do this.”
I always loved it when he said my name. Not like our friends or anyone else at school, but the way he’s heard me say it. Clah-ra instead of Clare-uh. Except now there’s a bite to it that was never there before.
My chest is rising rapidly, embarrassment crawling up my neck. “Do what?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks past me instead of responding.
Frustration leaches into my tone. “We can’t exchange pleasantries? That’s kind of the bare minimum of human interaction. I ask how you are, and you say, ‘fine.’ You ask how I am, and I say, ‘fine—’”
“Clara.”
“Then maybe we mention the weather, or the traffic. But you did that already—”
“Clara.”
“Then we go our separate ways.” I ignore how unhinged I sound and cross my arms tight.
His dark brown eyes finally lock on mine, intense and stormy and still so hurt. But I keep my expression passive. Unbothered. My vibrating hands tucked firmly against me.
“So, are you? Fine?”
He sighs. “Not really. You?”
I take in a shaky breath. “Not really.”
A thousand aching questions swirl between us.
“There,” I say, my voice close to breaking. “We did it.”
When his eyes go a little softer, my throat threatens to close on a sob. I swallow hard, forcing down every word that wants to spill out of my mouth. Every memory that wants to come back. Every hurt that ripped open the second he said my name.
He’s studying me closely now. “This is hard for me, too,” he says gently.
Tears do spring to my eyes then. Damn it. He was always so disarmingly honest. I loved that about him. I think I still do.
I force out a shaky “Yeah. I’ll just … go.”
We can’t even get through a conversation. Why did I think he’d want to see me this weekend? That he’d let me film him? Interview him? I was right before, I should’ve stayed home.
But as I walk by him, he reaches out and closes a hand around mine. “Wait.” He squeezes his eyes tight and exhales. “Shit.”
We hover. My hand in his.
The urge to fold myself into him and feel the press of his body against mine is so strong it’s a physical pain in my chest.
He swipes his free hand across his forehead. “I didn’t expect to see you—I didn’t know you were…” He trails off, gesturing to me.
“What? Here? I still live here, Reid. Never left.” My voice is piercing and defensive, bordering on bitter. We notice at the same time his hand is still wrapped around mine. He releases it and meets my eye again.
“Filming,” he clarifies. “I didn’t know you were filming.”
A self-conscious flush burns my cheeks. “Oh. Well. I’m boring.” I point to myself, trying to make a joke. “Remember? Hates parties. Loves trees. Films to avoid people. I haven’t changed.”
His eyebrows come together. “You would’ve had to.”
My expression must convey that I don’t get what he means because he goes on. “You were never boring. Tough. Fun. Nerdy.” The corner of his mouth lifts again, the barest hint. “But definitely not boring.”
The distance between us hurts, but this hint of sweetness from him is agonizing. Because now I’m clinging to those words and stuffing them into my mind to turn over later.
“Are you working on something for CAFA?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head quickly and can’t quite meet his eye. “I’m taking a break from all that.”
I rush to fill the awkward pause by telling him about my run-in with Principal West and the video for the banquet. My voice sounds nervy when I say, “I’m supposed to interview every Legacy.”
Reid and I have drifted closer. So close I can see the scar under his chin from when he fell off the swings in kindergarten. So close I could reach out and grip his hair in the way that used to make him hum.
So close I can really see just how different and unsure he seems.
Reserved. Or dimmed in some way. He’s always had too much weighing on him.
While I know Principal West could insist that Reid participate in the video and I originally thought filming together could be a good thing, I realize how unfair it is to not give him the choice. He deserves that.
“I know an interview is a lot to ask after—” I cut myself off, afraid to bring up anything that will make this harder than it already is. “I just mean you don’t have to.”
He opens his mouth to respond when the sliding glass door opens and Kenji bursts out onto the deck, his guitar strapped across his back and fluffy blankets spilling out of his arms.
“There you are!” His eyes bounce between us, a scheme plain on his face. “We’ve been looking for you two. C’mon, we’re going to the field.”
Reid and I exchange an awkward glance.
He clears his throat. “Actually, I think I’m gonna head out—”
“Absolutely not, we never get to hang.” Kenji tosses a blanket at Reid and grabs a hold of each of our arms, yanking us along. “C’mon. Just the crew.”
With a heavy sigh, Reid goes with him. I could stay up here, or leave before they notice I’m gone. But as Reid walks off, it leaves me with more questions than before.
Was he limping? Why does he look so tired? What’s really going on with him?
What if I never know?
The thought of him never opening up to me again—of it truly never being like it was between us again—is a stunning realization.
Something I don’t fully understand steels in me. I can’t let that happen.
I won’t let that happen.
I take off after them, bolting down the stairs to keep up. But a group is rushing up at the same time, and someone knocks into me, sending my camera tumbling off my shoulder.
“Shit!”
Reid turns at the clattering crash of my camera hitting the ground, but I barely register him doubling back. I scramble to pick it up, examining it closely, hunched on the floor.
There’s no obvious damage, but plenty could still be wrong. I check the focus and the lens, panning around the party. But it’s too dark. When I step into the closest room and flip on the lights, I instantly regret it.
Because Nicole and Logan are tangled on a bed, kissing with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm that dies the second they see me and my camera pointed at them.
“Oh my god!” Nicole springs back, her hair mussed, her black shirt twisted around her torso. She scrambles away from Logan. “Are you filming?”
“No!” I lower the camera, flustered all over again. “Well, yes, technically it’s recording, but I didn’t mean to—I’ll delete it.”
I back up, but my shoulder blades hit a strong chest. It’s only then I realize Reid followed me. The lift of hope I feel at that is instantly muted by the strangeness of walking in on two people I’ve barely ever seen talk to each other, all over each other. That Legacy Lore post pops into my head.
@LEGACY_LORE: There’s a lot more to this class of illustrious Legacies than meets the eye.
They’re not wrong.
My back is still up against the heat of Reid’s torso, and I step away quickly. Nicole watches the whole thing, pressing her lips together in a way that increases the furious look on her face.
I spare a glimpse at Logan, who is fixing his hair in the mirror. He seems completely unbothered by the whole thing as he says, “West mentioned you’re working on the new video. I’m doing sound for the banquet, so let me know if you need anything.”
I nod awkwardly. Logan and I worked together on yearbook, and since he’s majoring in audio engineering, he’s always who I went to for help with sound issues. He leans in close and says something quietly to Nicole that makes her flush.
As he walks past us, he claps Reid on the back. “Room’s all yours.”
“God.” Nicole smooths her hands down her shirt after Logan leaves. “My boyfriend and I got into a fight and this is the first thing I do … When will I learn that tequila is not my friend?”
“Do you want some water?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it.” She hops off the bed, and her expression grows irritated as she appraises me, then says to Reid, “That didn’t take long.”
I’m not sure what she means other than to assume it’s still the tequila talking.
When she’s gone, Reid’s smiling a little. “Wow. Never a dull moment in Woodhurst.”
Even that shred of a smile makes me crave more. I cock my head to the side. “How badly would they kill me if I put this in the banquet video?”
“Oh, I think we’d be talking a murder only podcasters could solve.”
I laugh, and his smile widens. It’s the cheeky one that winks with amusement. We seem to realize at the same time that this immediate back-and-forth is weirdly familiar. Like old times.
Reid blinks and clears his throat, breaking the spell.
“Is it okay?” He gestures to the camera.
I lift it, capturing him in frame. I hold my breath as I test it out, zooming in. Trying not to get caught up in the way the camera loves the light and shadows of his face, the warmth of his brown eyes. His close-up features send my pulse into a frenzy.
The lens is locking up a little, but nothing I can’t fix. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
When I lower the camera, his gaze sweeps over it in my hand before meeting my eyes again. “Why would you want to go back to all this?”
I realize he means the drama of the Legacy Program. The video.
He has a point. I didn’t want to. After I lost my spot, I had planned on leaving all of this in my past and letting the documentary I spent my entire senior year working on gather dust for the next few years. Maybe forever.
Now after seeing everyone, seeing Reid …
I’m as intrigued by this program as I ever was.
I can’t stop thinking about the stress on their faces.
All the weird choices they’re making. About someone creating an account to expose truths.
There’s something to that. Something catching hold of me that I can’t ignore.
What if this is my chance to show it?
All of it.
Reid is still waiting for my response.
“Because after the way everything went down, it just feels like…” I trail off, searching for the right words. Our eyes catch and linger long enough that I find them. “The story isn’t over.”