Chapter Thirty-One. Clara
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CLARA
NOW
I STUDY REID INTENTLY as he grapples with the last question I’ve asked at the end of all my interviews.
Was it all worth it?
There’s something that flickers across his features—an uncertainty of some sort before finally, he says, “Too soon to tell.”
I know he’s talking about Legacy. But there’s a part of me that knows—after this conversation, after what happened between us this morning—he’s talking about us, too.
When the official part of the interview is over, he removes his mic and I take down the equipment. We talk through the plan for tonight, which includes him picking me up later for the banquet so we can arrive together and find Nicole.
Just before he leaves, he hovers in the doorway. We share a long, wordless look that’s painful in its understanding—that this might really be it. The closure we needed.
I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to cry. Not because I don’t want him to know how I feel, but because once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.
Just after he leaves, Logan passes through the door, his arms full of mic wires. “Hey, sorry—just need to put these away.”
Since he’s here, I ask him to look over my sound settings in my editing software. He sets his keys and phone down beside the computer and peruses it, making minor adjustments here and there. His phone buzzes constantly against the desk. I take a subtle peek and catch a guy’s name on the screen.
“That should do it,” Logan announces, and I whip my gaze away.
When his phone buzzes again I say, “Someone’s popular.”
“Hardly.” He laughs. “My mom heard about the fight.” He shoves it into his pocket, avoiding my gaze, and I can’t help but feel sad that he feels the need to lie about texting with a guy.
Once he’s gone, I immediately get to work. The media room is the perfect place to edit, and I want to get as much done on this initial video as I can.
I think back to what West said to me last year when he yanked my dreams out from under me. You want to make documentary films? It’s worth your time to impress people who have money, not deter them.
It was a harsh insult then, but now it’s my fuel. Because he’s gone on and on about the new donors and benefactors. The exact people coming to the banquet tonight.
I plan to impress them.
I start by going back over Reid’s interview.
As I watch and splice the footage, I’m moved by his answers all over again.
By his honesty about the program. About us.
He didn’t have to open up like that. He could’ve kept things surface-level and impersonal.
But it seemed like he didn’t want to pretend anymore, either.
The only thing Reid didn’t divulge outright is his injury or the true impacts Legacy has had on his time at college.
But I have the footage I need for that. Because I don’t want Reid to live under the threat of accounts like Legacy Lore spreading rumors about him, contorting the truth. This is my chance to protect him from that.
I review my notes, making sure I’ve tracked everything from his interview, before I move on when I see a note to myself that I forgot to ask him about.
Did you ever read the card?
I had no idea what Reid was talking about this morning when he asked me that. But I know someone who might.
I send a text to Mitchell. Do you know anything about a card Reid gave me last year?
When he doesn’t text back right away, I keep working.
As the hours pass and light shifts outside from a bright white to a golden hue, I barely move from the editing chair.
Splicing and cutting as fast as humanly possible, grateful I did so much of the work last year.
I intercut between all the footage I already had with all the interviews I’ve gotten this weekend.
When it’s as close to done as I’m going to get it before the banquet, I lean back.
My eyes are burning. A bit from staring at the computer all day, but also with pride. For the first time ever, I know that this is good.
When I have time to fully complete it, this is a doc that could get me back into CAFA.
Only … what was true last year is still true this year: It’s highly personal. Incredibly raw. It highlights pieces of my friends’ and former teammates’ lives in a way that I’m not sure I can show without upsetting them. Or revealing all they’ve been hiding. All the program hides.
And it shows Reid completely unguarded.
I’m taking a big risk including everything. Though I think this is what he needs, uncertainty lodges in my stomach and festers as I race home to get ready.
An hour later, Reid appears on my doorstep looking like suits were invented just for him.
The one he’s wearing is dark, and the crisp white dress shirt is open at his throat.
His hair is perfectly mussed, and I can smell his clean shaving cream and woodsy cologne from here.
Even with a purple eye and a bruised jaw, this boy makes my brain stop.
“Damn,” I blurt appreciatively.
His grin is modest but confident. It falters slightly as his gaze rakes up and down me in a way that shoots fire across my skin.
I smooth my hands across the skirt of the dress Aunt Xi gave me. Made out of a soft emerald-green satin, it’s got a vintage vibe—thin straps, a fitted bodice, and an A-line skirt that flares out and hits me a little above my knees.
“Ready for some subterfuge?” he finally asks, a glint in his eye.
A fresh burst of nerves tumbles through me. “Ready” isn’t the word I’d use. Terrified we’ve got it all wrong. Worried about what else Legacy Lore might do tonight. Hopeful our plan for Nicole is the right one.
One of the straps slides down my shoulder as I shrug. His gaze follows the slip of fabric as I readjust it and say, “As I’ll ever be.”
Just as Reid is taking my camera bag to his truck, my phone buzzes with Mitchell’s response. You mean the one for your birthday?
I frown. Reid didn’t give me anything for my birthday. I had found it unlike him at the time, but I wasn’t about to ask. Then we broke up and that was it.
Mitchell sends another message. Didn’t he put it in your backpack for you to find? God, he’s so dramatic.
My backpack? I haven’t used it since school got out.
With a quick shout at Reid letting him know I forgot a jacket, I sprint to my room, tearing open the closet.
Pushing clothes and shoes and boxes aside, I finally see the dark green canvas tucked in a heap under some sweaters.
Turning it over, I shake out the contents on the floor.
I spread all the papers out and there—among them, crumpled and dirty, is a small, purple envelope that apparently has been sitting here for six long months.
I open it, smooth it, and read it in dawning disbelief. Blood thrumming so hard it’s all I hear.
To my favorite light-chaser,
You asked to see them so many times, I finally had to give you one.
To be honest, my pen hasn’t stopped moving since I met you.
Ink spilling with your laugh, your touch, the continuous torturous prospect of your mouth on mine.
Every word looking for you. Every page another freeze-frame in our story.
I don’t want to scare you, Clara. I just want to love you.
Happy birthday.
Love, Reid
If love means chasing
fading light, I’ll run, chest burning
into your night
I run my fingertips across the words, my eyes filling and my heart squeezing with every single one. A shocked laugh caught in my throat at the total impossibility of this.
He wrote me a poem.
This poem.
The exact same one I have tattooed on my skin.