Chapter Thirty-Nine. Reid
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
REID
SPRING
@haikuforyou
Foundations still hold
In a dry and cracked desert
We are made to mend
I REALIZE CLARA’S FALLEN too far behind me, and I double back toward her on the trail. She’s hunched over, her breath rushing out hard.
“Could you not sprint for three miles straight? Uphill,” she emphasizes.
I grin at her. “I’m still two full minutes behind my PR.”
“I cannot wait for you to be around actual runners again,” she says. “Am I wheezing? I sound like I’m wheezing.”
Ever the dramatic, my girlfriend. “You want to stop?”
She looks longingly at the trail that would take us back down toward the parking lot. “I very much do. But they said it’s good for your conditioning, so…” She picks up her feet and sprints ahead, trying to outrun me.
Laughing, I catch up to her easily.
My dad was obviously upset about me leaving Stanford, but he allowed it in the end. Clara’s film was the convincing he needed—the support I needed. It scared off the Olympic coach, but I’m surprisingly okay with it. That was never my plan. And who knows, that doesn’t mean it won’t be in the future.
Of course, moving back home came with a list of conditions.
Dad and Julianne insisted that I continue my academics at Woodhurst Community College, and that I rehab my knee correctly.
He also got me to see a psychiatrist, and the antidepressants have helped me …
a lot. I’m sleeping again and setting my own schedule.
It’s been a shockingly good few months. Even more so with Clara.
When we reach the peak, I throw my head back.
The afternoon sun beats down on my face.
I gasp, grateful there’s a cool breeze up this high.
As we catch our breath, she leans back against me, and we stare at the landscape around us.
The snowcapped mountains across the canyon, never quite melting even in summer.
The explosive greens and bursts of yellow wildflowers at our feet.
Once her breath returns, she says, “I thought that was supposed to be a casual run to prove to our lazy friends that we’re better than them?”
I think of Delaney’s, Kenji’s, and Mitchell’s comments in the group chat about how gross we are for either being so in love or running together every morning.
I grin again and pull her into a sweaty hug. “C’mon, Clara, we already know Mitchell and Kenji are better than us.”
She laughs against me. “That’s true.”
They are monstrously cute together. Once Mitchell graduates and Kenji and Delaney come back home at the end of their semesters, I just know we’re going to have an epic summer together. Even if some drama is promised with everyone else returning, too.
Her phone pings, and we both go still.
“Is that it?” I ask.
Clara’s face is anguished as she stares at the notification.
“Open it.”
We shift to sit on the bench at the overlook, and I wait for her to tap on the icon, but her thumb hovers. She looks at me, her green eyes wide. “I can’t do it.”
No matter that she entered LEGACY into that Young Filmmakers’ Contest and won—earning her a massive scholarship in the process—she still thinks it’s possible that she didn’t get in again to CAFA.
Whereas I’m convinced she could teach at the school at this point, but what do I know?
I look at her intently. “Yes, you can.”
She lets out a pathetic little whine. “What if they reject me this time?”
“Then you go to one of the five other schools that already accepted you and fold in an eloquent fuck-you to them in your Oscar speech.”
She laughs, and I smile into her shoulder.
“Okay.” She lets out a nervy breath.
I’m sure she’s about to open it, but at the last second, she lowers her arm again. I squeeze my eyes shut while she tries to convince herself that she doesn’t want what she wants. Classic Clara. “There are a lot of other good film schools.”
“Which is why you applied to other places this year.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. A tendril of her dark hair falls across her face from her ponytail, and I gently push it back.
“And I’ve heard they’re pretty snobby there.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “So, you’d fit right in, Attenborough.”
She elbows me in the ribs, and we both laugh.
“I just … don’t know if I’d survive it.”
It’s amazing that she forgets just how strong she is. This entire year she’s done nothing but prove over and over that she’d never give up. That despite disappointments and setbacks—and half the town shunning her for a while—she knows exactly what she’s doing.
But I’m always happy to remind her. “Of course you would. You already have.”
Though I can feel the rapid rate of her pulse against my chest, I give her a reassuring squeeze and put a finger under her chin to lift it. “C’mon, champ, quit stalling. Let’s go.”
With a shaky breath, she raises the phone and together we watch as she taps on the icon. The email opens wide, and I only get as far as Congratulations before she screams and throws her arms around me.
I take her home immediately, and as soon as she bursts through the front door, she’s yelling for her mom. Their thrilled screams reach all the way out to the driveway.
Within the hour, her entire family descends.
My parents and Mitchell are on their way, too.
There’s food and cousins running everywhere.
Her Aunt Xi brings all the ingredients to make enchiladas.
Clara volunteers to help her with that while I assist her Uncle Marco with rearranging the furniture so there’s enough space for everyone.
“So, how does it feel? You’re about to go out there on your own,” I hear her Aunt Xi ask her in the kitchen over the scrunching of aluminum foil around a pan.
“Scary,” she answers. “But exciting.”
“You’ve had to grow up earlier than most kids your age,” her Aunt Xi says quietly.
My stomach twists, but I can practically hear Clara shrug. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Your mom is so proud of you. We’re all so proud of you. I just hope you know we’ve got her, even when you go your own way. Okay?”
Clara’s quiet a moment, then her voice is a little thick when she responds, “I could never go if you didn’t.”
After a moment of sniffling, I shift to help with the chairs outside but freeze when Aunt Xi’s voice goes arch. “So. Tell me how things are going with the boyfriend.”
I cough, and they both descend into giggles.
“Oh girl, you are one hot blush.”
Over the course of the evening, she beams answering question after question about CAFA and documentaries and what she wants to work on next.
Her phone never stops lighting up with notifications—many from Kenji insisting we’re all famous now, but also from alumni and former Legacies, responding to her post. I watch her with the widest grin on my face, and something stirs in me, too.
I know I’ve needed this time off. I’ve needed these months of rest and rehab and writing enough bad poetry to fill two full notebooks and dozens of posts.
Maybe I’m ready to do more than just make it through the day.
After dinner, Clara and I walk outside to watch the sunset. We take in the explosive colors in the sky, and she sighs against my neck.
“I’m going to miss this.”
I pull her closer, feeling the same way.
My head is calmer. I’m still unsure about a lot, but I do know that I’m more okay now than I’ve ever been. I’m excited to get back out there in a real way. Not for Woodhurst or my dad or my legacy. But for me.
And now, as Clara squeals and plans and has absolutely zero chill about this next huge phase, I know I’m ready to meet her at every single turn.
I’ll run with her whichever way she goes.
We link our hands and share a smile as we walk the trail back home.
Even though we both know that, together, we’re already there.