Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CLOVER
I want to scream and shout. Hurl my anger into the air just so I’ll remember what it feels like to breathe.
Instead, I press my palm flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat hammer beneath my ribs—proof that I’m alive, that I’m here, that the world hasn’t ended, even if it feels as though it should have.
I’m going to kill Valen for doing this. For thinking that he knows what’s best for me without ever fucking asking me.
I can’t even believe I’m here.
I hate flying. I hate everything about it. The lack of control. The turbulence. The fact that you’re hurtling through the sky in a metal tube held aloft by physics and prayers and the hope that the pilot had a good night’s sleep.
How does one actually know if a pilot has had enough sleep? Or had alcohol? Or is even paying attention? Surely there are safety protocols for this kind of thing, right?
I board the plane with shaking hands and a desperate need to not remember how high in the air we’re going to be.
Thinking only of Valen, I take one step forward, then another.
The older gentleman in the first-class seat next to mine is wearing a business suit and has already pulled out a laptop. He looks like someone who flies all the time and never even looks up during takeoff.
I envy him deeply as I slide into my seat.
“First time flying?” he asks, staring at the grip I have on both our armrests.
“No,” I say. “Well, yes. Technically. I mean, I’ve been on a plane before, but it was in a museum and hadn’t flown in many, many years, so this is functionally my first time.
I’m not a complete novice to the concept of air travel—I’ve just never personally experienced it as an adult with a full awareness of everything that could potentially go wrong—”
He blinks at me—his fingers hovering over his laptop as if he can’t decide what to do next.
“—and did you know that turbulence is completely normal? I read that somewhere. The plane is designed to handle it. The wings can flex up to ninety degrees before breaking, which sounds terrifying when you say it out loud.” I suck in a breath.
“But it’s actually reassuring because it means they’re very flexible, like a gymnast, and gymnasts rarely break—”
“Ma’am—”
“—and statistically speaking, flying is safer than driving. Much safer. I considered driving for the very first time today too, but me being a passenger of this death trap is better for everyone. Probably.”
The flight attendant appears with a practiced smile. Man, her job sucks. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Wine,” my seatmate blurts. “A large wine. For her.”
The engines roar to life, and a strange little eep slips from my lips.
“Oh, I don’t drink,” I say. “Well, I do drink, but not on planes because what if there’s an emergency I need to be alert for?
Although I suppose if there’s an emergency, being alert won’t really help because what am I going to do?
Talk the engine into working again? How often do you think plane engines fail?
I write thriller novels, not mechanical engineering books, but that’s probably something I should know. ”
“She’ll have a water,” the man says wearily.
“I’ll have a water,” I confirm with an aggressive bobble to my head, but the flight attendant is no longer next to me.
“Thank you. Water is good. Hydration is important, especially at high altitudes because the air is very dry and dehydration can cause headaches and fatigue, which might explain why some people get cranky on planes. Or maybe that’s just because the seats are too small and there’s no legroom and someone always reclines into your space—”
Ding.
The fasten your seatbelt sign lights up.
“Oh God,” I wheeze.
I dig my fingernails more deeply into the armrest as the plane accelerates down the runway, faster and faster, and then we’re lifting off, hurtling into the air, and my stomach is somewhere around my ankles while everything in me is screaming to get off, get off, get off—
“So,” my seatmate says with the resignation of a man who has accepted his fate. “You mentioned writing thriller novels?”
Oh, bless him and his attempt at distraction. He’s a saint, and if not, I’ll saint him myself. I’m not religious though, so I’ll have to make something up.
I grab onto the safer topic of my career like a lifeline.
“Yes. Yup. I’m an author. Part of the ABC Club and everything.
That’s not like the Mile High Club.” I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Ugh. ABC, like New York Times, USA Today.” He stares at me blankly, so I move on.
“I write small-town thrillers mostly, which is funny, because I live in a small town, but my town is more romcom than thriller. Except recently. I’m not sure I could write a romcom. I’m not very funny.”
He settles back into his seat, closes his laptop, and lets me talk.
Somewhere between describing Agnes with her glass eyeball and explaining why Moose showing up at three a.m. with food is actually a sign of acceptance, the flight attendant announces our decent into Charlotte.
Ninety minutes.
I did it.
My seatmate—whose name I never asked—flashes a weary but genuine smile as we taxi to the gate.
“I hope you find him,” he says.
I stare at him with wide eyes. “I never said I was looking for—”
“Miss,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ve watched every romantic comedy known to man because they make my wife happy.
Nobody gets on a plane as terrified as you and then talks for ninety minutes about everything except why they’re traveling if they’re not chasing after someone. I hope whoever he is, he’s worth it.”
His words conjure an image of Valen that has always resided in my mind and in my heart. The boy who protected me, the man who came back for me, the jerk who chose to break his own heart in a misguided attempt to save mine.
“He is,” I say. “He always has been.”
Roman gave me the code to Valen’s penthouse.
He also called ahead and let the doorman know I was coming, so when I stumble into the lobby of Valen’s building—windblown, anxious, probably looking like a woman who’s one roller coaster away from barfing—the man behind the desk checks my ID, then gestures toward the private elevator.
“Penthouse,” he says. “Mr. Stone isn’t in, but Mr. Harrington said to let you up.”
My shoulders sag, but I thank him anyway.
Where could Valen be?
Food, I decide. He’s definitely out getting food. He hasn’t been home in months, and the man likes to eat. It’s the only acceptable explanation.
I punch in the code Roman gave me, then ride the elevator to the top floor. It opens up into Valen’s apartment.
And for the millionth time this week, I’m nearly bowled over by crushing pain.
I don’t even have to go any further to know this place is…empty.
Not just the he’s not home empty, but empty as in no life happens here.
If I called out for him, my voice would echo off the barren walls.
I point myself toward the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator confirms my suspicions. There’s not even a bottle of ketchup in it. Who doesn’t have at least an entire row of expired condiments in their fridge?
My arms hang heavy at my sides while I move through his apartment like I’m touring a museum exhibit. It would be titled How the lonely pretend to thrive.
Each room is colder than the one before.
What the heck did he think of my house, with the explosions of color and clutter and all those skincare masks I bought off Instagram but haven’t got around to using?
He must have hated it.
I run my finger along the color-coded clothing hanging in his closet. It’s so different than my assortment of rainbow-colored hangers shooting off in every direction.
His home is an operating table for life—sterile, perfunctory, clinical.
The last room I enter is the one to give me pause—his office. I can almost smell him here. The entire room is lined with bookcases and books that have clearly been read and loved more than once.
Sitting behind his desk, I spin in his chair to take it all in and come face-to-face with my life’s work.
Every copy and edition. The one sticking out is nearly in tatters as I remove it from the wall. It’s my very first book.
Flipping through the pages, I notice there are passages underlined, and notes in the margins. Handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
He didn’t just read this book.
He lived in it.
I found salvation in the letters I wrote him.
He found salvation through my words that felt like home.
He may not have remembered me, but some part of him—the part that matters—never forgot.
This cold, lifeless apartment isn’t who Valen is. It’s who he became when he lost his North Star, and the only color, the only life, the only evidence of love in this entire space…is me.
My books. My words. The stories I wrote about a prince named Valor who always saved his princess.
He wasn’t protecting himself by building this empty life.
He was holding space for when he eventually found his way back to me.
“Where are you, Valen?”
My phone, the only thing I brought with me, vibrates in my pocket. I scramble to remove it but deflate when I see Roman’s name on the screen.
“He’s not here,” I say by way of answering. “I flew all the way here, and his apartment is empty. Like, really empty. Is—is this how he lives, or did he—did he—”
“Breathe, Clover.” Roman’s voice is gentle but firm.
I’m so tired of people telling me to breathe. I am breathing, damn it. If I wasn’t, I’d have passed out a hundred times already.
“Valen left Charlotte hours ago. He’s on his way back to Happiness.”
The words don’t compute.
“I finally got a hold of him,” Roman says. “He knows leaving was a colossal fuckup, and he’s coming home. You probably passed over him somewhere in South Carolina.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—half disbelief, half relief. “He’s coming back to Happiness?”
“He never should have left, and he knows it.” Roman’s smiling, even if I can’t see it. “We’ve got a flight home for you. Our captain will have the plane ready to go in an hour. Can you get to the Monroe Airport, or do you want me to arrange a car?”
Another flight.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“I’ll be there,” I say, just before my phone dies. Hopefully, that’s not a premonition of what’s to come.
Freaking Valen.
After fourteen years of missing each other, we’ve finally chosen to stop running in opposite directions.
I’m mastering all the hard things today, and my mojo has never been higher.
Getting on a plane is love.
Staying is love.
Choosing us is love.
We still have hard conversations ahead—about his guilt, about my grief, about how we build something new from the wreckage of all that’s been lost.
But Happiness isn’t just my hometown anymore. It’s the story arc I’m choosing with my whole heart.