17. Claire
17
Claire
When the Fog Clears
Ten days.
Ten excruciating days have crawled since Bobby stormed out of the Carter estate. His exit left behind a gaping hole of emptiness, screaming inside me. Standing on the porch, I inhale the cool night air.
My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone and go straight to the photo gallery. I’d taken a picture of Bobby’s painting, wanting to keep him as close as possible.
A bittersweet smile tugs at my lips as I trace a finger along the screen, outlining his profile. His head is thrown back in unrestrained laughter, his eyes sparkling with joy. It’s a stark contrast to the look of pain on his face the day he left.
I'd always considered myself the bolder one between the two of us. The instigator, the firecracker, the one who isn't afraid to take a chance. I started to confess my feelings for him, but he didn’t believe me.
My heart aches.
All those stolen glances, those lingering touches, the way my heart skips a beat whenever he's near—I'd been more concerned about losing him than going all out and somehow claiming the man I wanted sooner.
Now, this situation has doused the embers of his feelings with the icy water of uncertainty.
"I love you!"
The words had been right there on the tip of my tongue a thousand times over. Three simple words would have made my life perfect, but the fear of rejection, of shattering the fragile thing we were building, had kept them bottled up until the worst possible moment.
A soft click of heels on the pavement brings my head up. My stomach twists in a peculiar mix of dread and anticipation as Fiona’s figure emerges from the shadows.
Her sharp silhouette is unmistakable even in the faint luminescence of a distant streetlamp. She stops at the base of the porch steps, a triumphant smirk on her lips.
"Well, well," she drawls, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Looks like someone finally realizes she can't win against me, huh?"
My jaw clenches. The familiar energy of anger threatens to ignite, but I tamp it down. There's no point in engaging with her now. That’s all water under the bridge and I’ve got myself to blame for letting Bobby go.
"Congratulations on your win, Fiona," I manage in a cool, calm voice that is devoid of any emotion.
“There’s no need to pretend you don’t care about Mimi and Gramps’ gift. Planning your revenge?”
“Actually, I owe you, so thanks.”
Her smirk falters for a second, replaced by confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm glad you did what you did," I continue, fixing my gaze on the distant horizon. "Let’s say it forced me to see things clearly."
Fiona's eyebrows shoot up. "See what things, exactly?"
"The truth," I drag in a breath and let it back out in a whoosh. "About myself, about what truly matters."
I still can’t find the words to explain the confused mess of emotions within me—how my heart aches for the love I might have pushed away. It feels like an impossible task to use words to describe it.
Fiona’s eyes narrow at me. “Are you okay, Claire?”
There’s a hint of genuine concern in her voice this time. I wave off her concern. "I wish you luck with the estate, Fiona." I smile brightly at her. "Honestly, it doesn't matter to me anymore."
A frown creases her forehead. “So, what matters to you? Bob?” she scoffs. "That whole thing was obviously fake from the start, anyway."
I finally turn to her, my gaze unwavering. "It wasn't fake at the end," I profess, surprising even myself with the conviction in my voice. "Every word I said out there, I meant it."
Fiona's frown deepens, now a look of utter confusion. Before she can retort, I turn back towards the night sky, the image of Bobby's retreating figure burned into my eyelids. The battle might be over, and the true cost is mine to bear—the loss of something far more valuable than a hefty inheritance.
The silence stretches between us, dense. Fiona, for once, seems speechless, unable to find any of her famous comebacks or digs in this moment.
“I think I took things too far, Claire. I’m sorry.”
I nod, and she slowly retreats into the night.
Pulling out my phone again, I scroll through my contacts until I find Bobby’s name. My finger hovers over the call button. I’ve called about a dozen times and I know what awaits me at the end of every call—the phone rings once, twice, then goes to voicemail.
Bobby may never want to speak to me again. A wave of depression washes over me. There’s only one way to make the pain bearable and the answer lies in the kitchen cabinet where I’ve hidden it.
***
I tiptoe towards the kitchen, my movements silent in the dead of night. Reaching the cabinet where I stashed four bottles of vodka, I twist the knob. It won't budge. Locked.
What the? Who locked it?
Those bottles have been my partners and numbing agent for the past few nights. It’s the only way I can numb the pain, silence the relentless chatter in my head, and find a few hours of sleep. I’d thought it was well hidden here behind the food items because no one bothers to look behind the rows of supplies they have, and the cabinet is never locked…until tonight.
I pace the length of the kitchen, my heart beating fast. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The image of Bobby's disappointed face flashes in my mind and I become even more determined to find my bottles.
A desperate plan hatches in my head. Spotting a metal turner hanging on a rack, I contemplate using it to pry the cabinet door open. I’ll handle whatever comes in the morning, but right now the raging need for escape overrules my reservations.
Just as I raise the turner, a voice startles me, "Claire, honey."
I spin around to find Mimi standing in the doorway, her kind eyes filled with concern. I quickly drop my arm.
"I thought I heard something down here," she says gently. "You okay?"
I open my mouth to speak, but the words won't come. Tears well up again, threatening to spill over. “I’m okay.”
"Looking for a snack?" Mimi asks, her gaze falling on the abandoned turner.
I can’t tell her I’m here for the booze. I nod miserably, the childishness of my actions suddenly glaringly apparent.
“I don’t believe you’re about to break the glass for some snacks.” Instead of a lecture, Mimi surprises me with a subtle smile. She heads towards the counter opposite the cabinet, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out a key ring, her eyes twinkling.
"I kept the key here," she explains with a wink, unlocking the cabinet door with a satisfying click. "Now, before you even think about it, you're not getting away with just booze tonight. Food first.”
She knows. I should have figured that out the moment I found the cabinet locked. Nothing ever passes under Mimi’s nose without her noticing.
She produces a carton of eggs, vegetables, and cheese from the refrigerator, humming a cheerful tune as she begins cracking eggs into a bowl.
"Omelet sounds good?" She smiles softly. “You’re allowed to change what you want, but you can’t say no to food.”
The idea of food holds little appeal, but the thought of Mimi’s wrath feels worse. "Sure," I mumble.
“Now take a seat.” She whisks the eggs, staring at me. "Downing booze and hiding away won't solve anything, Claire. You need to eat, to take care of yourself, even when it feels pointless. You need to go on, one step at a time."
I remain silent, unable to voice the turmoil within me. My mind is a chaotic vortex of emotions–regret, longing, and desperation.
The rhythmic sizzle of the pan fills the air as Mimi skillfully pours the egg mixture onto the hot surface. Once comforting and familiar, the scent of cooking food feels oddly alien. I’d barely eaten over the last few days, just munching on fruits and taking a bite once in a while when everyone else is done eating. I feel like I’m back to square one with my family, unable to face them after the stunt I just pulled.
Why am I still even here?
Some of them have tried to be polite, and through the haze of my emotions, a tiny part of me registers their effort, but I still can’t sit at the same table.
"Here you go." Mimi places a steaming omelet on a plate before me. "Eat up."
The golden-brown omelet looks delicious, but taking a bite feels like a huge task. With a sigh, I pick up my fork, forcing myself to take a small bite.
“Claire? Come on, dig in. You haven't eaten a bite all day. You’ve barely eaten over the last few days."
I glance at her, my stomach grumbling in agreement with her. All I can manage is a weak nod of my head. The metal fork feels like a wrecking ball in my hand, as I force myself to take another bite.
As soon as my mouth opens for the bite, words tumble out before I can stop them.
"I'm so sorry, Mimi," I blurt out, my voice shaky.
Mimi’s expression softens as she grabs my left hand. "Claire, honey, the hurt goes deeper than an apology." She pauses, her gaze holding mine. "Learning you and Bobby orchestrated this whole charade...it isn't easy for any of us."
Shame washes over me, threatening to drown me. Tears well up again, blurring my vision. "I know," I choke out, the sob escaping my lips a broken sound. "I messed up. I disappointed you. I haven't lived up to the Carter name—"
"Hold on right there," Mimi interrupts again, a sharp edge creeping into her voice. "It’s not all your fault. It’s mine and your Gramps’, too. We might have been a little pushy about you coming home with a husband, so you might have decided to save face, and honey, believe me, I understand. We all do. Why don’t you come to breakfast tomorrow and we leave this behind us."
I shake my head. “I can’t face them. Not yet.”
Her hand briefly squeezes mine. "Being ostracized in this family isn’t a battle you should have to fight.”
“I’m not sure they want me there. I’m not sure I will ever be a real Carter to them.”
“They don’t have the right to deny you a seat. You’re a Carter, and the last thing I want to hear is you apologizing for who you are, or how you were born."
I shake my head, a flicker of defiance brewing within me. "But Mimi, you're wrong. I do have a lot to apologize for. Sure, the family might have been cold, but I didn’t try to break down those walls. I didn’t even try to get to know them."
Mimi sighs, a weary sound. "Honey, you've got a second chance to fix that. That's if you want to, of course."
My voice drops to a whisper. "I wish I had a second chance with Bobby too."
Mimi sighs, her eyes searching mine. "Oh, sweetheart."
The dam holding back the flood of emotions within me finally cracks. Tears run down my cheeks, blurring my vision. With a shaky breath, I blurt out the truth, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate torrent.
"I think I really messed up with him, Mimi," I confess. “I really messed up."
Mimi's face softens, and she pulls out a chair opposite me. “Talk to me.”
I pour out my heart to her, the guilt and regret burning a hole in my chest. I tell her everything—the contract, the game I'd naively thought would secure my future, the way Bobby's love had blindsided me.
She nods and holds my hand. “Do you know where you got it wrong?”
"I think so,” I pause. “I was so focused on what I'd lost, so consumed by the grief over Mom and Dad, and struggling to fit in with you guys, that I failed to see what was right in front of me," I sob uncontrollably. "I let fear hold me back, fear of getting hurt again."
Mimi cradles my face, her hand warm and comforting. "There's always time to make things right, Claire. If this is how you truly feel, then make the right corrections. Your heart will lead you." She reaches over and pats my leg, a gesture of comfort that brings me a fresh wave of tears. "Facing your fears and mistakes won't be as bad as you think, honey."
I manage a weak smile, unsure if I believe her. "Judging by the way Bobby left, I'm not so sure it'll be that simple."
Mimi smiles, a knowing understanding in her eyes. "Well, honey, I know because, I've made far more mistakes than you ever have. Nothing is simple, but it’s not impossible either."
Her words hang in the air, a challenge. My mind races through a jumble of emotions—regret, fear, a desperate hope for redemption. I hesitate, words failing me for a moment.
"Take your time, honey," Mimi says gently. "Figure things out. No one's going to blame you if it takes a while to get your feet under yourself."
Her words buoyed me with strength and hope. Maybe, just maybe, she's right. Taking another bite, I force myself to focus on the present moment—the food in my stomach, the kitchen's warmth and the one thing I want.
The one thing I want, the one thing I need, is a way to talk to Bobby. To explain myself, apologize, and tell him the truth about my feelings. Without that, there can be no moving forward, no fixing what I've broken.
It won't be easy, but a tiny spark of determination ignites within me for the first time since he left. I have to try for myself, for Bobby, and for the future, that could still be possible.