Chapter 8 Clark
CLARK
I’m standing on the side of the highway watching my Jeep get loaded onto a tow truck, holding a citation that’s going to cost me a few hundred dollars, and feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
I pull out my phone. It’s nearly one a.m. and way too late to call anyone. Except April.
April, who told me to pay the bill.
April, who’s house sitting and probably asleep in my guest room with four dogs snuggled around her.
April, who’s going to give me so much grief for this.
Me: Remember that Jeep registration you reminded me about?
Three conversation dots appear and blink. She’s awake … or I woke her up.
April: Clark Joseph Culpepper. Tell me you didn’t forget.
Me: I got towed.
April: WHERE ARE YOU?
I sent her my location.
April: Stay there. I’m coming to get you.
Me: It’s almost 1 a.m. I can call a ride.
April: Stay. There.
Fifteen minutes later, her car pulls up, and April lowers the window, looking like she just rolled out of bed, which she did.
Her brown curls are piled in a messy bun, she’s wearing an oversized Knights hoodie (mine again, I notice with a completely inappropriate amount of pleasure), and her lip juts out.
She looks so huggable.
“Get in, Culpepper,” she says, but there’s no anger in her voice. Just exasperated fondness. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I climb into the passenger seat. “I’m sorry.”
Her soft lilac scent fills the car and makes me think of spring and sunshine and every good thing I’ve ever wanted. There are dog treats in the cup holder, a training manual on the back seat, and a podcast playing softly through the speakers.
Instead of talking to me about the game loss or scolding me about being a forgetful idiot, she asks, “Want to play French Toast?”
This is so April. Taking something unpleasant and somehow making it bearable. Fun, even. Or she just needs a distraction to remain awake.
“Okay,” I say. “French Toast.”
She starts. “French Toast makes me think of breakfast.”
“Breakfast makes me think of pancakes.”
“Pancakes make me think of maple syrup.”
I yawn. “Maple syrup makes me think of maple trees.”
“Maple trees make me think of Canada.”
“Canada makes me think of hockey.”
We go back and forth like this, the word associations ping-ponging between us.
April starts, “Hockey makes me think of—”
She takes the exit.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“All Ears Diner. All that talk about food made me hungry.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“It’s a truck stop. They’re always open. French toast made me think of French fries. This place has the best fries in a fifty-mile radius.”
The diner glows with bright fluorescent lights, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox in the corner playing classic rock. We take one of the many empty tables. Only a few guys sit at the counter. I already know what we’re going to order.
“Chocolate milkshake?” she asks.
“Strawberry.”
“Since when do you like strawberry?”
“Since always.”
“You’re a chocolate guy.”
“I’m a strawberry guy when I’m sad.”
Her expression softens, likely about being reminded of our game loss to Denver. “Okay. Sad strawberry it is.”
When the food comes, the fries are warm and comforting. The milkshake helps.
“Thank you for coming to get me. For this.” I gesture vaguely at the table.
“Where else would I be?”
I have to look away before I do something stupid like tell her I’m in love with her. That I want her to be with me forever. I’m spent. It’s late. She’s so sweet. Anything could come out of my mouth at this point.
“So,” she says, stealing one of my fries—she likes the really crispy ones. She reasons that they’re more structurally sound to dip into her milkshake. “Tomorrow we drive to Omaha to get your Jeep out of the impound lot, pay your fine, and get your registration sorted out.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Clark, where does your wallet belong?”
I blink at the non sequitur. “What?”
“Where does your wallet belong? Your keys? Your hockey gear?”
“My wallet belongs in my pocket. Keys on the hook by the door. Gear anywhere you can’t smell it.”
“Right and when you can’t find something, what does your mom always say?”
Understanding dawns. “Where does it belong?”
“Exactly. Your mom taught you where things belong, right? How to find them by knowing where they should be.”
When I was a kid, I was always losing stuff. She’d make me retrace my steps, and when that didn’t work, she’d ask where it should be. Eventually, I learned to put things where they belong in the first place. Most of the time.
“So here’s my question. Where do you belong right now?”
The answer comes so easily it scares me.
With you.
But I can’t say that. Can’t cross that line. Instead, I say, “Getting my life together?”
She laughs. “Good answer. But seriously, tomorrow you belong in Omaha. We’ll get your Jeep, renew the registration, and maybe grab lunch somewhere that isn’t a highway diner. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We finish our food and head back out to her car. She lets me drive, which is unusual—April prefers to be behind the wheel in her vehicle; otherwise, she has to readjust the seat and mirrors.
“You sure?” I ask.
“You’ve had a rough night. Driving will make you feel better. Plus, I’m tired. I imagine you are too, but this is the penalty for dragging me out of bed.”
I don’t argue.
As we get back on the highway toward Cobbiton, she curls up in the passenger seat, her head against the cushion, eyes half-closed.
“Thank you,” I say again, softer this time.
“Mmm. You can thank me by remembering to renew your registration next time.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And by letting me sleep in tomorrow. The dogs woke me up at five for breakfast.”
“Done.”
She’s quiet for a minute, and I think she might have fallen asleep. But then she says, “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re home safe.”
A smile—the first in a while, all things considered—plays at the corners of my mouth. “Me too.”
By the time we get back to my apartment, she’s fully asleep. I park, then consider scooping her in my arms and carrying her upstairs. But that’s a threshold I shouldn’t cross. Instead, I gently wake her.
“We’re here.”
She blinks, disoriented and adorable. “Already?”
“Let’s get you to bed.”
We head upstairs quietly. The dogs hear us and start their usual symphony of excitement, but April shushes them without a fuss.
As she heads to the guest bedroom, she pauses at the door. “Oh, and Clark? Stop beating yourself up about the game. You’re a great goalie. One bad night doesn’t change that.”
Then she disappears into the room, and I’m left standing in my living room at two in the morning, surrounded by dogs, smelling like diner French fries, and so completely in love with my best friend that I can feel it in my toes.
Where do I belong?
With April.
Where should I be?
With April.
The answer has always been April.
I just don’t know what to do about it.
I’m halfway asleep when my phone buzzes with a text.
Whitaker: Dinner tonight at seven in Omaha. Fancy place. Wear something nice.
I frown at the screen.
Oh. Right. The thing he mentioned before the game. I was so distracted by getting towed that I completely forgot.
Me: What’s this dinner for? Is it a work thing?
Whitaker: You could say that. Trust me, you’ll want to be there.
I stare at the phone, unease settling in my stomach.
Me: What did you do?
Whitaker: Made you a reservation at Amore. This could be the ONE!
Amore is a date restaurant. The kind of place with candlelight and a prix fixe menu and waiters who use “sir” and really mean it. It’s the place where engagement proposals are made.
Me: Are you ignoring the result of the last date you sent me on with Lyric? I’d rather have endured a root canal without anesthesia.
Whitaker: Just show up, Clark. This is good for your image. Great for your career. I’ll send you the details.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a photo of a woman. She’s objectively beautiful with the kind of smile that’s been professionally whitened and the kind of clothes that suggest she doesn’t throw on a hoodie in the middle of the night.
Whitaker captions it with Her name is Posh. Fashion influencer. Huge following. She’s excited to meet you.
Me: No.
Me: Absolutely not.
Me: I didn’t agree to this.
Whitaker: You didn’t disagree either. Look, I’m trying to help you here. You need to be seen with someone. Someone who makes sense for your brand. Trust me on this.
I want to argue. Want to tell him that I don’t need to be “seen with someone,” that my brand is fine, that the only person I want to have dinner with is currently asleep in my guest room and definitely not a professional influencer with half a million followers.
But the words are stuck because we’re just friends.
Also, what if he’s right? After such a crushing loss in Denver, what if my career does need this? What if turning him down means losing endorsements, opportunities, and the security I’ve worked so hard for?
Me: Fine, but this is the last time.
Whitaker: That’s my guy. You won’t regret this.
Me: I already regret it.
If it’s not with April, I don’t want to go.
But I also don’t want to let Whitaker down. Or my team. Or my career.
Where do I belong?
With April.
So why does it feel like I’m about to make a huge mistake?