Chapter 37 Clara
THIRTY-SEVEN
CLARA
Wes.
In a tuxedo.
I blinked. He was just . . . there. Black jacket, white shirt, dark tie, large broad shoulders filling out the fabric like it had been tailored for him alone.
A breeze off the lake ruffled his hair. Late-afternoon light cut along the strong line of his jaw, and my eyes burned. He was solid and strong and waiting.
My brain tried to reject the image as some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Wes did not do crowds or attention. He certainly did not do cameras. Wes did not put on formal wear and stand under a decorated tree on purpose.
My heart took off at a dead sprint.
Cal cut the engine, and the sudden quiet made the blood rushing in my ears louder.
I was still staring when he lifted his chin, his mouth curving into a soft, devastating grin.
“Guess the groom problem sorted itself out.” Cal winked as he climbed out of the ATV and made his way over to my side.
A hysterical bubble of something—laughter, maybe, or a sob—hit the back of my throat. “That’s Wes.”
“I know who it is.” Cal smiled. His eyes were kind and uncharacteristically twinkly. “You good?”
That was an impossible question.
“No,” I said honestly. “Yes. I don’t know.”
His boots crunched in the snow as he tried to tame the skirt of my dress. When he offered me his hand, I clung to it like it was the only stable thing in a world that had suddenly tilted.
The skirt of the dress fought me, layers of tulle and lace catching on the edge of the side-by-side. Cal untangled me with careful patience. Once I was upright, he squeezed my fingers.
“You got this,” he murmured. “I’ll hang back.”
Then he stepped away, retreating toward the photographer, who was staring between me and Wes with a wide smile. She lifted her camera.
I could feel everyone watching. Cal joined Elodie, who stood off to the side, by the barn.
Some staff were near the path, a couple of curious farmhands pretending to check on something.
The whole scene shimmered like a movie set: snow glowing blue white, lights in the oak tree blinking steadily, breath fogging in the cold.
I was frozen in place.
Wes’s gaze found mine, like maybe it had never really left, and the rest of the world dropped out of focus. His shoulders squared. His expression shifted, and his lips formed a determined line. He stepped toward me.
“Clara,” he said, just loud enough to carry.
My name in his voice did something awful and wonderful to my rib cage.
His feet took one step. Then another. I moved forward, drawn to him by an invisible tether. The dress rustled around my legs. Halfway down the makeshift aisle, the slow, careful walk turned into something else. My body chose for me.
I ran.
The skirt bunched in my hands, lace fluttering around my boots as I closed the distance in a rush of cold air and thudding heartbeat. I heard the photographer’s shutter pick up speed, quick, stunned clicks like distant applause.
I barreled to a stop right in front of him, breathless and shaky and so full I might crack.
Up close, the tux was even more obscene. The jacket hugged his frame, the white shirt made his tan skin glow, and his eyes—bright and earnest—were pinned on me like there was no one else in the county.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
Tears stung my eyes. “You’re in a tux.”
One corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “I noticed.”
“What are you doing here?” The question came out as a whisper. “Wes, there are eyeballs everywhere . . . and a camera.”
“I know.” His gaze flicked past me for a heartbeat, to the crew, the inn, the wide, watching world. When his eyes returned to mine, they were steady. “I’ll survive.”
I huffed out something like a disbelieving laugh. “That’s your bar now?”
“No,” he said. His throat worked, and when he went on, his voice was rough as his hand found my arm. “My bar is you.”
The photographer’s shutter kept clicking—soft, constant—but the rest of the farm fell away. It was just him and me and the huge, beautiful oak tree.
“I started therapy,” he said. The words tumbled out in a rush, like if he didn’t say them now, they’d choke him.
“For my head, not my leg. I should’ve done it a long time ago.
Hayes has been trying to shove me in that direction for months.
It took you walking out with a bag for me to finally listen. ”
My lungs forgot how to work.
“You—you’re seeing someone?” I asked.
He nodded. “Some guy in Outtatowner. Twice a week, for now. I sit in a chair and say horrible, true things instead of letting them eat me alive in the dark.”
One of my hands had curled in the front of his jacket without me realizing it. I could feel his heart pounding under my palm.
“Wes . . .”
“I also joined a group for amputees. For now I’m still sitting in the back and watching, but .
. . I’m going. I needed you to know,” he said, talking over his name like the words were a dam he’d finally blown open.
“That when you said you loved yourself enough to leave, I heard you. I didn’t like it.
I hated every second of it. I still do. But you were right.
I’ve been choosing fear over both of us.
I forgot what it was like to choose myself, and then I blamed every fear I had on the leg like it was doing all the work. ”
His voice dropped. “It wasn’t. It was me.” His blue eyes lifted to meet mine. “I’m doing the work for myself as much as I am for you. It’s important that you know that.”
Wind tugged at a piece of my hair, and I shivered, more from his words than any cold. He reached up and smoothed it back automatically, fingers shaking just a little.
“I don’t want to be that man,” he said. “I don’t want to be the guy who makes you do all the emotional heavy lifting while I hide behind worst-case scenarios. I love you, Clara.”
His words hit harder than the cold, harder than the humiliation of the chapel, harder than the slam of my own front door when I’d walked out of his house. A tear slipped free.
“This isn’t me being noble,” he added, eyes earnest. “This isn’t ‘go live your best life and I’ll brood from a distance.
’ I’m telling you I’m in love with you. Fully, stupidly terrified and in love with you.
I want you in my mornings and my bad days and my building sites and whatever comes after that awful green carpet. ”
A startled laugh caught in my chest. “You know about the storefront?”
His eyes warmed. “You told Kit. Kit told everyone she ran into. This town loves a story, Duchess.”
“That’s . . . horrifying.”
“Good for me, though.” His mouth tipped into a quick, crooked smile. “Otherwise I wouldn’t know you’re thinking about a studio. That you might sell a ring you never really wanted to get one that fits the life you actually do.”
My throat tightened. “I’m excited for what comes next.”
“I know.” His hand slipped down, catching mine. His fingers were warm around my cold ones. “That’s yours to choose. Where you put it. What you call it. How big your windows are. I just—”
He stopped and took a breath, like he needed to steady the words.
“I just want a chance to stand next to you in it,” he said. “Not as something you have to prop up, but as a partner. As the guy who bids your build-out at full price like any other client and then sneaks in on weekends to fix the trim because he can’t keep his hands off your space.”
My eyes burned for a whole new reason.
“Wes . . .”
“You said once,” he went on, softer now, “that you’d marry the right person with a gum wrapper before you ever put on another ring that felt like someone else’s life.”
I froze.
That had been a throwaway line in the quiet comfort of his arms, the gaudy ring glinting accusingly from the bedside table. I could hardly believe he remembered.
“I did,” I said. My voice came out barely audible.
He swallowed. “I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said. “Not yet, at least. I am asking you to let me prove that I deserve to be your man.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his tux jacket, fingers fumbling, and pulled out something small and silver.
A gum wrapper. Folded and twisted into a tiny, imperfect ring.
All I could do was stare. The foil caught the twinkle lights overhead, bright and ridiculous and charmingly beautiful.
“This is not a metaphor for how much money I have,” he said quickly, a cheeky huff of a laugh escaping.
“When you’re ready, I’ll walk into a jeweler and buy something that needs its own insurance policy, but that’s not the point.
You said you wanted something that felt like you.
Once you know how serious I am about showing up for you, we’ll talk. ”
I grinned at this charming, confident version of Wes that stood in front of me.
The cameras were clicking nonstop now. My eyes blurred, turning the whole world into soft halos of light around the man in front of me.
“This is all I have today,” he said, voice shaking. “A promise and a gum wrapper. I’ll keep doing the work.”
He looked at me, eyes clear and sure in a way that made my own heart ache.
“Will you let me stand next to you?” he asked. “In these photos. In that studio with the terrible carpet. In whatever life you choose. Scared, if I have to be. But here. Really here.”
Air rushed back into my lungs on a shaky inhale.
I thought about the chapel and the dress and the way I’d stood there waiting for someone else to tell me who I was.
I thought about his stairs and his fall and the way he’d used his fear as armor until it had pierced both of us.
I thought about Kit’s couch and the empty storefront on Main and my name on glass.
Mostly I thought about the man in front of me, hands trembling around a gum-wrapper ring because he was trying so hard to meet me where I’d drawn the line.
My chest hurt in that sharp, stretching way that meant something inside it was making room.
“Yes,” I whispered, and then louder, so there was no way he could miss it: “Yes, Wes. I love you.”
His eyes closed like he was taking the words all the way in. When they opened again, his gaze was bright and damp and so full I had to bite my lip.
A startled laugh broke out of him. Relief. Wonder. Something wild and young.
He slid the gum-wrapper ring over my knuckle with ridiculous care. The foil was cool and a little crinkly against my skin. It settled crookedly at the base of my finger, catching the oak’s twinkle lights and throwing them back in tiny flashes.
It weighed virtually nothing.
It felt like everything.
I stepped closer until the front of my dress brushed his legs. My free hand slid up his chest, over the crisp line of his lapel, to the warm skin at the back of his neck.
“I’m not asking you to never be scared,” I said. “I’m asking you to let me be there when you are. We do it together, or we don’t do it at all.”
His breath hitched. “Together,” he said.
“Good,” I whispered. “Because they’re definitely taking pictures right now.”
A wet laugh choked out of both of us.
“Then let’s give them a show,” he said, and then his mouth was on mine.
The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the slide of his hand around my waist, the way he hauled me in like he was afraid I might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
I kissed him back, fingers in his hair, gum-wrapper ring digging lightly into his neck.
A camera clicked in a rapid-fire staccato somewhere beyond us.
Someone whooped. It sounded suspiciously like Kit. Another cheer rose near the barn—Elodie, probably, because she lived for a good romantic spectacle.
Snow crunched under his shoes as he shifted to balance us both. The oak lights glowed above us. My dress fanned out around our feet in a ridiculous circle of lace and tulle.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was standing in the middle of someone else’s picture.
I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Kissing my ridiculous, stubborn, strong man under an old oak tree, a gum wrapper sparkling on my finger, the shutter catching frame after frame of the moment we finally chose the same future.
Ours.