63. Walker
Chapter 63
Walker
W e made it through finals, but all our minds lingered on what happened in Chicago. And now that the semester’s over, it’s time to clean out my art studio. It’s also time to stop keeping pieces of myself from Clara.
I can’t remember the last time I was truly nervous. Between all the cello competitions, debate tournaments, and chess matches, my parents conditioned nerves out of me.
Glancing at Clara in the seat beside me, the last thaw before real winter leaving icy puddles on the road, I’m too nervous to remember what we were talking about.
I pull up at the loading dock, putting on my hazards, not able to say anything, irreverent or not. She smiles at me, and my heart thrums in my ears. Maybe we should just turn back around and spend the afternoon in bed? Hers or mine, it really doesn’t matter .
She leaps out of the car before I can suggest it, so I have no choice but to follow.
“Lead the way, master forger!” she says, linking her arm with mine.
God. Why am I doing this?
Forcing myself to nod, I key us into the art building and bring her up to my tiny rented studio space. But I pause outside the door.
I don’t think I can do this.
“Walker?” she asks, her hands coming to my cheeks.
“Ready to clean up a semester’s worth of art junk?” I ask, instead of turning and going the other way.
“Definitely.”
Opening the door, the sharp sting of paints and cleaners hits my nose, the faint dust of chalk and charcoal in the air. It smells like a second home to me. But what about to Clara?
I flip on the light and look around, the piles of half-finished portraits evidence of the only thing that occupies my mind.
Her.
Stepping up to the easel, she finds the one piece I completed, the one I turned in that earned me the highest grade in the class.
In it, she’s looking away, her profile telling a story, the squint to her eyes full of suspicion, the twist of her lips a mockery of laughter, the tilt of her jaw determined and confident. But on the other side of her mass of curls, another profile, one of freedom, laughter, joy.
I named it Unmasked .
But it’s not just about her. It’s about me, too .
“It’s me,” she says, her fingers hovering in front of the canvas, afraid to touch it.
“Yeah. It is.” I swallow. “They pretty much all are.”
It takes effort for her to drag her eyes from the canvas to the rest of the room, but she can see them all. Studies of her eyes, her hands, her mouth, her curves.
Even when I wasn’t with her, she was here with me.
“Walker,” she says, her hand now hovering in front of those perfect lips.
I tuck my hands into my pockets. “Yeah. I guess, well, I met you, and I couldn’t get you out of my head. So I drew you. A lot. But then, everything got all fucked up and I, I was so scared, Clara. I could feel this, this piece of my soul that belonged to you. What if you didn’t want it? What if you held onto it, but then found someone better and gave it back?”
“Walker—“
“I…I need to say this, Clara. Please?” She nods, and I swallow. “I got so scared, I couldn’t draw. Not just you, but anything. I tried. I tried so goddamn hard. That whole pile over there is failed attempts.” I motion to discarded canvases, eyes with too small, wonky pupils, lips with creases so deep they could be crevasses. “And I got mad. Mad at you for taking not just my soul, but my art, too. I knew it was dumb, but yeah.”
I wipe my palms on my jeans. “I could tell I was hurting you, that I was hurting myself too, and I just couldn’t seem to knock myself out of it. And then in Chicago? It was better. Not perfect, but better. Only, I just kept hurting you, tiny daggers in your trust, in your joy, and it was like stabbing my own damn heart. So I left—I wanted you to have the best, and the person scraping your wounds open with sandpaper…that person wasn’t best for you.”
“Oh, Walker.” There are tears shining in her eyes, but I can’t stop. I don’t know if I’ll ever get going again if I do.
“It was hell, Clara. But I didn’t know how to fix it. I was the one ruining it, and I had no fucking idea how to stop. But then I picked you up on Thanksgiving. Going straight from my family to yours, it made it obvious. Clara, you were so right. Love isn’t earned. It’s freely given. You gave it to me, and I didn’t need to earn it. I had it. And I’d turned it away.
“I resented trying and failing to earn your love. But that was never it. Love is just accepted. So I want you to know, Clara, that I accept you, without expectations or hurdles, and I just hope that you can trust me with that love again. I’ll cherish it, revel in it. I’ll fucking draw it in my blood.
“Because you’re in my blood, Clara. And I want you .“ I motion at the piece on the easel. “We all have masks. But yours are facets of your crystalline soul, and I love every one of them: the fierce, the brave, the giddy, the hurting, the conniving. Your masks let me see you. Mine block you out. I don’t want to wear a mask for you Clara, never again. This me? Just plain old me, no mask in sight? I’m yours.”
My hands hang heavy and weird on my arms. “I love you, Clara.”
She stands still, tears streaming down her cheeks, and all I can think is that I’ve fucked it up again. Tears threaten me, and I blink fast—I’m not going to cry, not when I’m the one who’s hurt her again.
Then, slowly, she inches toward me, her fists bunching the fabric of my coat, dragging me closer. Her fingers slink into my hair, her nails nipping at my scalp as she drags me down, her lips fluttering over one of my cheeks, then the other, her thumbs tracing my eyebrows. “I love you, too,” she whispers, our lips a hairsbreadth apart. “And you’ll never have to earn my love, Walker. It’s yours. Completely.”
Our lips touch, soft with promises, trust.
I pull her close, needing her in the circle of my arms, the flower scent of her hair easing the last of my nerves.
“I love you, Walker,” she says, kissing me again.
My fingers tangle in her hair, all of her so precious it hurts to think about anything but now. Pulling away from her kiss, I hold her so tight I’m not sure either of us can breathe. “I love you, Clara,” I say into her crown, needing to say it again.
“I love you.”
The pain spirals into aching joy, and I kiss her like she’s my everything—because she is—telling her I’m done hiding, that I’m here, with her, forever.
Our lips touch, reverent, transcendent.
Her fingers unhook the buttons on my coat, sliding the heavy wool from my shoulders. I repeat the gesture with her coat, both of our breaths fast as we stand facing each other. I pull my shirt off, and Clara mirrors me, unhooking her bra too. And she’s just so beautiful.
I swallow, pulling off my jeans and boxers, watching as she does the same, both of us kicking off our boots and socks. She takes a small step toward me, and I close the distance, her skin hot against mine, our lips locking, my eyes closing as I revel in the moment of being so close to someone else that it feels like our souls are touching, not just our skin .
“I love you,” I murmur, cradling her face in my palms, the words still so new that I can’t stop repeating them.
“I love you, too,” she says, her lips pressing to my chest, right over my heart.
Every stroke of my hands over her skin is a balm, healing the cracks I made in our foundation, every press of her lips, a touch-up, an improvement, building something new. Better.
When I finally slide home, neither of us can take a breath, the moment too pure to ruin with pants and moans.
Her dark eyes shine with tears, but they’re good tears. Joy, hope, peace, they all radiate out of her like a beacon.
She pulls me down to meet her lips, wrapping her legs tight around my waist, hitching her hips to pull me even deeper, and I bite back a moan.
We move as one, both of us taking our time, building in near silence, our gazes locked, our souls meeting as we rock, our breaths matching, her floral scent mixing with the tang of paint and the musk of our arousal.
And when she comes, a surprised gasp bursting from her lips, I fall with her, locked in the circle of her limbs. Her nails dig into my shoulders, the burn welding the two of us together.
I’m loved. I’m hers. And I’m never letting go.