27. Clark
Chapter twenty-seven
Clark
T oday has been the best day I’ve had in, well, a long while.
Yesterday afternoon, I got a call from the pet food company that they’re officially moving forward with the purchase of the old Byers plant. I haven’t told anyone yet since the details aren’t settled, but it’s relieving to know there’s a solid plan for the building. A plan that can secure jobs for Noel residents.
Consequently, I came into this float trip in a good mood. Such a good mood that even being alone with Clara, Syd, and Davis couldn’t put a damper on it. Or maybe that fact amplified the good mood. I’m too confused to know, and too afraid to try to sort it out.
Hanging out as the four of us felt so natural. Like it was exactly how I should be spending my free time all the time. But I’m not the type of guy for the type of relationship that a girl like Clara is looking for. So, I’ve spent all day halting those thoughts in their tracks every time they rear their heads. It’s an exhausting game of whack-a-mole.
Pretty sure I officially lost the game the moment I pulled Clara out of her inner tube. She stood there, inches away from me, in her swimsuit top and jean shorts. Her curly ponytail was disheveled from a day on the water, her freckles popping from the sun. I thought I was going to have to call out to Davis to rescue me from kissing her.
I shake my head to clear the mental picture for the hundredth time since we sat down to eat dinner. We’d made a simple meal of watermelon, chips, and hot dogs cooked over a small campfire on the beach. The sun is dipping below the horizon when we pull out the bag of marshmallows.
The sound of Syd’s phone cuts through the air. “Oh, it’s my mom; let me answer.”
We only hear Syd’s side of the conversation, but it quickly escalates into alarm. “When?! How? Where?” Davis is on his feet now, crowding close to her to try to hear. “Okay, we’ll meet you there.”
She turns to us with panicked eyes. “Junior was jumping in our bed and hit his head on the frame. Mom said he’s going to be fine, that he’s not even crying, but he needs stitches. We need to go meet them at the urgent care.”
“Oh no!” Clara gasps.
“Shoot,” Davis says, quickly pivoting around to pack up the cooler.
“Leave it; I’ll clean everything up,” I tell him. There’s no urgent care in Noel, so they’ll have to drive thirty minutes to the next town over. “Hit the road and get to your kid.”
“Thanks, man,” Davis responds before they start running to his truck. Syd skids to a stop and swivels back toward us.
“Wait, Clara!” she says.
“I got her, Syd. I’ll find someone to come give us a ride back to my truck, then I’ll take her home. Just go!” I yell. Seconds later, they’re peeling out of the parking lot.
I turn to face Clara. “So . . . you want to go ahead and leave?”
It’s getting darker by the second, which means I can’t see Clara’s face clearly. But I can see enough to know she’s staring straight at me, assessing. She bites her lip, and now I’m thinking about kissing her again. But this time, there’s no Davis to rescue me if I need it.
Back away! The alarm bells sound.
Before I can make a move, she says, “We could stay and roast marshmallows. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, okay,” I respond, sitting back down in my lawn chair. Clara sits next to me, and I hand her a roasting stick with a marshmallow on it. We sit silently roasting marshmallows for a few seconds. It only takes those few seconds before I’m thinking about her lips again.
“Perfectly toasted or burned?” Clara asks.
“Huh?”
“Your marshmallows. Do you like them toasty brown or burned black?”
“Oh. Definitely toasted brown,” I answer, turning to her. “Are there even people who truly prefer them burned?”
“You tell me after you try yours,” Clara giggles. In gazing at her, I’d taken my eyes off my marshmallow, which is now a flaming torch. I quickly blow out the flames.
It’s charred to a crisp. “I’m not eating that,” I say, moving to pull it off and throw it in the fire.
“Don’t waste it! I’ll eat it, you big baby,” Clara says. She holds my hand briefly to steady the roasting stick while she pulls the marshmallow off. Now my hand is flaming. Clara gives a quick blow to cool the marshmallow off, then stuffs the entire thing in her mouth. Her nose crinkles.
“If there are people who think marshmallows taste good burned, I’m not one of them,” she says, then coughs. “That was disgusting.”
Chuckling, I slide a new marshmallow onto the roasting stick. “Just pay more attention to the flame spurts than I did, Buttercup.” Clara smiles at my The Princess Bride reference as she holds her marshmallow close to the embers. We fall silent, watching the fire.
The gentle sounds of the river and occasional sparks from the flames fill the quiet. I’d be perfectly content to sit here next to Clara all night without saying a word, but I know she’s more the conversational type.
“So,” I clear my throat as I remove my toasted marshmallow from the flames to let it cool. “You’ve mentioned your parents and your late aunt. No siblings?”
Clara shakes her head. “Just me.” She pauses for a moment. “My parents experienced secondary infertility after they had me. They tried for years to have another baby, but it never happened.”
Unsure of the right way to respond, I settle on, “I guess that was probably tough.” I pop my marshmallow in my mouth as an excuse to not say anything else. I want to follow Clara’s lead.
She nods. “Yeah, it was extremely tough for them. I remember a lot of times hearing them quietly talking about it and my mom crying when I was young.” She pauses, pensive. “Aunt Gloria and my parents doted on me, but their sadness at not having any other children was always there in the backdrop of my childhood. I was determined as a kid to not cause any trouble and be as helpful as possible. I guess, in a way, I was always worried that I wasn’t enough.”
Clara stiffens as she seems to realize what she shared. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. That sounded so whiny. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Clara, you’re more than enough,” I respond, eyes locked on Clara’s. Hers widen, and I scramble to recover. “I mean, I’m sure that your parents felt that way. That you were more than enough for them. You’re incredible—how could they not?”
So much for that recovery.
Needing to remove my eyes from Clara’s, I lean in to prop my roasting stick in the fire to char off the remainders of marshmallow. This is why I don’t attempt small talk.
We fall quiet again as Clara chews her marshmallow, giving me the opportunity to replay all the awkward things I’ve said. I know I shouldn’t stare, that my fixed attention would be too obvious, but I can’t stop my gaze from settling on Clara every few seconds. The soft glow of the firelight brings out the red tones in her hair, the flickering light making her eyes take on a life of their own.
“Will you tell me about your tattoo?” she asks, breaking the silence and catching me staring.
I drop my eyes to the fire, my right hand subconsciously moving to rub my tattooed left arm. When I don’t answer right away, Clara tries to backtrack.
“I’m sorry. Maybe that was a personal question. I think I’m tired after being out in the sun all day, and my brain isn’t operating within accepted social norms.” She stands abruptly. “Maybe we should pack up.”
“No, sit down,” I say, unintentionally gruff. “I mean, I’ll tell you about it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to order you to sit. I guess my brain is also tired.”
My brain must be tired. Because the significance of my tattoo isn’t something I talk about with people. Ever. Davis and Pops are the only two who know its meaning.
It could also be that string wrapped around my heart that I keep trying to ignore, but one way or the other, I start talking. Clara sits back down, angling toward me. “I’m sure you’ve already heard about what happened to my parents and brother,” I begin, glancing at her.
Even in the firelight, I can see her blush. “Yeah, I have.”
I shrug. “Small towns talk. It’s okay. Although I didn’t get the tattoo until a few years after the accident, the inspiration started a long time before that. When I was growing up.” Clara settles deeper into her chair, rapt attention on me. It makes me nervous, but rather than clamming up about my personal life like I typically do, I force myself forward.
“I didn’t exactly get along with my dad growing up. He was a successful financial planner in addition to being mayor. My older brother, Sam, was so much like him. Sam and I never were very close because he was six years older than me. He was always mature for his age, even as a kid. And always doing everything with my dad. By the time I came along, my dad already had everything he wanted in a son. They were both book smart and business savvy. Two peas in a pod. And I was on the outside from the start.”
I pause, swallowing down the old insecurities that still manage to flare up even in my father’s absence. “Let’s just say I was the opposite of Sam and my dad in every way. School was never my thing. Don’t get me wrong—if something intrigued me, I would read every book about it I could find. The school librarian had her work cut out for her, helping me find books about whatever topic had caught my attention that month. But I was always more interested in doing things with my hands, taking things apart and figuring out how they worked. But that wasn’t an acceptable pursuit in my dad’s eyes. And . . . he let me know that constantly.”
Clara’s quiet voice cuts in. “What about your mom? Were you any closer to her?”
I shrug, staring at the fire. “I mean, closer to her than to my dad, sure. But she was always a more passive personality. She went along with whatever my dad said or did. Mom also handled a lot of the administrative tasks for my dad’s business, so she was pretty busy. I knew she loved me, but she never stood up to Dad on my behalf.”
I don’t dare glancing at Clara to see her reaction. I just continue talking.
“Anyway, it was never an option to not go to college after high school. But I didn’t know what to do. My dad agreed to let me start at a community college and take some gen eds. He came to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t follow in his business footsteps like Sam did. But he hoped I might pursue engineering or some other ‘respectable profession,’” I emphasize with air quotes. An ironic laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Clara hasn’t said anything else. She’s quietly listening with a neutral expression, putting me at ease.
“After the accident, I was a mess. I didn’t know how to handle all the emotions—grief, anger at the driver who hit them, sadness. But also . . . relief. I felt relieved to be out from under my father’s expectations. But that relief only added guilt into the mix. I mean, who feels relieved that their dad has died?”
I swallow hard, embarrassed that I admitted this to Clara. Especially knowing how close she is to her parents. I can’t risk meeting her eyes, afraid of the judgment I might find there.
“Clark, I know those are complicated emotions. But they make sense. You aren’t wrong for feeling conflicted,” Clara says in a calm voice. I dart my eyes back to hers and see empathy instead of judgment. “What did you do after the accident?” she asks.
“I knew I wasn’t going to finish college, but I had no idea what to do with myself,” I answer. “I moved back into my parents’ house, and their life insurance money plus inheritance more than paid for my basic necessities as I floundered through the grief for a year. Totally purposeless.”
My chest tightens as I dredge back up the memories I mostly ignore now. “Pops is the one who finally snapped me out of it. He convinced me to shadow him in his carpentry work, taught me how to use tools to shape wood into something new. How to repair broken furniture. He was semi-retired already, but he started going back out to his workshop every day to teach me everything he knew about woodworking.
“I made a pair of barstools on my own, and although they weren’t perfect by Pops’ standards, they were sturdy. And I felt good at something for the first time in a long time. That’s when I got this.” I point to the leafless tree traveling the length of my forearm. The exposed roots start just above my wrist, and branches wrap around my bicep. Clara leans forward for a closer look, and my heart temporarily stops beating at her nearness.
My internal warning sirens are blaring at this intimate moment, but I silence them by continuing to speak. “I wasn’t convinced I wanted to be a full-time carpenter like Pops, but I knew for sure after his training that I enjoyed fixing things. Knew that I could be good at it. I decided to learn residential electric work. I took classes at a trade school and worked as an apprentice to get a residential journeyman electrician license. I added this.” I push the sleeve of my shirt up to expose the storm clouds above the bare tree branches, pointing to the flash of lightning striking the tree trunk.
“I enjoyed learning electric work, but I realized I didn’t want to be a full-time electrician either. After my apprenticeship, I learned basic plumbing repairs like replacing faucets and fixing leaky pipes—all the minor jobs that don’t require a license,” I say.
“Let me guess,” Clara interrupts as she reaches to trace her fingers over my tattoo. “You added the raindrops trailing down to the tree roots.”
The feather-light touch of her fingers on my arm renders me utterly paralyzed. And mute.
She eventually looks back up into my eyes in the silence. “A piece of the picture for every skill you mastered.”
My vocal cords are still disabled, so I simply nod in response. She sits back in her chair, giving me space to inhale. “That’s really beautiful, Clark. I mean, beautiful in a manly way. And obviously everything with your dad and the accident isn’t beautiful. Just the tattoo and Pops helping you was beautiful. Again, manly beautiful.” She slaps a hand to her forehead. “I’m going to stop talking now.”
At least I’m not the only one whose brain malfunctions when we’re around each other.
“If it’s beautiful in a non-manly way, I’m going to need to go back and have a word with my tattoo artist.” I smirk, unable to resist the urge to tease her. Clara pushes my shoulder, but one corner of her perfect lips turns up in a smile. My mind tumbles down the rabbit hole of wondering what Clara’s lips would feel like against mine. Are they as pillowy-soft as they look? Would the sweet taste of marshmallow linger there?
Warning! Warning!
“I should probably try to find us a ride back to my truck before it gets too late,” I announce, effectively popping the bubble of this intimate fireside chat.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a good idea, I suppose,” Clara responds, although her voice sounds disappointed. I stop myself from changing my mind and drawing this evening on longer. This night needs to end precisely because of how badly I want it not to end.
A quick phone call later, Paul is on the way. Thankfully, almost every household in Noel owns at least one truck. Clara packs up the food containers as I put out the fire. When Paul arrives a few minutes later, we make quick work of loading everything into the bed of his truck.
I try to let Clara sit up front with Paul, but she insists on taking the back to give me more legroom. I have to hide my disappointment about not being able to secretly watch her profile from the backseat.
We transfer everything to my truck, and I assure Paul I’ll let him know when I hear an update from Davis about Junior. On the drive to Clara’s cabin, she’s quiet, staring out the window. “The stars are so breathtaking here,” she says softly.
I can’t respond. My breath has been stolen by a different sort of star. It’s taking every ounce of energy I have to fend off the desire to reach over and take her hand, to lace her slender fingers through mine. To ask her to sit with me out on her porch all night long.
Parking in her driveway, I turn off my truck and open my door. Clara tries to stop me. “Oh, you don’t have to get out. I’ll be fine. I left the porch light on.”
I’m afraid of what I might accidentally confess about wanting to extend my time near her. I attempt to lighten the mood instead. “Right after two-step class, our next lesson was that a Southern gentleman always walks a lady to her door.”
Clara laughs her beautiful, musical laugh, making me smile in the dark. I follow her up the stepping stones to her porch, waiting as she unlocks her door.
She turns to face me. “Thanks for getting me home safely. And for the float trip and the fire and . . . everything.”
“Of course.”
Clara’s blue eyes scan my face, and she bites her lip. Just when that urge to kiss her is about to break down every internal wall I have, she speaks again.
“It was amazing seeing the town brimming with life today, experiencing the energy at its peak. I guess I just wonder . . .” Her voice trails off momentarily as her eyes dip. My heart sinks. “I wonder why you wouldn’t want this for another month during the holiday season. The excitement, the liveliness, the boost to the local economy. You could have that again for Christmas, to get people through the winter. I know it would work. I want to help you make it work.”
Her words are a bucket of ice water splashed over me. Which is exactly what I needed to cut through the haze our beachside chat put me under. I take a step backward.
“We’ve been over this, Clara,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t want a Christmas festival. I don’t want your help.”
A spark of hurt flickers in her eyes but is quickly replaced by defiance. “Well, maybe you don’t, but what about the rest of the town? How do you know that they don’t want an opportunity to keep their businesses open during the holiday season? To have a couple more months of income to make it possible for them to stay? How do you know they don’t want the boost of life tourists bring to town? Maybe other people do want my help.”
I cross my arms. “Stop trying to help all the time. Aren’t you supposed to be here to write your movie script? Maybe Madison was right. Maybe you always get so caught up in helping other people that you don’t spend any time on your own dreams. Why don’t you focus on what you want and stop trying to help people who don’t need it?”
In the porch light, I see her eyes well up as she flinches away from me.
“That’s not fair,” she says, voice wobbly. She points at my left arm. “You have a permanent reminder of everything you’re good at. Maybe helping is what I’m good at, Clark.”
“Maybe it is. But I don’t need help,” I firmly reply. I say the words that I desperately need to convince both of us to believe. “So, maybe you need to look elsewhere for . . . whatever it is you’re hoping for, Clara. You’re not going to find it with me.”
I take another step back. “Goodnight,” I gruffly call and stalk back to my truck. As I open the door, I realize I’m holding my breath that Clara will still be there standing on the porch when I turn around, watching me.
But she’s gone. I start the ignition and break every speed limit driving home.