31. Clarissa

“Clarissa? Clarissa! What’s wrong?”Tyree comes running into the kitchen, and when I don’t respond, he picks up my phone.

“Hello, who is this?”

He pauses as the other person speaks. “Okay. Where is he now?”

There’s another pause, and I grip my hands in one another, pressing the flesh between my thumb and index finger until it stings.

“Okay. Okay. Yes, she can be reached at this number. Okay. Thank you.”

Tyree kneels in front of me and lifts my face. “It’s okay. He’s in surgery now. Everything will be okay.”

The devastating call was from the hospital in Paris. While my parents were touring the Louvre, my dad collapsed. They said his heart stopped, but he was revived when a doctor visiting from New York saw him and performed CPR at the scene until paramedics could get there.

Since it was an emergency, waiting for him to be transported back home wouldn’t work. He was sent to the nearest hospital and set up for surgery. My mom was there, and so was the guide who translated when they got to the hospital. She would have called, but she was in the back as my dad prepared for surgery, not wanting him to be alone.

I didn’t hear any of this directly; I was told by Tyree as he held me on the floor. I’m so tired of crying, but the tears find a way to spill over and splatter on my shirt.

“I’m calling out of work so I can be here with you,” he says. I don’t speak, but he doesn’t wait either way. He stands up and makes the call in the other room.

The day is spent like this, with me in a silent ball and Tyree next to me. I called out from work too because there was no way I could handle being around people. Constant questions of “What’s wrong?” would drive me crazy. I’ve never been so worried. I keep going over what he told me. My dad is older, but it makes no sense. He exercises regularly and he’s never had health issues. It doesn’t make sense.

With my knees tucked under my chin, my mind whirls in an endless checklist of signs or things I should have seen or done. Did he have trouble walking? Had he ever complained about shortness of breath? For the life of me, I can’t think of anything. I’m worried I was so focused on myself that I missed it. Maybe he did mention shortness of breath, but all I could hear was the perfect band got picked out. Or the fabric for my perfect dress came in. It seemed so important at the time. Even when other thoughts floated to my mind, I stopped them. I stopped myself from feeling anything that could disrupt this thing I created. This thing that had all my attention.

“Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich,” Tyree says, breaking me from my loop. A lump that has planted itself in my throat grows, and the sting in my nose spreads.

I shake my head, and he pulls my hand into his lap. The move forces me to drop my knees and lean on his side. He caresses my wrist before he kisses my palm, then pulls me into his chest, and we stay like this. I can’t tell if it’s minutes or hours, but he doesn’t move, so I don’t move.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table, and we look at each other before I jump to get it.

“Hello?” I say, frantic. I’ve been waiting for an update from the hospital.

The caller releases a breath, and tears swell along the rim of my eyes.

“Hey, it’s me, mom.”

At those words, the tears I’ve been holding spill down my cheeks, and I clutch the phone with both hands while pressed to my ear.

“Mom, what happened?”

I know the answer. Tyree already filled me in, but I need to hear it from her. I need to understand what led up to the incident.

“Don’t cry, Clarissa. Your father is going to be okay.” I nod even though she can’t see me, and she moves from the receiver to talk to someone on her end. Thick accents flow, and it sounds like she’s relaying something.

“Okay, that was the nurse. She was checking to make sure I didn’t need anything. He’d been complaining about his arm and feeling tired, but I thought it was jet lag or all the touring we’d been doing,” she says in a weary tone.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know that, but I don’t feel that. I keep thinking if only I said something. If we went to the doctor before or maybe never traveled at all, it would have been different.”

“Mom,” I say, and my voice cracks. Tyree is right by my side, rubbing my leg, and I close my eyes.

Her voice is so soft; I don’t think I’ve heard her like this before. She must sense my worry because she clears her throat and starts to speak again. “I’m just talking out loud. I don’t want you to worry. I was calling to tell you the surgery went well.” She releases a deep breath. “And he’s in recovery. He’s still coming out of anesthesia, but as soon as he’s cleared to fly, we’re on our way back.”

“Oh, Mom, I hate this.”

“I know, baby. I know, but we’re lucky a doctor was there. How are you doing?”

“Really, mom? How I’m doing doesn’t matter.”

“What? It always matters. Things happen, some good and some bad, and it doesn’t change the fact that I want to know how my baby’s doing. Let’s talk about wedding stuff.”

I close my eyes, and my stomach drops.

“It’s—going. I can’t focus on that right now.”

She laughs, and I sit up straighter. “Never thought I’d hear those words from you,” she says, still laughing, and something strange happens. For a second, I forget. I forget why she’s calling me. I forget about my dad in the hospital, and I forget about the questions in my mind.

“Thanks, Clarissa. I really needed that.”

The phone is still clutched in both hands as I sit on the couch. My smile falls, and I nod. We say goodbye and hang up.

I can’t believe my parents waited all these years to travel together after my dad’s retirement, only for him to have a heart attack. Just as the thought swirls in my head, a louder one prickles my skin.

Tell me you feel it too.

Tell me your gut twists when we’re in the same room.

“It does,” I whisper.

“What does? Is everything okay?”

I pull my knees to my chin and release a breath. I don’t speak right away, but I’m shaking my head no.

“Your dad is not okay?”

“No, he’s fine. He’s—the surgery is done. He’s okay.”

He leans back on the sofa and closes his eyes.

“Thank god. Mr. Camp is like a father to me.”

If it’s possible, I crumble even more at his words. I squeeze my eyes closed, and I whisper, “I— Tyree— I need some time.”

“Time for what?”

He’s sitting next to me and moving to lift my face.

I open my eyes and stare at Tyree. That fucking lump is now a boulder in my throat. “You deserve more.”

His brows furrow, and he turns more toward me.

“Clarissa, what are you talking about?” he asks, but I cut him off to continue.

“I—it’s too much. I need to leave.”

“Wait. Wait, leave to where? What happened?”

He stands from the couch with his hands on his hips.

“Maybe it’s always been there, but I didn’t see it. I don’t know,” I say, twisting my fingers.

He stares at me and stops pacing. His shoulders are tense, and he doesn’t speak, but that expression makes my gut sink. I want to back up and say never mind. I’m in crisis. I didn’t mean it. But I do mean it. The fact that my parents waited and planned all these years for their trip to end like it did feels like a sign.

This is the final show before the curtains fall.

“Clarissa,” he says quietly.

I shake my head and move to stand, feeling like I’m suffocating.

“Okay, let’s take a minute. What exactly are you saying?”

The question echoes in my head. I bury my face in my hands. “I can’t marry you. I can’t marry anyone.”

I said it. The words eating away at my core for weeks, maybe years. Tears continue to spill down my cheeks, and I feel Tyree’s body hover above mine.

“This is just your grief. We can push back the wedding. Hell, we can elope like I wanted in the beginning. It’s okay.” He reaches to pull my hands from my face, and when I stare into his eyes, it guts me. Those amber eyes are downcast and brimming with tears. I want to speak, but I don’t think I can.

“I can’t,” I cry, and he pulls me into his body.

“Clarissa, please. I—we’ll get through this.”

I’m shaking my head as he strokes my back.

“Is it cold feet? I have enough faith for the both of us.”

I feel like my heart is fractured. It’s like a physical pain as I cry into his chest.

“You deserve someone who can give you a hundred percent.” I sniffle and pull back.

“Please—don’t. Where is this coming from?” He pulls me to a seat on the couch and clutches my hand in his. “What about our family? My parents love you. My brothers—please.”

I’ve never heard him sound so wounded. I lick my lips and pull my hand away. I twist the ring on my left finger. The ring that meant so much for so long. The ring that I dreamt about.

“I want to be uncomfortable. I need to be uncomfortable,” I say, shaking my head. I think that’s why I stayed. The comfort kept me here. Even when I yearned for something more, I told myself it was fine. Please be happy with this life you’ve carved out. Please stay in place. Don’t move. Just sit still.

“What are you talking about? Nobody wants to be uncomfortable. People search their whole life hoping for comfort.” His tone is disbelieving and confused. Like the nature of such an idea is ridiculous, and maybe it is. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe the suffocating sensation taking my breath slowly away with each day is normal. Maybe I could get used to not breathing. I lower my head and swallow hard, the tightness in my throat barely moving.

Tell me you feel it too.

Tell me your gut twists when we’re in the same room.

Tears spring to my eyes, but I keep going. It feels like a release that’s been waiting to come out, like the first breath after being submerged in water. My lungs expand. A wave of jitters hits my nerves, and I flex my fingers.

“I love you—but I?—”

He cuts me off. “Bullshit. You don’t break up with people you love! What about my family? How can you do this? You’re supposed to be my wife.”

A web of tension fills the living room, and Tyree is pacing the floor.

“It’s not you—” Before I can get the words out, he’s interrupting me.

“Fuck that, you’re giving me the it’s not you, it’s me bullshit. This is about Tyson, isn’t it?”

I shake my head, but he keeps going.

“Then what is it about? Because just twenty minutes ago, we were happy. And now what—you want to leave me?” He stops pacing and blows out a breath. “Do you know what my first thought was when I met you?”

I don’t speak, but he keeps going anyway.

“That I did it. I found my match. The one girl that was made for me. This is your grief talking. It has to be.” He shakes his head like he wants to spill his thoughts on the floor. I’m watching the tapestry of the life I thought I wanted unravel at my fingertips, and I do nothing to stop it.

I recognize this isn’t going to be easy, so I don’t stop him from bringing me to his chest. I listen as he spills his feelings, physically clinging to me and begging me to stay. When he finishes, I pull him up from the floor. I might not want to be here anymore, but he still means something to me. Seeing him broken is heartbreaking, even as I seal our fates by twisting my ring off and placing it in his palm.

Our tears mirror each other as he stares in disbelief. His brows are furrowed and tight. Before long, he storms out of the room, and I sit in this space. I can’t stop the tears from falling. It’s so thick and muddy with tension, but I say seated. I roll myself into a ball on the couch and cry into my shirt.