17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Kane

9:27AM

T he scent of espresso fills my nose as Clara hands me the warm cup of coffee, steam rolling off the top in light, rippled waves. The heat from the cup burns into my palm, but I don't notice. I just continue staring at the clock. Every time that the hands tick, my stomach tightens, and an acidic flavor anxiously rises from the back of my throat.

"Are you sure he's coming?" Clara asks, lifting a screwdriver to the corners of the shelves. I look over at her, pushing my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose. It's not as if the thought hasn't crossed my mind. Of course, with Marcus' past, leaving abruptly with no contact, well, it would be stupid of me to not at least consider the idea. But everything about these last three days, hell, about these last ten years, gives me reasonable hope. Marcus is just the right amount of different.

His confidence has carried to his identity, and it shows. In his work, his voice, even his mannerisms. He used to walk around with the constant sense that he was being observed, perceived as someone he knew his parents wouldn't approve of. I remember how he'd constantly adjust his posture, and alter his dialogue to match the younger men around us. But there was none of that the past three days. He was wholly and completely himself, the way I always wished he'd be.

"He's coming," I answer. "He said he would."

Clara's hand falls to her side, and she approaches me with a sincere smile. "If you say he's coming, then I believe you. I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

I nod appreciatively, fighting the urge to glance at the clock for the hundred-thousandth time today. "I need a distraction."

Her brow cocks, her head tilting. "What kind of distraction?"

"I don't know," I shrug. "I just can't keep sitting here, staring at the clock while I wait for him to stop by. Have we put in August's order yet?"

"Nope. I still can't log into the email."

I frown. "Can't we just reset the password or something?"

"We could." She nods. "If Derrick didn't accidentally put my contact information on one of those spam websites forcing me to get a new number."

I groan, tossing my weight back in the chair and letting it roll a few inches away from the desk. God, this desk. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at it the same way after what went down last night. I don't know if I should burn it, or cherish it forever.

"Alright, well, we've got to call them and figure that out soon," I say. Clara shoots me an unimpressed glance, her brows raised in a way that tells me she's calling bullshit.

"You mean I need to call them," she replies cunningly. A guilty grin creeps across my face.

"Exactly."

Her eyes roll but a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of her lips. She sighs. "Whatever would you do without me?"

"Die, probably."

A fluttery laugh slips from her lips, and she smacks me lightly, then gestures for me to follow her. "Shut up. Come help me with this."

11:53AM

"Wait, so how did Marcus find out where you live?" Clara asks, fluffing Dickie's bed and setting it on the window nook. He looks up at her with a noticing gaze, pacing back and forth as he waits to be lifted. He can jump up there just fine, he just prefers the chariot ride. I suck in a nervous breath, my gaze darting back to the desk. My cheeks flush, but I pretend to notice something invisible in the corner that needs my attention. "Kane?"

I try to fight it, but my eyes greet Clara's with a guilty shine. The smile planted on her face fades, a slightly disgusted, but more so disappointed expression consuming it.

"Wait, that all happened here ?!" She exclaims, her nose wrinkling. "Gross." She lifts Dickie onto his pedestal. He plops down onto his bed, stretching out to bask in the sunlight as he lets out a content groan.

"Homophobe," I tease, and Clara props her hands on her hips disapprovingly.

"Oh don't even start with me." She blows a tendril of blonde hair from her face. "Fucking in the bookstore is gross no matter what gender the fuckers are. Fuckees? You know what I mean." Her hands fall to the nook bench, moving it back and forth causing it to rattle and creak. "This thing needs to be replaced."

I nod, running a hand through my hair. "Want to do it after closing?" I ask. She kicks it lightly, and I swear it sounds like something inside it snaps.

"Sure. I can swing by the hardware store later. The frame feels fine, I think it's just the plywood that needs to be replaced." Her fingertips trace the splintered edge, then draw up to scratch Dickie on the butt.

Silence settles between us. It's something I've been trying to avoid all morning, because even though we hashed it out last night, I still feel like Clara thinks I'm insane. And maybe I am. But I'd rather be crazy with Marcus, than perfectly sane without him. I just need to find the right words to explain that to her.

"I know you think it's ridiculous," I say finally, breaking the silence. Her brows immediately pinch together, and she shakes her head.

"No, I don't." I shoot her an unconvinced look, and the valley between her brows disappears. "Okay, a little bit. But you have to admit, Kane. This is all so…" She trails off, and I lean my weight against a wooden shelf, crossing my arms.

"Sudden?"

Her lip curls and her head bops around like she's trying to make an important decision. "Well… yeah. "

I nod, letting a slow breath blow from my lips. "I know it is, Claire. I'm not going to sit here and deny that this isn't batshit crazy, because it is. But—" I swallow, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Clara's shoulders sink down, and she walks over to me, wiping a set of crumbs from the collar of my shirt.

"But you love him," she cuts in, her jade green eyes locking with mine. I nod slowly, letting the word seep into my skin like oil. It's true. I know it is, otherwise, I wouldn't have said it last night. But hearing it come from someone who knows me, someone who cares so much she'd take any chance to deny it? Well, it feels even more vivid. Undeniably real.

"Yeah," I admit. "I love him. And Clara?"

"Hmm?"

I nervously pick at the skin around my thumb nail. "I really think he loves me too."

Her hand settles onto my shoulder, the coolness of her palm traveling through the fabric to my skin, and she smiles.

"You know, Kane," she says quietly, her eyes shining. "I think so too."

"Yeah?" I ask, a hint of confusion in my tone. Clara hates Marcus for what he did, and that opinion hasn't seemed to magically change in the last three days. But she smiles, and pats my shoulder gently.

"I think he always has. I just didn't think he'd ever stop running from it."

3:05 PM

I can't deny that I'm starting to grow anxious about Marcus' arrival. I should have asked when I could've expected him last night, but I was in such a hurry the thought didn't even cross my mind. Now, I wish it had, because it would have saved me some truly unnecessary stress.

Marcus is going to come. I know he is. There would be no other reason for him to do all of this. To invite me to dinner, to profess his love, to arrange this meeting before he leaves. Not unless he's one, sadistic fuck. And I'd like to think I know him well enough to vouch that he's not.

Still, that doesn't stop the hole burning through my chest right now. It doesn't prevent the knot, twisting and tugging in my stomach every time a customer walks through the door, and I lift my head to find that it isn't him.

The sound of the bell chimes as the door swings open. With her back turned to me, Clara begins stumbling into the store, dragging a large piece of plywood through the entrance. I race to help her, grabbing the door and propping it open as she pulls the wood along the floor, dropping it in front of the window nook.

"Did he show yet?" she asks, wiping her sawdust covered palms against the front of her jeans. I swallow, shaking my head solemnly.

"No."

She walks over to me, and nudges my side with her elbow. "Perk up, bud. He's probably on his way right now."

I want to tell her about the sinking feeling forming in my chest. I want to express how uncomfortable the twisting of my gut is. How, for some inexplicable reason, I have this thought building inside of me. One that Marcus might not show after all.

But Clara has had enough of my "woe is me" shit throughout the years. I know how exhausting I can be, always complaining about the glass half empty, just to suck more water out of it. It's not time to turn this into one of those episodes. Not yet, at least.

"I can get the rest of it," I offer, forcing a feigned smile to stretch across my lips. Clara's expression brightens, and she pats my back enthusiastically.

"That's it!" she exclaims. "He'll be here in no time."

5:00PM

Crimson is my favorite color, so it's no mystery why I always run toward red flags rather than away from them. Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe I am addicted to being sad, and this was some sick form of self-sabotage. God, why did I do this to myself?

The switch clicks in Clara's palm, the glow of the "open" sign flicking to abrupt lightless, void of color.

"Maybe he has a late flight?" she offers optimistically. I shake my head, letting it fall into my hands as my elbows rest atop the desk.

"The last one left at 3:30. I checked," I answer. I'd expect some sort of whine to tug at my voice, something that shows how badly my heart is breaking. But maybe that's just it. I'm already so broken, there's nothing else that could really and truly ruin me. Perhaps it's for the better, because if I were able to feel the depths of this, I don't think I would make it out alive.

Clara's head hangs, and she approaches me, plopping onto the desk, and slowly rocking my swiveling chair back and forth with her foot. She doesn't say anything, and I appreciate it. Because there really is nothing to say. I fell for it. Again. I allowed myself to believe, for some stupid fleeting moment, that someone could see me in my entirety, all the pain, all the sadness, all the annoying wallowing, and still care enough to love me. I should know better than that by now, but I guess in the end, everyone craves unquestioning love. Maybe it's just not for me.

"No," Clara cuts in firmly. "No, I'm not going to let you do that."

My head lifts from my hands, and I look at her, numbness washing over me.

"Do what?"

She gestures to my face, her palm sticking out toward my nose and moving in circles.

" That . The 'I'm unlovable' thing that runs your self-destructive brain. I'm not letting it happen, Kane."

My brows weave together, and a sharp scoff slips from my lips. "Clara, I—"

"No." She shakes her head. "Just, no , Kane. I know you can't always control it. I know it's always there, sitting in the back of your mind, but you need to stop giving it so much credibility. Do you firmly believe every thought that enters your brain?"

I swallow, a dry ache settling into the center of my throat. "No," I admit. "But—"

"But nothing , Kane. What do you think I'm still here for, charity?" She scoffs, crossing her arms annoyedly over her chest. "If I wanted to perform charity, I'd volunteer at the soup kitchen."

"You do," I mumble, and she lightly bops the side of my head.

"Nope! It's my turn. So just-" She huffs. "Just shut up and listen. If Derrick and I didn't want to be there through your ups and downs, we wouldn't be. If I didn't want to hang around you, I'd give you my half of the store and go spend my days with Judah at the beach. I know you're lonely, Kane. And I know you will never stop loving Marcus. But don't let his dickwad behavior prevent you from seeing the love you already have."

Tears begin to well in my eyes as Clara speaks. I try to take a steadying breath, but no words come from my lips, so she continues.

"Derrick never shuts up about you. Dickie pees every time you walk in the door. God! Do you know how shitty it feels to rip your vagina open just to birth a baby that loves your ex-husband more than he loves you? You have more love in your life than there are stars in the goddamned sky."

Tears stream down my face now, my cheeks growing wet and raw as the salt rubs against them. I don't know how I got so lucky with Clara, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying to deserve it. She uses the soft pad of her thumb to wipe the tears away, but the river continues, and she pulls me close instead.

"You are lovable ," she whispers, running her hand through my hair. "And I don't expect you to always remember it. But you have to at least try to believe me when I'm sitting here, telling you. Okay?"

A heavy pulse thrums in my temples as I listen to her words. They sink into my skin, embedding themselves into my stomach and chest like shrapnel. It stings, and burns, and a soft sob slips through my lips at the sensation. But although it hurts, something about it feels peaceful too. Like it's all been coated with cold aloe, soothing the pain. I don't have a partner or a spouse. I lost the one person I've ever truly been in love with, twice . But Clara is right. That doesn't negate the other relationships I've built. It doesn't make the love I share with her, and Judah, and Derrick, and even Dickie, worth less. I sniff, an unpleasant stuffy sound coming from my nose as I nod, my lip trembling.

"Okay," I reply, aggressively wiping the tears on my cheeks. There's a slight burn to it, the skin swollen and sensitive. Clara hands me a tissue, and the sound of an elephant pierces the air as I blow into it. Silence follows, but when our eyes lock together, we both burst into a teary fit of bittersweet laughter.

"You wanna kick some shit?" she asks, her brow lifted to display her intrigue. I ponder it for a moment. Really, I'm just exhausted. I want to crawl in bed, and sleep for seventeen hours. But as Clara looks at me, with full love and care and intent to make me feel better, I know I should stay. Even if it's more for her than it is for me.

That's another thing I've learned throughout the years. Those who don't understand it will tell you that everything you do must be for yourself. There's a myth, that if you don't love yourself, nobody else will either. You have to get out of bed, eat, drink water, and be productive, for you . Because how can someone love somebody who hates themselves?

The same way an author can despise their own book, while thousands of readers cherish it. How an artist's least favorite painting can sell for millions. How musicians get sick of singing the same song, over and over, but listeners around the world play it on loop because they just can't get enough.

It's easy to dislike something when you can't escape it. But that doesn't mean it's worthless. It doesn't mean authors shouldn't continue to write, or musicians shouldn't continue to play. And it definitely doesn't mean that you shouldn't continue to live.

"Yeah," I nod. "Yeah, I think I do."

After Clara clears the new wood away from the nook bench, and relocates Dickie's bed to the cubby below the desk, I pull my leg back, twist my ankle slightly, and deliver the first blow.

The plywood cracks, a small piece of it caving inside of the structure. I hate to admit that for some strange reason, it does make me feel better. I flash Clara a grin, stepping to the side to allow her to take a turn.

"I'm pretending it's you, by the way," she says, making full eye contact with me as her foot glides through the aged wood. My hands toss up defensively, and I take a weary step back.

"Why me?"

She struggles to pry her foot from the jagged hole it's created, so her hands settle along the top of it to create leverage.

"Because—" she grunts, tugging back with full force until her foot breaks free. "I grew a baby in my stomach for nine months and he likes you more than me."

A slight smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I try really hard to hide it, but from the furrow of Clara's brow, I can say confidently that I have failed.

"Oh, you meant that?" I ask, pulling my leg back again. This time, I position the bottom of my heel outward as I deliver the blow. The wood crashes, tumbling to the floor, and scattering about a splintered mess. A soft chuckle escapes my lips, and I pat her gently on the shoulder. "Come on, Clara. He loves you."

She shoots me an expression that I'm sure should concern me, and motions for me to step back. I comply, feeling my eyes widen as she picks up a crowbar, gripping it tightly in her hands.

"Yeah, yeah." She shoves the sloped end of it beneath the top piece of wood and the frame, using her weight to wedge it in as far as it can go. "Do you want to do the honors, or should I?"

Exhaustion fills my bones, and as much as I'd like to give Clara the show I know she wants, I don't think I could pry that piece of wood up if I tried.

"All yours," I say, drawing up my arm and flexing my bicep. "Show me those mom muscles."

A bright grin stretches across Clara's face, and she gives the crowbar one last shove before leaning down, and pressing all her weight against it.

The eroded board lets out a high-pitched creaking sound, little snapping fibers of wood surrounding it as Clara puts all her muscle behind the movement. It begins to lift, bending and snapping at the corners until finally, it breaks free. Clara howls, jumping up and waving the crowbar around like it doesn't possess the ability to severely injure someone.

"Clara," I say warningly. "Put the crowbar down."

Her eyes roll, but she listens, gently lowering it to the floor, then pulling the large piece of wood off the top, and tossing it to the side. Her body leans over the frame of the nook, her nose wrinkling as she peers at it.

"Ew," she says, her mouth contorting into a very disgusted frown. "It's really dusty." She leans in closer, her forehead now following her nose in a wrinkling motion.

"What?" I ask. She shrugs, reaching her hand down into the frame.

"I don't know," she answers, fishing for something inside. "It's—"

Her hand pulls out, and wedged between her dust-stained fingers, is a small, folded piece of paper, a dust bunny clinging to the corner of it. She carefully pulls the ball of dust off, dropping it carelessly onto the floor.

"Do you think it's a treasure map?" she asks excitedly. I chuckle, stepping closer to her to get a better look.

"I've been working here for twenty-four years, Clara. If there was hidden treasure somewhere inside this place, I think I would've found it by now."

Her fingers dip between the worn folds of the paper, and she begins carefully pulling the corners open. I slide even closer, pressing the side of my body against hers, as she unfolds every crease in the note, stretching it out for us both to see. But just as my eyes begin to focus on the paper, Clara's hand begins shaking, and the ink scrawled across the page grows blurry.

"Kane—" Her voice breaks, and she turns to look at me, pressing the note into my chest. I take the page from her trembling fingers, and hold it out in front of me. When my eyes land on it, I no longer notice the folds or the dust. The only thing I can focus on is the handwriting. Scripted and dark, smudged ink stained across the sides is a familiarity I have never forgotten. My graze draws up to the top of the page, and I begin to read it.

I read the note, again and again. I don't know if I'm hoping that the words transition into something new, or if I'm begging for the thought that what is in front of me, is truly reality. Heat expands inside of my stomach, and my vision grows fuzzy as tears crate a thick coat of gloss over my eyes. Clara places her arm around my shoulders, squeezing them gently.

"He— He left a note," I manage to say, my voice cracking. Clara's head tips into my shoulder as she continues to hug me.

"It appears so," she answers softly. My body shakes, my chest moving up and down vigorously as I try to catch my crying breath.

"All this time, I thought—" I hiccup, tears pooling in the corners of my mouth, bringing a salty taste to my lips. "I thought he just left. I thought—"

"You thought he abandoned you."

I nod, swallowing back the ache forming in my throat. The sore muscles tense as I try to hold in my cries, but they break under the pressure, releasing it all. Clara keeps holding me, using her hand to brush away the hair sticking to my tear-stained cheeks. Her body shakes alongside mine as I take staggered, airy breaths. For twenty years, I've resented Marcus. For abandoning me, for denying me, to his parents and himself. And this entire time, Marcus had waited for me. He planned for me to come with him.

"Kane," she whispers, her breath warm against my cheek. I don't try to fight the tears anymore. I just look over at her, my eyes stinging from the salty glaze. She swipes a falling tear, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Do you know what this means?"

My brows pinch together, and I sniff, confused. "What?"

The pressure around my body releases as she pulls away from me, looking up into my eyes with an electric glow. I only grow more confused.

"Kane," she repeats, like I need a preparation. I take a deep breath, ready to hear her take. "He probably left you one this time too."

My stomach sinks, and I immediately shake my head. "No," I answer, matter-of-factly. "There's no way Marcus could have left a note in here. I was here until seven last night, and the doors were locked until I opened this morning."

I appreciate Clara's optimism. She's always the first person in the room to jump to a happy conclusion, and it's a nice change from my more dreary point of view. But Marcus leaving behind a second note? Well, it's just not possible.

However, my point doesn't seem to have gotten across to Clara, because that bright smile still conquers her face. I take a deep breath, preparing myself to explain, again, why Marcus could not have left a note. Why, in fact, he's probably a thousand miles away, hating me for never showing up to that train station. But light flickers in her eyes, she rushes to the back room, Dickie chasing behind her.

I quickly follow, the worn soles of my sandals slapping against the hardwood. I don't know what's gotten into her, but she needs to do what I've already done: Accept it. Accept the fact that Marcus is gone, and I blew my chance at being with him twenty years ago. When I reach the doorway, I linger in it for a moment. Clara's eyes are wide and wild, and papers are sprawled all across her desk. On top of them, an open laptop.

"We have to get into the email," she insists, her fingers dancing crazily across the keyboard. I cock my head, staring at the mess in front of me.

"Why?"

She pulls her cell phone from her pocket, dialing a set of numbers before pressing it to her ear. "Because." She takes a deep breath, then flashes me a beaming smile. "I think he left you a note after all."