Has to Be Love (14 page)

“I'm just …” I close my eyes. “I feel like my life will restart after Seattle, and then I'll be able to make decisions. But before that …”

“Head is too loud. Isn't that what you say?” she teases.

“Definitely too loud,” I agree.

“Mom's telling me to get off the phone, but I'll be there soon!”

“See ya.”

Only neither of us hangs up. Nothing feels resolved, I guess.

“Hang in, Clara. It'll all sort itself out.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I don't really see how. I hit End wishing she was here
now
instead of “soon.”

I slide my phone back into my pocket without getting up and push the hair off my face. There's too much in my heart at the moment for me to know what's right for me.

“You must miss your friend.” Rhodes's voice echoes in the barn, and I sit up in the loft, heart thumping.

“How long have you been here?”
Did you hear what I said about you?

He slides his hands in his pockets and glances down guiltily. “Long enough.”

“For …?” I start down the ladder, even though I sort of want to hide in the corner. “Do you know that it's once again sort of creepy super-stalking to be listening in?”

He sighs. “I
should
have left. For sure. I'm sorry. I know none of this is my business, but I was here long enough to know how the Elias thing is going to play out.”

This is none of his business.
Zero.
He always seems to be around at just the wrong times saying just the wrong things.

I'm suddenly so infuriated that I step toward him, shoulders tight, hands in fists. “Don't act like you're watching from the sidelines, knowing what'll happen!”

Rhodes holds his hands up between us. “Hey. I'm just here. Not my fault if you're reading too much into it.”

“Bullshit.” I push him. “If you wanna come in here and play predictions, you can go to hell.”

He lets himself take a step backward, still holding his hands in the air between us. “Big words coming from the Mormon girl.”

“Why are you being such an ass about this?” I ask, breathing hard.
“Why?”

He freezes and stares.

I don't freeze. I keep on ranting. “Because I cannot fathom how
anything
I do with my life could be
any
part of your business.”

His jaw tightens as he steps close enough that he has to look down at me. Close enough that I feel his breath on my forehead. The warmth of his body. His nearness sends a tingle low in my stomach.

“Because it'll be my turn to call ‘bullshit' if you don't feel something here. This is not something I expected to happen. But Clara … you're stubborn and amazing. Nobody's made me stumble over my words. Ever. And you do.”

I blink. “What?”

“You're terrifying, Clara. You're uncertain but certain. You're so … amazingly strong … I can't tell you how intimidating you are, and that doesn't happen to me often.”

“I'm not following.” At all. He's describing someone else. My heart slams into my ribs at how close we are. At how our breath mixes between us.

He's so still and quiet and serious. “I wish I were here every night. And you shouldn't be thinking about wearing Elias's ring if you're conflicted. Even if you're not conflicted, you have so much life to live before you settle down like that. I heard you on the phone with your friend. I'm not in this alone.”

He touches the center of my chest, and I bat his hand away, not wanting to let the idea sink in that he feels the same as me.

He feels the same as me.

He likes me. For real. Not in my imagination, or not me thinking, Is
he flirting with me?
but actually. For real. Older. Cooler.
Columbia.
All the beat poetry and quirky rhythms, and everything I want to be.

I step closer, rest my hands on the chest I'm still staring at, and feel his heart thumping as fast as mine.

“I should go,” he whispers but doesn't move. “I shouldn't have listened in. I shouldn't
care
so much.”

He should go. So should I. I should be running out of this barn and away from this guy who is so much older and more experienced and …
frustrating.
But instead I lift my eyes to his, and this time when I breathe in, I don't stop my body from leaning closer.

He tips his head down and his lips lightly brush mine, sending a wave of tingles from my lips into my chest that spread through my body and warm me from core to limbs.

We hover just inches apart until I close the distance again.

He rests his hand behind my neck. His kiss slides its way through my body and curls my toes and turns my legs to rubber. My hands find their way to his shaggy hair, and I thread my fingers through it, holding us together. Am I a masochist? An idiot? Do I want something from my boyfriend he won't give me, even though it's definitely not something I should want?

Want, want, want
is all that runs through my head.

We stumble twice until my back is against the stall door, and I need him to push harder, kiss me harder, but I don't know if it's possible. His chest is on mine and our stomachs are together, and his hips keep us pinned tightly, sending a rush of perfect heat up my body. Rhodes pauses long enough to slide his mouth down my neck and reality hits. My body freezes.

This is not my boyfriend. I love my boyfriend.

Rhodes pulls away first, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I-I'm sor-sorry.” He stumbles over his words. “I shouldn't have … Not with who I am … The school … your dad … I'm sorry.”

He backs away from me still staring, and I'm left with my arms at my sides, knowing I just broke about a million rules. Rules that have to do with what I believe and what the school would think and what Elias deserves.

“I should go,” he says just before disappearing out the door.

How did I let this happen?

My fingers come to my lips, rubbing lightly where Rhodes's mouth touched mine. When did I turn into the kind of person who would do this?

A simple phrase runs through my head again and again as I stare at the open door.

Torn between two

when loving just one.

My heart lies in pieces

before life's begun …

Now what do I do?

17

Dad shoves his hands in his jeans' pockets as we walk up the crowded sidewalk. The one-way streets in this part of Seattle are a bit maze-like, but Siri seems to know where we need to be.

“We should have said a prayer when we parked the car,” Dad says quietly.

I tug my bangs down. Try not to make eye contact with anyone we pass. I can't handle stares this morning. New York would be a million times worse—at least until my scars are gone. I really need to work on what to tell Columbia. Soon.

“Clara?” he asks.

“I'm fine,” I say.

“You're not fine.” We walk a few steps in silence. “You've been quiet and detached and … I keep hoping it's just this upcoming trip, but …”

“Elias proposed.” I'm not sure how those words escaped my mouth, but he knows now.

Dad stumbles once. “Elias—”

“And I got into Columbia.”

“Wait,
what?”

“And I saw you and Sukiniq. Kiss.” I don't slow. Don't speed. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“Clara,” Dad says slowly. “Stop.”

The moment I stop, someone bumps into my shoulder. Dad tugs my arm so we're both standing next to a red brick building. He leans toward me, his eyes flooding with worry. “I don't know where to start. Why didn't you tell me any of these things?”

I fold my arms. “I dunno,” I mumble.

And then he smiles. “I'm so proud of you. Your mom's school, huh?”

Mom's school.
I can't think about Mom now. Cannot. I just shake my head as my throat swells. “You and Suki, huh?”

A corner of Dad's mouth twitches. “Took me long enough, but yeah.”

“We're going to be late,” I say and turn to keep walking.

“I'm … What do you want?” Dad asks. “What are you going to do? What did you tell Elias?”

“Nothing. I can't … I can't talk about this yet.”

“When you're ready.”

I nod.

We pause at a set of double doors. Dad checks the address, and I follow him inside. I barely breathe as he checks me in and we're led down a hallway into a massive office. Dad casts too many glances my way as we go. The nurse leaves us alone with a practiced smile.

“You can go to Columbia,” Dad says. “I'll miss you terribly and it won't be easy, but we can make it happen.”

Not yet.
“Was just curious, Dad. And I really, really don't want to talk about any of this right now.”

Dad and I sit in leather chairs in an office that's at least five times the size of my bedroom. Diplomas cover one wall, books another. Nerves dance so forcefully through my body that I'm concentrating just to breathe.
In … out … in … out …

My fingers find the familiar lines on my face. I can feel Dad's eyes on me. Feel his concern wafting around him. I drop my hand and stare at my lap. I should be excited. Bouncing in my seat. Instead my stomach's turning over all the things I wish I wasn't dealing with on top of this appointment.

Dad swallows again. Hard. Doesn't speak. He blinks a few times. His arm comes around me, and his fingers squeeze a little too tight on my shoulder.

“That day … I'm so sorry, Clara. I'm so sorry I didn't get there sooner. Didn't know … I could have stopped the bear. I could have …” He tightens his arm again, his breath shaky and his eyes fixed on the wall in front of us. Maybe I should have asked to come alone.

Mom.

I need my mom here. I needed her when I woke up bandaged in the hospital, I wanted her when Elias gave me my first kiss, and I need her now when I'm about to talk to a doctor who can maybe change some of my life back to how it was before.

I swipe a tear off my cheek.

Mom is not what I want to think about. I need to focus on me and my scars, and how we're going to fix them. My fingers trace the outside edge of the notebook tucked into my back pocket.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Dad whispers.

“Maybe,” I whisper
back. Just not now.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A quiet voice penetrates the near silence in the room. A small man, probably mid-thirties, closes the door behind him and takes a seat in another chair facing us. Even with the furniture arranged like a living room, there's no disguising that this is a doctor's office.

“I'm Thomas.” Dad reaches out his hand and Dr. Breckman shakes it.

Mine are so tucked into my sides that I don't think to put my hand out until Dr. Breckman is already facing me, waiting.

“And you're Clara.”

“Hi,” I mumble.

He studies my face, tilting his head to the side and scooting his chair closer.

“May I?” He reaches forward and I sit still, letting his too-soft fingers touch my face. Elias's calluses are familiar; this is … foreign. As foreign as the office and the city and the situation.

Dr. Breckman lets out a breath, sits back, and starts to look more like a person than the doctor whose website I've stared at too much.

“So?” I ask.

“So, I'm glad you came.”

I sit silently.

“What do you envision happening?” He gives me a relaxed smile. “I'm assuming you came here to see what I can possibly do for you. So in your dream scenario, what would you like to see happen?”

“I want you to fix my face.”

“And what does ‘fix' mean to you?” he asks.

Dad shifts in his seat. Lets out another shaky breath.

“Fix.” That should be obvious enough. “Make me look like I'm supposed to. Like I
should.”

“Scoot forward,” he asks.

I do. He slips on glasses, and his soft fingers smooth over my scars again. My heart starts beating in my throat.

His mouth twitches, turning into a slight frown before he leans back. “You have hypertrophic scarring. Do you know what that means?” His soothing voice scratches on me like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“It means my scars are raised.” My voice sounds pinched and foreign.

He nods. “And that very often comes with the darker color.”

“Like mine.” Like all the things he's supposed to make go away.

My lower lip trembles and I suck it into my mouth, biting down to hold it still.

“I'm going to be very honest here because the last thing I want is for you to have expectations that we simply cannot meet.” His hands clasp together. “But I can help. I promise.”

My skin pricks with heat. I stay silent. If acid wasn't rolling in my stomach, I'd feel detached from my body.

“I reviewed the pictures you sent. You don't seem as concerned about the scars on your side and back.”

I shake my head.

“Breathe.” His smile widens as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. There's an odd, watchful quality to the way he's looking at me. “I said I can help.”

“How?” Dad asks. “Wh … what can you do?”

Dr. Breckman clears his throat. “We can do skin grafts, but they're not perfect. And I for sure wouldn't recommend doing everything at once. We'll want to see how one set of scars heals before we attempt the others—at least that's how I've found the most success.”

He pauses and glances back and forth between us a few times. “Are we okay?”

No.
I've been waiting. I've been waiting for years for this, and now he's talking about doing one small part—and then how long will I have to wait?

“If you decide to go the grafting route, several surgeries will be involved, and we'll be trying to make that skin blend into your facial skin, which will have scars of its own.”