He had all the pieces. All he’d needed was the courage to put them together.
chapter thirty-five
RECKLESSNESS PUMPED IN Clara Wheaton’s veins, as potent as any other poison. Following in the footsteps of many a scorned woman before her, she’d gone and blown an absurd amount of money on a flight and a dress designed to make men pant. The moment she stepped outside the airport in Las Vegas—the last leg on Everett’s band’s tour—all moisture drained from her body. Well, at least what remained following an onboard crying jag that had drawn concerned whispers from several passengers. She supposed most people cried on the way home from Sin City, rather than on the way there.
The travel-size pack of tissues in her purse had proven no match for the way her confrontation with Josh had stripped her of whatever remaining armor she possessed against the world. Every inch of her felt flayed open. Raw.
Love. He’d said love. Love, in the same breath he’d used to declare she’d never find anything better. Despite all the worrying she’d done in her lifetime, none of her contingency plans covered this type of emotional implosion. For so long, she’d refused to allow herself to indulge the idea of building a romantic future with Josh. Two people as different as they were couldn’t fit into each other’s lives without carnage and bloodshed. They’d made an attempt and ended up the first victims.
Reverting to her original plan, otherwise known as Operation Everett, made sense on paper. Clara needed to remind herself of what she used to want so she could stop thinking about a love she could never have.
Attempting to swish her hips, she entered a dive bar on the outskirts of town that stank of fried onions and stale beer. Making her sway fluid with luggage in tow was no easy task, but she’d traded in her reputation as a conservative socialite for one as a champion of the clitoris. She might as well act like it. Some sort of sex appeal through osmosis should have occurred after all her time spent around people who excelled at raising pulses. And . . . appendages. The bottom of her heel stuck to the sticky floor and she stumbled. Or not.
At seven p.m., the bar held only a smattering of customers, but the band’s website said they went on in half an hour. A small stage with a lone mic stand and a despondent-looking amp flopped facedown took up most of the back wall.
“Excuse me?” Clara caught the eye of the surly bartender. “I’m looking for Everett Bloom and the Shot of Adrenaline.”
He pointed a rag at the door down a dark hallway. “Check out back. Think he went for a smoke.”
“Thanks.” Clara wrapped her arms around herself and stepped carefully over piles of peanut shells littering the floor. Reuniting with Everett was supposed to cut through the miserable haze that had engulfed her ever since she’d left Danvers Street. Instead, she just felt numb.
“Actually.” She spun around. “May I have a shot of your finest tequila, please?” Fingers crossed that the burn of alcohol reminded her she was alive.
The bartender passed her the drink with an appreciative smile. “On the house.”
At least she knew the dress worked.
She found Everett sitting on the curb of the parking lot with a cigarette resting between two fingers. The sunset painted a starburst halo over his head.
She waited for her heart to flip over like a pancake.
It didn’t.
Almost as if she’d left the vital organ back in West Hollywood.
“Hey,” she said, trying not to cough. Not her finest opening line.
Everett swiveled and his mouth dropped. “Cee? Oh my God, kid.” Stubbing out the cigarette on the pavement, he got up and wrapped her in a bear hug. “What are you doing here?”
Brushing her hair out of her face from where he’d accidentally pushed the heavy locks into her lipstick, she aimed for nonchalant. “Thought I’d catch the show.”
“Wow.” He nodded his chin at her suitcases. “You planning on moving in?”
“Not exactly. I, ah.” It’s only embarrassing if you let it be embarrassing. “I’m on my way back to New York. This is a layover.”
“What?” His face fell. “Trip’s over already? How much trouble could you have possibly gotten into over the course of one summer?”
“You’d be surprised.” Her laugh turned into a wince.
“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re here.” Everett’s eyes traced her from head to toe. “You look different.”
Clara tried not to fidget. She’d waited a long time for him to look at her with unbridled interest. So why did it make her long to wipe off her makeup and pull on sweats? Everett only ever saw her at her best. Her most polished. Josh had seen her covered in flour and raw egg, in lounge clothes that made her resemble a human potato, and in a terrible hospital nightgown—bruised and battered. Not to mention buck naked. He looked at her the same way when she was stripped to her foundation as he did when she was decked to the nines.
Everett gestured at her general form. “Did you do something different?”
She knew he meant had she dyed her hair or lost weight or bought a new shade of lipstick. But the more honest answer went beyond the way she looked.
This summer, she’d done a lot of things differently.
While on paper, she was ending the summer the same way she’d started it—unemployed, single, and in search of housing—she’d recently learned that sometimes the facts only told half of the story.
If her name had never appeared in those articles, today would have gone a lot differently. She’d seen the bottle of champagne Josh had bought weeks ago and tried to hide behind a grapefruit at the back of the fridge. In another life, they were toasting their success right now, the bubbles stinging her nose each time he made her laugh.
“You know,” she said, folding her legs to sit next to Everett on the sidewalk, “I think I might be a coward.”
He ran a hand across his head, ruffling the dark hair. “Come on.”
“I’m serious.” She could still feel the tequila hot in her throat, loosening her tongue. “I spent all those years in art school. Countless hours observing creators, their patterns and motivations, their fears, and their pain. And I never once had the guts to make something with my own name on it.” Shameless could have changed everything if she’d had the strength to claim it.
“There are worse things than being afraid,” Everett said gently. “I was always really proud of you going for your PhD. Keeping art history alive. I’d picture you in a museum somewhere, showing everyone how much smarter you are than them. The path you chose suits you.”
The future he described had always been the plan. The Guggenheim. Perfectly tailored pantsuits. A lifetime preserved in a temperature-controlled room.