The Ending Beginnings: Clara (An Ending Series Novella) (The Ending Series) Page 4

  Nearly blinded by the glare coming off the snow, Clara closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to never think about him again, she couldn’t contain the whirlwind of memories.

  Clara had been on her seventh lap around the track, unwinding from a tedious day of classes and keeping up appearances. As she came around the final bend, approaching the water bottle she was using as a mile marker, she knew that once she passed it, she would be done and could shower, put on clean clothes, and head back to her dorm to freshen up before going out for a night on the town.

  She loved being in Boulder; it was so different from Bristow. There were possibilities here. She was finally away from all the drama and could be comfortable in her own skin and focus on her future. Boulder was her fresh start, and college was…promising. There were tons of cute boys and potential Prince Charmings. She loved it.

  But while Clara was lost in frivolous thoughts, she misstepped and tripped, landing on the turf with a shooting pain in her ankle. “Shit.” A sprained ankle would ruin her plans for the night.

  Clara pulled up the spandex of her jogging pants as a shadow was cast over her. She peered up and squinted into the sun, trying to see who was approaching.

  “That looked like a bad one,” a young man said, his voice low and playful. “Are you alright?”

  Clara tried to move her foot, cringing. “I think it’s sprained.”

  He crouched down, his fingers pressing against the tender skin around her ankle. “You training for a marathon?”

  Clara shook her head. “No…?”

  “I’ve seen you out here almost every day since the semester started. I thought maybe you were training for something.”

  “Oh. No, I just like to run.” Of course she wouldn’t tell him exactly why she liked to run, that being fit was one of the many things she had to do if she wanted to maintain her allure. “And you”—she craned her neck to see the soccer team running drills in the center of the field behind her —“play soccer?”

  “Yep. I suck, but I love it anyway.”

  He’d admitted to a weakness, something most men wouldn’t do. Clara couldn’t hold in her smile. “It’s the effort that counts, right?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  Clara couldn’t help but admire his shadowed hazel eyes as he looked at her. She was suddenly self-conscious about being so close to him, sweating and smelling like a footlocker.

  When she realized his stare was lingering on her, Clara thought she felt the ground shift a little, and her cheeks flushed.

  Soccer Boy moved her foot around gently and cleared his throat. “You think you can stand up?” He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

  She nodded, “Yeah, I think so.”

  Bracing her hands on either side of her, Clara balanced on her good foot and tried to rise. She wavered, and big, strong hands clasped her upper arms to steady her. “Thank you,” she said, unsure how long she needed to play the injured damsel before he would ask her out.

  “No problem,” he said, letting go of her arms. “You going to be okay?”

  “I think so—”

  “Alright, well, I better get back to practice.” And with that, he trotted away.

  She watched him, dumbfounded. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen; he wasn’t supposed to just walk away from her. She glanced down at her chest; her cleavage wasn’t necessarily voluptuous, but no guy had ever complained about that before. She was wearing her compression pants, which made her thighs and butt look great. Other than the sheen of sweat coating her skin, there was nothing wrong with her.

  “Try to watch where you’re stepping,” Soccer Boy called after her as she limped away.

  Thwarted, Clara waved a hand at him without looking back and headed toward the locker room, ignoring the pain of her ankle as best she could. She didn’t understand why their interaction hadn’t played out the way it should have. There were simple steps to attaining a man’s attentions—she had the body, she’d made sure she had the look, and she’d even been the damsel in distress, but not so pathetic that she was crying about it. It had been the perfect scenario, and yet…nothing.

  After convincing herself that she wasn’t really interested in him anyway and that she really hadn’t tried very hard to lure him in, Clara used her night at home to study instead of sulking, almost completely forgetting about Soccer Boy. She needed to focus on her grades, anyway, especially if she was going to keep her scholarship.

  The next day, Clara was on her way to the library to continue studying for her Chemistry exam when she noticed him—the tall, shaggy-haired soccer player—out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning against one of the stone pillars in front of the library, talking on his cell phone.

  As Clara approached the library’s glass doors, he ended his call and glanced up.

  “Hey,” he said, walking up beside her.

  Clara met his soft, hazel eyes fanned with dark lashes; she hadn’t been able to get those eyes out of her mind. “Hey,” she said.

  “You have a study group or something?” He stepped in front of her and pointed to the library with his chin. Clara could smell his aftershave and see his barely-there shadow of facial hair.

  Shaking her head, she pointed to her messenger bag. “Just need to study before my chemistry test this afternoon.”

  His eyes brightened with interest. “Chemistry? So, you’re one of the smart ones, then. Do you tutor?”

  Clara felt disappointment pull at her features, and her eyes narrowed. She pushed past him. As much as she wanted to shout, “find a different nerd, asshole!” she kept her mouth shut.

  He matched her pace, his exposed, athletic arm brushing against hers as he tried to keep up. “Did I…did I say something wrong?”

  His skin was warm and soft, but Clara did her best to ignore it. She walked faster. “Of course not,” she said as she pulled the heavy glass door open before he could reach for it.

  He entered the library right behind her and stopped just as she had, peering around the cavernous study hall, crowded with people. Huge windows filled the room with warmth and light.

  “I’ve gotta study, so if you don’t mind…” She scanned the long tables, willing a free seat to come into view.

  Soccer Boy pointed to the table furthest to the right. “There are two empty seats right over there, at the end.”

  Turning around, Clara said, “Look, I’m not smart, okay? I’m just trying to keep my scholarship. I can’t help you with your homework or anything like that, so please, just leave me alone.”

  Before he could respond, Clara headed for the empty seat, and after a few steps, she realized that Soccer Boy had stopped following her. As much as she was relieved her plea had worked, she felt a twinge of anger, too. Of course the bastard only wanted her to help him with his homework. Stupid asshole.

  She settled into the hard plastic chair at the crowded table but was no longer in a studying mood. She wanted to call it a day, get gussied up, and go out for a drink…or three. This was the second time Soccer Boy had gotten her hopes up only to let her down. She didn’t want to sit inside with a bunch of nerds, pouring over their textbooks with the incessant sound of highlighters gliding over paper, the scratching of diligent note taking, and the irritating throat clearing and sighing.

  Drawing in a deep breath for a sigh of her own, Clara pulled out her chemistry book and opened it. She dug the flashcards out from the zipper pocket of her bag. She needed to memorize the elements, including their symbols, their atomic numbers, and their common uses. She started with the first one on her list, Argon, then moved on to Arsenic. Just as she set her “As” notecard aside to start the next element, Soccer Boy pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.

  “Mind if I sit with you?” His voice was an enthralling whisper, and she hated herself for the glee it inspired.

  Keeping a straight face, she said, “I already told you, Soccer Boy, I can’t help you with your damn homework. I have too much to do, and I’m not t
hat smart, I promise.” In his silence, she shifted her gaze to him.

  He was smiling at her. “You’re feisty.”

  She glared in return, tapping the invisible watch on her wrist.

  “Do I look stupid to you?” he asked, whispering closer to her ear this time.

  Clara frowned. “Excuse me?” She tried to ignore his warm breath against her ear.

  He licked his bottom lip, his smile unwavering. “I’m a law student. Your”—he peered down at her flashcards— “Arsenic notes won’t help me with my Regulation and Public Policy exam.”

  Clara couldn’t help the heat that spread over her entire body. “Oh.”

  “I’m Andrew Jensen,” he said, offering her his hand.

  “Clara Reynolds,” she said, accepting it.

  Andrew took a bite of a green apple and looked down at her flashcards. “You should be careful…chemistry can be dangerous.” He took another bite. “I blew up one too many things in high school. Once I even almost blew my face off and lit my parents’ house on fire. I stay away from that stuff now.”

  Clara tried not to laugh. “You should really chew with your mouth closed.”

  He only smiled and took another bite, but he did keep his mouth closed.

  “What did you do?” Clara asked, moving her books over a bit so he could actually fit in the space beside her.

  “What? Oh, when I nearly died?” He shrugged. “You know, made household bombs out of Drain-O and aluminum foil…made napalm and lit it on fire. Little did I know it was sticky as shit and hard to put out.”

  With a tiny giggle, Clara felt herself getting sucked into his every word. “Sounds like you were a troublemaker.” Definitely a troublemaker, she thought, but he also seemed like a good boy; he had to be if he was a law student, after all. He had to be a hard worker, sort of like her. Clara liked that.

  Andrew shrugged. “So, are you going to freak out again, or can I keep sitting here? Seats are limited, you know…”

  Glancing around, Clara shrugged, feigning indifference. “Sure.”

  Andrew wiped his brow with mock relief. “Good. You had me worried there for a minute.”

  “Mail!” Roberta called from behind the nurses’ station, where she was sitting. The patients lounging around the rec room—playing board games, reading books, and staring at the walls vacantly—scrambled to their feet, scurrying to Roberta like cockroaches to a scrap of food.

  Clara didn’t move away from the window, only rolled her eyes. They’re pathetic, she thought, but a pang of sadness quickly followed. Pulling a chair in front of the window, she sat down, her legs crossed and pulled up against her chest as she thought about Andrew. She wondered why she didn’t think of him more. She liked that she didn’t think about what had happened to them at the end very often, but still, she was surprised.

  As the rest of the ward filled with chitchat, Clara couldn’t help but feel put-off. Granted, she and her mom had never been close, so there was no reason to ever expect her to write. And Clara hadn’t really talked to her at all since moving away, so it wasn’t the absence of her mom in her life that was a little heartbreaking. The fact that she never had a mom who cared much about her at all was the kicker. Clara picked at a string hanging from the hem of her gray, oversized sweatshirt, grappling with the encroaching, unwanted emotions.

  A sickening rage rushed through her veins. Her mom had been questioned in Clara’s trial, so Clara knew she was aware of her situation, of the arrest and the judge’s sentence of a long-term stay in a psychiatric ward. Her mom had said, herself, it was best that Clara be locked away.

  Well, her mom had always been a selfish bitch. Clara knew she shouldn’t be surprised that the woman was completely devoid of any mothering instincts.

  “Shut up already,” Clara said over her shoulder to the ladies behind her, clamoring and crying for their letters.

  “Miss Clara,” Roberta called. “You’ve got a letter.”

  Clara’s eyes widened in surprise but only for an instant. She hadn’t received a single letter since she’d arrived at Pine Springs. Resentment and anticipation mixed together in the pit of her stomach. Who would write to her? Andrew? The thought was too much to hope for.

  Standing, Clara took unhurried steps toward the nurses’ station, her slippers clacking languidly against the polished floor. Her insides were jittery.

  Roberta cleared her throat. “You should be excited, darlin’.”

  Was Roberta mocking her? Clara wasn’t sure, and her mood darkened again.

  Snatching the letter from between Roberta’s ebony fingers, Clara headed back to her chair by the window, ignoring the other women’s giggles and tears as they read their letters aloud to one another.

  More than curious, Clara flipped the envelope over in her palm, and her fingers tightened, crinkling it in her grasp. It was from the girl’s mother, she could tell by the perfect, cursive penmanship.

  Unsure whether or not she cared what was written on the pages inside, something made it difficult for Clara to simply toss the letter aside. Blowing out a breath, she tore the envelope open, letting it fall to the ground as she unfolded the white printer paper. A short note was centered on the sheet.

  I hope you’re happy with yourself. After nearly a year on life support, my Josie is finally at peace. Do you have any remorse about what you’ve done? Do you care that you’ve taken a young life from this world? I hope you know I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you never get out of there, ever, for my baby and for that nice boy, Andrew.

  She’s gone?

  Peering out the reinforced window and down at the barren oak trees that lined the grounds, Clara wondered if it was remorse or relief that pulsed inside her. Although the day was bright and the sun was shining, she could only see red against a background of darkness. She could only hear her heart pounding in her ears and feel the sweat collecting on her brow and palms. The bubble of hysteria swelling in her chest made it nearly impossible to breathe.

  After weeks of being inseparable, of Clara and Andrew going out and about and being seen together by everyone, Clara was convinced she’d finally found her Prince Charming. He was perfect in every way—handsome and smart, successful and funny. Everything was perfect, or at least it should’ve been.

  On the way to Andrew’s house, Clara spotted someone who looked a little too similar to Joanna walking in his neighborhood. Way too similar. Clara was unnerved by the thought of Joanna being anywhere near Andrew…anywhere near Clara herself, and the more she thought about Joanna even being in Boulder, the darker her mood became.

  Amidst Andrew’s channel surfing, he finally muted the TV and turned his attention to Clara. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head and offered him a weak smile.

  “Tell me,” he said, turning to face her fully. “What’s bothering you?”

  Clara peered at him, searching his face for answers to the questions she was too scared to ask. “You’re not seeing anyone else, are you?”

  Andrew frowned. “What? No, why would you ask that?”

  Clara shrugged. “I just…we never said we were official, so—”

  He took her chin between his fingers and angled her face toward his. “There’s no one else. I spend all my time with you…how would I even find the time?”

  Clara wasn’t stupid. She knew guys could always find time for a fling on the side, but there was truth in Andrew’s eyes. Why was she being so pathetic? She needed to show him why he should be with only her.

  She leaned in and pressed her lips against his, needing him more than she ever had before, wanting to feel euphoria and bliss instead of doubt. His mouth was intoxicating, making her forget about Joanna and flooding her body with reassurance and heat instead of cold uncertainty.

  With a grunt, Andrew came up for air, his passion-filled eyes searching hers. “Take off your shirt,” he rasped, pulling her bottom lip gently between his teeth. A thrill of excitement ran through her already electrified body.
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  Without hesitation, she broke their kiss only to remove her clothes and then climbed on top of him, wanting to explore every single inch of his body and feel his hands all over her skin. She wanted to consume him…for him to devour her. And as if her fairy godmother was watching over her, she was granted her wish.

  Andrew took her readily, need making his grip tighter and his kisses rougher. Clara absorbed every sensation, committing to memory the pressure of his body against hers, the feel of his hot breath on her skin.

  And afterward, they lay together, Clara holding him in her arms all night as he slept. There had never been anything in her life so real, so perfect. She felt completed by him in every way. All of her hard work, her determination to be something more than she’d been, had come to fruition. She’d worked so hard and had finally found her Prince Charming, and she knew that nothing short of death would come between them.

  But the next night, things seemed to change. Just as Clara finished blow-drying her hair for a date night with Andrew, her cell phone rang. She ran for her purse and fumbled around in the bottomless pit. Finally finding her phone, Clara pressed ACCEPT, and brought it up to her ear. Her smile broadened when she heard Andrew’s velvety voice.

  “Hey, beautiful.” Although upbeat like normal, he sounded somehow different.

  “Hey, I was just about to head over.” Clara heard the sound of a door slamming on the other end of the line. “Are you just getting home from work?”

  “No.” She could hear his car keys jingling. “I’m actually calling to see if you’ll take a rain check for tonight.”

  Clara’s breathing grew labored. “Why, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just found out a friend of mine is in town. A group of us were going to go out for a few beers,” he said, oblivious to her mood change. “That’s all.”