An Unfinished Story(56)
“Hey, Claire,” Whitaker finally said. “It’s okay.”
Slinging the purse on her arm, she looked back at him. He got up from the sofa.
“I can’t do that again.” She touched her heart. “He’s still here. I don’t know how to explain it. But he’s still here, and it doesn’t feel right.”
“I get it,” Whitaker said, approaching her.
Claire inched away, reaching for the doorknob behind her, afraid to feel more of what she’d just felt.
Whitaker stopped his approach. “Go home. We can talk later.”
She looked into his kind eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”
With that, she turned and left his house.
As she climbed into her convertible, she heard him calling for her. He walked to the car and leaned down to her level, resting his hand on the door. “It’s okay to be confused, you know. I definitely am.”
Claire nodded and averted her eyes momentarily.
“Seriously,” he continued. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay to have feelings for someone else. You’re too incredible of a being to live the rest of your life alone. It doesn’t have to be me.”
She drew in a long breath, wondering what to say. No one could ever replace David, and she’d rather be alone than spend the rest of her life pretending to love someone else as much.
Catching her off guard, Whitaker reached over and took the fingertips of her left hand. “You don’t have to respond. I’m just saying . . . be easy on yourself.”
Claire pressed her eyes closed. She wanted to tell Whitaker that she did have feelings for him, but she couldn’t allow herself to act on them.
Finally turning to him, she said, “Thanks for understanding. I’m so sorry.”
Whitaker let go of her hand. “Let’s talk soon, okay?” She nodded, and he stood and began to back away. “And, hey, Claire.”
“Yeah?”
He held up his hand and offered the Vulcan salute. “May the fourth be with you.”
She shook her head with an ever-so-slight grin. “You’re confusing your sci-fi.” But she knew he knew that. A smile eventually forced its way out, but she was sad and guilty and lost inside.
He patted the door and turned away.
Chapter 22
LONG-STEMMED QUESTION MARKS
The day after the kiss—the first time Whitaker and Claire hadn’t seen each other since they started the project—Whitaker found himself struggling to sit down and write. Looming like the sentence awaiting a prisoner, the end of the plot was coming, and he was terrified. Tackling the blank space ahead would take everything he had. Some days he felt like he would be ready; today he did not.
After pondering for a long time what he might say, he had finally broken down and texted her. If I could, I’d send you a bouquet of long-stemmed question marks. I just want to know what you’re thinking, and that you’re okay.
She hadn’t responded. He could only imagine what she was going through and knew it had nothing to do with him. How could he blame her for still loving her husband?
But what rode Whitaker like an Indy driver running a track on spent wheels was the idea that she might never kiss him again. He liked her. A lot. Spending this time together over the past two months had been a joy. The sad widow he’d first met had many layers worth exploring. Not to mention, she’d broken him out of his chains. He’d held off sharing his feelings for long enough, and it truly felt like he was kissing his muse.
When he finally sat down to write, he toyed with the opening paragraph for a while. It still wasn’t there yet. Distracted, he looked at his phone again and wondered what was going on with Claire. Part of him feared she might burst through the door any minute and take the composition books back. What if she felt like Whitaker had disrespected her with the kiss? What if she felt like he’d taken advantage of her? A bouquet of long-stemmed question marks, indeed.
Two hours later, she finally called.
“Hey,” Whitaker said. He bit his finger, wondering what she was thinking, what she might say.
“I’m sorry for running out like that.”
“Don’t be.” He felt like she’d just stuck a needle into his balloon.
Almost like she was reading his mind, she said, “I’m just not over him, Whitaker. I still feel his warmth next to me in the bed. I still see his smile. I’m not ready to move on. I don’t know that I ever will be. It’s not fair that I led you on.”
With a combination of heartfelt sorrow for Claire and a self-pity that could be heard in his voice, Whitaker replied, “I get it, Claire.” Trying to toughen up, he stressed, “Trust me. I get it.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
Whitaker looked at the blank page. “Why don’t we take today off, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.” He looked at the words on his screen. “Let’s not let this get in the way of what we’re trying to do. Don’t beat yourself up. We’re all lost sometimes.”
“You’re a good man, Whitaker Grant. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Thanks, Claire.”
He could have talked to her all day. But where would that have gotten him? Another round of heartache, a graveyard of roses?