The Ending Beginnings: Clara (An Ending Series Novella) (The Ending Series) (5 page)

“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 that 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.