“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Stepping out and closing the door behind him, Blake finally noticed me.
“Oh, Claire.”
“Hey,” I said weakly. I lowered my head so he wouldn’t see just how dismayed I looked.
But Blake was already setting off down the mountain with Anya; he hardly noticed me.
“I’ll… This’ll just take a minute,” he said, half to himself, as he went. I wondered if he believed it as little as I did.
As they disappeared in the distance, Anya didn’t look at me once. I didn’t blame her. We both knew as soon as Blake opened that door that this was a done deal. Anya was the love of his life; I was just some girl he’d had to save from her crazy husband.
I plopped down on the front step. So this was how it ended. My body felt like it was Angelo’s, like I’d been kicked over and over and over again. Goose bumps stood out from my arms. I was cold sitting here outside the door with no coat, but I was too stunned to move. I could only marvel at my bad luck.
Blake’s ex-girlfriend, who had dumped him no less, had come all the way up here now of all times. What were the odds?
Tears started dribbling down, sweeping over my chin and onto the dirt at my feet. The odds didn’t matter. What would happen now was obvious enough to see. I’d be lucky if I got an invitation to their wedding.
The sky was now a gray sunset, the grayest sunset I’d ever seen in my life. Clearly my choice had been made for me. It was back to my old empty life, where there was nothing left for me.
As I sat, I glanced up every once in a while, still hoping against all hope that Blake would come back, that he wouldn’t go along with what Anya had so obviously come here for: getting back together. But every one of my glances found the same empty horizon.
As the sun started to set, I considered setting off with it, leaving here, leaving before Blake could come back with the news he was so clearly going to bring. But even the most minor shift in position reminded me that I could hardly move, let alone walk.
I sat there on the doorstep and cried, not moving and hardly thinking except for about how my mother’s now-mocking refrain sounded in my head: Be careful, be careful—careful—careful. Well, Mother, it was too late already. I’d chosen wrong again, and all I could do now was sit here, cry about it, and wait for him to return.
The longer I waited, the surer I grew that he wouldn’t return at all, that I would sit here regardless, waiting, that I would die waiting. After all that had happened, this—this was too much. I lifted my head to see that the sun was completely gone now, that it was pitch black outside. I put my head back on my knees.
“Claire?”
I looked up, stunned. It was Blake. Standing in front of me. Alone.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, crouching and scanning my teary face with concern.
I wiped my eyes. “I… What happened to Anya?”
Blake sat down beside me and put his hand on my leg.
“She went back to town. I showed her the way. She couldn’t remember.”
I glanced over, but his face looked as composed as his voice had been.
“Why did she come here?”
Blake shrugged.
“To see me. She realized she was wrong, that I wasn’t crazy for loving nature, that she was crazy for trying to keep up with the Joneses. She told me she didn’t like the person she’d become, that she’d made a mistake leaving me. She wanted to see what I was up to, figured we could be friends and see where things went from there.”
Again, Blake was wearing that same composed face, as if he were talking about anyone other than the woman he himself had dubbed “destruction incarnate.”
“And?” I asked.
“And she was right, but she was wrong too. She had dumped a different man. There would be no point in being friends, because I don’t love her anymore and don’t think I ever could again. I didn’t know until she said it, until I saw in her eyes what she was really saying and realized that, finally, I didn’t want it anymore. I don’t want to be with her anymore.”
There was a grim smile on his face.
I leaned my head on his chest, and he stroked my hair and said, “Don’t worry, Claire. Don’t you worry.”
I closed my eyes and stopped myself from voicing my thoughts: How can I not worry when you still haven’t told me what I should do—what you want me to do?
A moment later, he ran his hand over my arm.
“You’re cold.”
My response was to snuggle myself into him deeper.
“Wait here,” he said, extricating himself.