Page 46 of Saved By Noel
Her words are a bucket of ice water splashed over me. Which is exactly what I needed to cut through the haze our beachside chat put me under. I take a step backward.
“We’ve been over this, Clara,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t want a Christmas festival. I don’t want your help.”
A spark of hurt flickers in her eyes but is quickly replaced by defiance. “Well, maybe you don’t, but what about the rest of the town? How do you know that they don’t want an opportunity to keep their businesses open during the holiday season? To have a couple more months of income to make it possible for them to stay? How do you know they don’t want the boost of life tourists bring to town? Maybe other people do want my help.”
I cross my arms. “Stop trying to help all the time. Aren’t you supposed to be here to write your movie script? Maybe Madison was right. Maybe you always get so caught up in helping other people that you don’t spend any time on your own dreams. Why don’t you focus on whatyouwant and stop trying to help people who don’t need it?”
In the porch light, I see her eyes well up as she flinches away from me.
“That’s not fair,” she says, voice wobbly. She points at my left arm. “You have a permanent reminder of everything you’re good at. Maybe helping is whatI’mgood at, Clark.”
“Maybe it is. But I don’t need help,” I firmly reply. I say the words that I desperately need to convince both of us to believe. “So, maybe you need to look elsewhere for . . . whatever it is you’re hoping for, Clara. You’re not going to find it with me.”
I take another step back. “Goodnight,” I gruffly call and stalk back to my truck. As I open the door, I realize I’m holding my breath that Clara will still be there standing on the porch when I turn around, watching me.
But she’s gone. I start the ignition and break every speed limit driving home.
Chapter twenty-eight
Clara
Iclose the door and lean against it, chest heaving. I’m unsure if hurt or anger is the source of my tears. Probably both.But am I angry at Clark, or myself?
Probably both.
I send a text to check in with Syd as I run bath water with an extra-large pour of pumpkin spice bubble bath. She quickly responds.
SYD
Junior is fine, thank God. He asked the doctor random questions the whole time they were stitching up his forehead. Ten stitches take long enough to find out a doctor’s favorite dinosaur, cartoon, song, Bluey episode, color, food, and motor vehicle, as it turns out.
ME
Oh my gosh, that is the most hilariously adorable thing I’ve ever heard!
SYD
Yep. Doctor said he’d never seen anything like it. Leave it to Davis’ son.
ME
Glad he’s ok. Get some rest!
SYD
Thanks girl!
Minutes later, I’m soaking in the bath and questioning my existence.
Am I avoiding going after what I want by helping other people all the time? Do people not really want my help? How do I stop caring, stop helping? I enjoy helping. But maybe I should help less? Would people not want me around as much if I’m not helpful? Are there any good synonyms for the word “help” so I can stop thinking about that word this much?
I groan and massage my temples.
But also, why does Clark have to be SO GRUMPY every time I bring up the idea of a Christmas festival? Why can’t he take a step back and at least consider it? What does he have against Christmas? Or does he have something againstme?
I think back on everything Clark shared by the fire. It’s the most I’ve heard him talk, ever. Certainly the most I’ve ever heard him talk about himself. I was slightly shocked that he shared such personal feelings. I was so afraid of interrupting the magic of him being open with me that I stayed still as a statue. At least, until I couldn’t resist the almost palpable pull to trace my fingers along the lines of his tattoo.
After hearing him share tonight, I can understand why he’s so closed off, at least to a certain degree. He’s been hurt. Ican’t imagine growing up without experiencing the love and approval of your parents. And then to lose your whole family so suddenly . . . who wouldn’t be messed up by that?
