Chapter three

{claire’s POV}

"Peter." His name left me before I could stop it, soft and trembling, full of three years of silence. It was really him. After all this time, after the unanswered messages, after the ocean between us, he was right there, close enough to touch. My eyes dropped to the wheelchair, to the blanket over his legs, and for half a second my heart cracked.

Then it didn't matter. It honestly didn't matter. Wheelchair or not, standing or sitting, he was still the boy who held my hand under the bleachers, still the face I'd loved since I was fifteen. My whole body moved before my brain did.

"Oh my God, Peter, it's you, it's really you." I rushed around the desk, arms already open, ready to throw myself at him, to feel him again, to laugh and cry and ask where he'd been all this time. He lifted his hand, not to hug me but to stop me.

"Miss Miller." His voice was flat and cold, a stranger's voice. He held out that raised hand, stiff and formal, waiting. "Welcome to Northgate Logistics."

I froze mid-step, my arms were still half open foolish and empty between us. Slowly I lowered them and took his hand. A handshake one cold, professional handshake the kind you gave a stranger in an elevator.

"You come highly recommended by someone I respect," he went on, letting go of my hand the moment it was polite to. "I expect you to do your job diligently. That is all I ask of anyone here."

"Peter, I…" My throat was tight. "It's me. It's Claire."

"That will be all, Miss Miller." He turned his chair toward the window, giving me his back, as if I were nothing. As if the last ten years had never happened. "You have work to do."

I stood there one more second. Just one. Waiting for him to turn around, to smile, to tell me it was a joke. He didn't move. So I walked out.

I couldn’t remember the hallway, the elevator, or the excitement of sitting down in my own office with my name shining on the door,  the office I'd cried happy tears over that very morning. I just remember staring at the wall, his words playing over and over in my head. “Miss Miller, that will be all.” Like I was no one. Like I had never meant anything to him at all.

The rest of the day crawled by. I signed what they put in front of me. I smiled at Mary. I nodded in a meeting I didn't hear a word of. And the whole time there was a stone sitting in my chest, heavy and cold, growing bigger every hour.

By the time I clocked out, I felt a hundred years old. I pushed open the door of our apartment and the warmth hit me, the smell of pasta, music playing low, my two best friends laughing in the kitchen. Angelina spotted me first.

"There she is! The big logistics consultant!" She froze when she saw my face. "Claire? What's wrong?"Christine turned too, wooden spoon in hand. "You look like someone died." I dropped my bag by the door. I didn't even take off my coat. I just sat down heavily at the table and let it all out.

"I saw him," I said. "I saw Peter." The kitchen went quiet. The music suddenly felt too loud.

"Peter?" Angelina pulled out the chair next to me. "Your Peter? He's here?"

"He's the CEO." A broken little laugh escaped me. "He's my boss, Angie. I walked into that office so happy, I almost hugged him; I was so happy I could have cried." My eyes started to burn. "And he gave me a handshake. A handshake; he called me “Miss Miller.” He turned his back on me and told me I had work to do, like I was a stranger. Like we were nothing."

"Oh, Claire." Angelina reached for my hand.

"For three years I sent him messages, Angie. And he looks at me like I'm furniture." The tears finally spilled over. "He's in a wheelchair now. I didn't even care about that.”

Angelina squeezed my fingers hard. "Listen to me. Listen. You just showed up on his first day as your boss. Maybe he's trying to keep things professional. Think about it. You two have a whole history, and now you work for him. He can't exactly hug the new consultant in front of the whole company, can he? Give it time." She stood and kissed the top of my head. "He'll come around. And besides, our reunion gala is tomorrow. You get a chance to see him out of the office. Get some rest, okay?"

She went back to cooking. For a moment her words warmed me, like a small candle in a cold house. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was just the office. Tomorrow is our high school reunion gala; I could only pray I get the chance to talk to Peter.

Then Christine sat down across from me, and her face wasn't hopeful at all. It was gentle, but careful, the way you look at someone before you tell them something that's going to hurt.

"Claire. Can I be honest with you?"

I wiped my eyes. "You always are."

"It's been years. People change. You changed, he changed." She chose her words slowly. "The Peter from high school, the sweet boy who wrote you notes, that was a long time ago. He went abroad. He stopped answering. He built a whole life without you in it." She paused. "Maybe the reason he shook your hand instead of hugging you is simple. Maybe he's just over it. Over a high school love story." 

Her voice softened even more. "Over you. And I'd rather you heard that from me than keep breaking your own heart waiting for a boy who already moved on." She reached across and touched my cheek, then stood too. "I only say it because I love you. I will be in the kitchen, Claire."

And then she was gone, and the apartment was quiet, and it was just me. I sat on the sofa for a long time, the pasta going cold on the stove, the music long since stopped. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them and stared at the dark window, at my own tired reflection staring back.

He's just over it. Over you. Was Christine right? Had he really stopped loving me? Was that cold man in the wheelchair all that was left of my Peter, the real one gone forever?