This Crazy Rich Boy - Chapter 156

Claire’s world seems to have stopped moving for a long time. She stayed there, on the floor, like how she used to do as a child when she’d gotten home from enduring a day of getting bullied at school. She wasn’t pretty, and yet her strong personality made her the target of resentment of her peers. Now this is a different class of bullying. This is more poisonous.

Ever since the door closed and Mrs. Matilde Tan left, Claire’s mind is working and calculating, her emotions adding to the maelstrom. The words Matilde told her have made her understand one clear fact: her love is doomed. She loves Gabriel so much, and she’d die for him. And yet, Matilde’s words, no matter how injurious, resonated with some amount of truth: Gabriel and she are so different, and those differences may not be obvious now that their relationship is limited to a few dates and a few hours of spending time together, but what if they’re living together, starting a family? Those differences would get magnified, like what happened in the marriages of people she knows.

She wants to hope; she wants so much to believe in their future together. But as Claire looks around her, ensconced so conveniently in this lavishly appointed penthouse suite, she feels more and more like an impostor. She deserves none of these, she thinks. She’s still “Jenny from the block,” or rather, “Claire from the countryside.” She’s not the urban sophisticate that Gabriel, with the help of Miss Cassandra, is trying to make her out to be. She’s just a simple girl, armed with a simple love. And yet, the object of that love is far from simple; Gabriel is probably the most complex person she has ever met, his business responsibilities notwithstanding.

Claire stands up wearily, as though the weight of the world is on her shoulders. Right now, Gabriel is upon the city, probably looking for his mother, trying to arrange that dinner date with Matilde and her. On the surface, Claire feels like she’s being dragged to whatever event Gabriel wants to have. But if she’s being truthful, she doesn’t want this dinner date; it’s another face-to-face encounter with Matilde. In the short time she has known Gabriel’s mother, she realizes she’s the type of person people emigrate to another country to avoid. She hasn’t heard all the details of why Gabriel’s dad left them, but maybe that’s why; maybe it was because of her mother. Or is she being unfair?

The dresses she’d been choosing earlier are now sprawled on the floor, unwanted, which is a shame because these are designer clothes, each worth a year of a regular employee’s salary. Out of personal shame, Claire picks up each one and returns them quietly in the wardrobe. She doesn’t feel like doing anything now. It’s as if she’s numb, she feels nothing inside, she looks forward to nothing. She’s standing in the walk-in wardrobe when she notices her old suitcase in a darkened corner, its edge jutting out like it’s always reminding her of its existence. Claire stares at it for a long time: that single battle-worn suitcase contains everything she actually owns, clothes and paraphernalia she had bought with her own money a long time ago. Now it sits there unused ever since she’d set foot in this building. That suitcase represents her, her life, everything that is about her—it’s a memento of her real self. She’s not Bella Xavier or Gabriel’s fiancée—she’s just Claire, who had come to this city because she grew up believing that if you studied well and finish college, you could strike it big in the city with a nice employment. Sure, she hit it big. But the dream could only last for so long.

Then it hits her: why stay?

Half of her brain answers: you love Gabriel, don’t you?

But the other half persists: you don’t really know what love is. What you actually know is that Matilde tried to bribe you with a boatload of money just to get rid of you. And if you’d really think about it, it was actually a “nice” gesture—others would just have her killed, just like in the movies. Matilde could have paid some cheap hitman a few thousand bucks to get rid of her, if she’s truly that evil. But there she was, writing that check for an ȯbsċėnė amount of money. What did it mean, really? If she talks to Gabriel about his mother, what would be the consequences? Would she be the one to cause a rift between them? Does she have the liver to make Gabriel choose: your mother or me? Has she become that kind of person?

Claire has been so deep in this train of thought that she didn’t notice that tears were streaming down her cheeks again, that she’s on her knees on the floor, running her hand gently on the contours of her old suitcase, like ċȧrėssing an old friend. How convenient—she could just pick this up, slip into her old sneakers, and go. Just like that.

Claire stands up and lugs her suitcase out of the wardrobe. She places it quietly in the middle of the living room. Her eye catches sight of the phone, and for a moment she thinks of calling up Gabriel. She could tell him everything, even her own self-doubt, thanks to Matilde’s words. Her heart aches and she feels like drowning. But the more she looks around her, the more she feels like Matilde was right, after all: she deserves none of these.

She opens her suitcase to see if everything’s still inside as she remembers them. It is. These are mementos from her days staying in that apartment she shared with Karen. These are the truth. This is what she is, no more, no less. She closes it up. She stands there, her mind trying to decide, her heart begging her not to. But she must weigh her options. She must weigh her hopes against her fears. But like Gabriel, maybe she must face the music. And yet, at the back of her mind, in that quiet place where her heart still holds sway, a tiny voice asks her timidly: what if you’re making the biggest mistake of your life?

She makes a deep breath. With the suitcase in tow, she steps out of the room, probably for the very last time. Maybe she’s doing an utterly foolish thing. Maybe it’s best to let Gabriel know. Speak with him. Plan how they’d manage his mother’s expectations. Plan the future.

Or maybe not. Maybe that’s the definition of what foolish is.

Her mind floats elsewhere. She doesn’t even notice that she has been standing by the Concierge, with Dale staring at her face.

“Are you going somewhere, Miss Claire?” Dale glances at the battered suitcase. “Are you going on a vacation?”

Claire blinks, as though waking up from a dream. She wipes her tears with the back of a hand and tries to smile. “Oh, no, I’m just…I’m leaving, Dale.”

“Oh,” Dale says. “Are you going to Sir Gabriel’s place now?”

She shakes her head sadly.

“Well, uhh…” Dale stares at her, trying to make sense of this spectacle. What in hell is happening? About an hour ago, Mrs. Matilde Tan presumably visited her. Does this have anything to do with Claire’s tears? And what about Miguel? Does Gabriel know this? “Does Gabriel know you’re leaving?” Dale actually says.

But something wet and sticky ŀȧps up Claire’s ankle, and she almost jumps in surprise. It’s Sam, her puppy, which had been under the care of The Residence’s staff since Miguel’s accident prevented Claire to personally care for the dog.

“Hey, Sam, don’t you—” Lucille appears, half-running and carrying a leash.

But Sam is busy kissing Claire’s face, ŀȧpping up her tears.

Claire is too emotional to speak. She just lets the puppy kiss her, as though with every kiss, Sam removes a tiny shred of pain from her heart.

Dale and Lucille exchange looks. Something terrible is up, and they’re not sure what.

“Are you really serious about leaving, Miss Claire?” Dale says after a long while.

“Miss Claire is leaving? Where?” Lucille exclaims.

Claire only nods and takes the puppy in her arms, carrying her like a baby. Quietly, Lucille puts the leash on Sam. They all stand there awkwardly watching Claire cuddle the puppy with tears in her eyes.

After what seems like a long time, Claire says, “Lucille, do you have a pet carrier for Sam? Something I can put her in?”

Lucille hesitates; she looks at Dale, who nods. “Yes, Miss Claire. We have it in the office. I can go and get it for you.”

“Please do. Thank you, Lucille.”

“You know you can talk to me, Miss Claire, whatever it is,” Dale says as they wait for Lucille to come back.

Claire merely sighs. Yes, she can talk to him. Yes, she can pour her out and Dale would be the perfect listener, as always. But that solves nothing. What lies before her still is a solid sense of impossibility. Her relationship with Gabriel was good while it lasted—then she realizes she’s already thinking of Gabriel in the past tense. That sends a pang of pain in her heart.

Lucille arrives and she quietly lets Sam into the pet carrier. Thankfully, it was small enough, just about the size of the puppy, so that Claire can carry it with her suitcase in tow.

“I’ll call Dean for you, Miss Claire,” Lucille offers.

“No, thank you, Lucille. I can manage.” Claire smiles. She pauses. Then she gives Lucille a warm, tight hug. And Dale, too, who at this point is already sobbing like a child aa the gravity of the situation finally dawns on him.

“You’re really leaving us,” Dale mutters. “Is this really happening?”

“Take care of yourselves, Dale, Lucille.” Claire takes a deep breath. “If Gabriel shows up, tell him I just went out for a walk. I need some lead time. You will soon understand. Gabriel will soon understand. But for now, I think I need time for myself. So many things have happened in the past few weeks that I feel I cannot go on like this. My heart is too weary, too tired.”

Dale nods. He says nothing. He and Lucille merely watch Claire walk out of the lobby’s doors and into the afternoon sun. They watch as Claire flags down a cab—Dean is nowhere in sight and is unable to offer her a ride—and gets inside, with Sam in the pet carrier beside her in the backseat. They see Claire look back at them and wave a hand weakly. Then the cab rolls out into the main avenue, and that’s it: Claire Monteverde is gone, out of their lives. Out of Gabriel’s life?

As soon as the cab is out of sight, Dale is quickly upon the telephone. He dials Gabriel’s number, his hands trembling. Lucille looks on, understanding what is happening.

“Sir Gabriel, please answer,” Dale mutters to himself as he listens to the phone ring on the other end of the line. “Please answer now, Jesus Mary and Joseph.”

But it only rings and rings, Gabriel not picking up—he’s probably out and about town, trying to arrange some surprise for tonight’s dinner date.