Chapter 7
7
I knock. Wait. Knock again.
No answer.
I press my ear against the tall wood door.
“Chloe?” Nothing.
I grab my phone from my back pocket to give her a call. A dark screen flashes with an empty battery graphic. “Fuck.” Searching through my bag, I realize I forgot to bring a charger. Just perfect.
Tired and feeling like an idiot, I lean against the door and rest the heavy packages on the handle. The handle suddenly gives. The door swings open. I fall forward, landing hard on my hip. Sharp pain jars my body. Hissing, I clench my fists and crawl onto my feet. After a few curses, I manage to regain my composure and stare at the gaping entrance.
It’s weird that she’d leave the door unlocked. Or maybe it isn’t. Her building has security. People here are fancy and rich. She wouldn’t be worried about someone breaking into her home—like I technically had.
I pick up the packages and stack them by the entryway table.
“Chloe?” My voice echoes through her apartment.
I recognize the white walls, the couch, the twinkling city skyline from her videos. Nonetheless, it’s weird seeing her apartment in real life. It feels like stumbling onto a television set. I’m waiting for a camera to whip in front of my face, for someone to tell me everything is fake. Gotcha!
Her apartment is smaller than it looks on camera. Wooden floors, tall windows, and modern, soulless art. Pink carnations are stuffed into a vase shaped like a bust of some Roman hero. In a porcelain catch-all dish, her keys sit beside a ring embedded with two blue gemstones. I pick it up. It’s weighty—must be real gold. I’m about to put it back when something stops me. Maybe it’s the way the ring is cool against my clammy palms or the knowledge that this tiny object, which likely equals the value of my entire week’s pay, was insignificant enough for Chloe to toss next to her dirty keys, but I can’t quite leave it where I found it.
Clutching the ring tight in my fist, I shove my hand into my hoodie pocket, glancing down the hall of Chloe’s apartment. Jealousy tugs at my chest, preventing me from stepping forward. I can’t help but wonder: What if I was born first? What if I was adopted by the Van Huusens? What if I was famous online? What if I had all of this? This nice apartment with expensive rings lying innocently in a catch-all?
“I’m coming in.” I make my way into her apartment and drop my backpack on the kitchen counter. “It’s Julie, by the way, if you’re here. I was worried after you called me.” I turn on the lights as I pass by the switches. A fly whizzes by my ear.
There’s something rancid in the air. A whiff of a Jo Malone candle from my right, but then something rotten. A bit like fruit. It’s coming from the kitchen. She probably forgot to take out the trash.
My search makes me feel like a kid playing hide-and-seek. I look inside her bedroom. The bathroom. Her closet, which, oh my god, is a walk-in. It has a whole line of designer bags and shoes. A clear glass center table for accessories. Cartier bangles, Rolexes, sparkly rings and necklaces. There’s even a sleek, fridge-like contraption that turns out to be a giant clothes steamer.
When I don’t find Chloe, I circle back to the kitchen and living room. An open bottle of Elavil medication, 25mg, sits on her marble counter. It’s half full. The packaging doesn’t tell me what it’s for; only printed with instructions— take one tablet before bedtime— and a warning to keep them out of reach of children. I figure it’s some medication for anxiety, since every influencer seems to whine about being anxious these days. I screw on the top so the pills won’t get dusty.
I continue my self-guided tour. At this point, I’m not even looking for her, I’m checking out her apartment like a prospective homebuyer. Evaluating the water pressure. Testing out the induction stovetop. Opening her fridge: a luxurious Miele double-door with a water fountain and ice dispenser. The contents are a bit surprising. Chinese take-out containers, a row of passionfruit La Croix, and half-empty bottles of alcohol. There isn’t a single piece of fresh fruit or salad. Not very clean-girl aesthetic of her.
Maybe I’m being a hater. She lives in New York and can run downstairs to a bodega if she needs anything. It’s probably sustainable, or whatever, not to stock fresh produce in her fridge in case of spoilage.
After stealing a sip of chardonnay, the liquid burning my throat, I close the fridge and walk to examine the pantry shelf. The tips of my toes catch on something. My heart lurches as I flail toward the ground. At the last second, I catch myself on the window. Busy streets, cars the size of Lego pieces, wobble in my eyes. I upright myself with a relieved sigh.
I turn around to see what I tripped on.
And then I see her.
Chloe.