5. CHLOE
5
CHLOE
“Chloeeeeee. Chloe! Why is your alarm going off at six on a Saturday?” Seth groans from the other side of my bed.
I’m already up. Have been since four. Restless. Worried about my best friend.
“I’m meeting Emme for coffee.”
Well, actually, I am going to grab coffee on my way to her apartment. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop near her, but I would rather leave zero room for her not to show up. Dinner was a clusterfuck for everyone at the table. Emerson left shortly after we ordered and I caught her and Liam in a heated moment outside the bathroom.
After her departure, everyone played musical chairs, putting Cal and I across from each other.
“This early?”
“Yes,” I reply, rounding my bed from my closet to turn off my alarm.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Sleep? Walk Tucker? Watch TV? You are twenty-nine. You can find something to do in Chicago.”
“Are you serious? I am not walking your dog.”
“Okay, then. I don’t care. Hang out here. There is food in the fridge. You know how to use a remote.”
“I flew all the way here to spend time with you and you’re leaving me alone.”
“A. Couple. Hours.” I enunciate each word. “I have to go check on Emme. ”
“You have to? You don’t have to do anything,” he combats me.
Seth wouldn’t understand; apparently, he only cares about himself.
On the other hand, If I don’t go it’ll eat me alive.
“She’s my best friend! Something happened and I need to take care of it.”
“But what about me? I see where I’m at on your priority list.”
“Priority list? You’ve been on your phone the entire time you’ve been here. Last night, I wanted you to meet my friends, and all you did was play games or whatever on your phone.”
“Right, last night. Where all of you were in conversations that had nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not true. Everyone was trying to get to know you and include you. I’m sorry—actually no I’m not. I’m not sorry we talked about our lives in front of you. I want you to be involved in my life, which means being involved in my friends’ lives.”
Maybe Callum was right. Why am I with Seth? Why is he with me?
I forgot my leftovers, the slices he had boxed up with the remainder of my salad. When I went back inside, Cal stopped me, questioning why I am with Seth. Used a slew of names I had to google.
I’ve been thinking about it all night.
I still don’t have an answer. Shouldn’t that be my answer?
“Friends, yeah, like Carlisle.”
“Callum,” I correct way too quickly.
“Callum. Calvin. Carlisle. It doesn’t matter. You two seemed to get along.”
“I’ve met him once and probably spoken fifty words to him.”
“He was looking at you as if that’s a lie.”
That’s because he saw me naked.
“Are you jealous? I have to see you in photos and videos weekly around other women. ”
“No. No, you don’t get to question me here. I’m not doing anything, Chloe. Why are you behaving this way?”
My body stiffens at his tone.
I inhale slowly.
“You are behaving like a child,” he tacks on.
A child? If anyone is acting their shoe size, it’s him.
“This is ridiculous. You know that?”
Seth claps. “Look at you, finally right about something. You are being ridiculous.”
“Stop it, please,” I beg. “I want to be there for Emerson.”
“And I want to hang out with my girlfriend. I’ve missed you.”
“I want that too. And we can do both. I’ll be back by ten at the latest. We’ll have the rest of the day together.”
“Whatever.” He rolls over, pulling my floral comforter around him.
I exit my bedroom, rolling my shoulders and taking a deep inhale. Going back into the room to kiss him goodbye crosses my mind, but passes quicker.
Why are you still dating him?
No one is forcing you to stay with him, Henry.
“Come on, Tucker, let’s go for a walk,” I call to my six-year-old golden retriever.
He prances over to the door, sitting patiently as I hook up his harness.
The West Loop to Lincoln Park, the neighborhood Emerson lives in, is not a walk. It could be—a straight shot down North Halsted Street and a casual three miles—but Tucker would never make it there and back.
I’m forever grateful that select Ubers allow dogs. It was pouring rain when I picked Tucker up from a boarding stay this past spring. Before leaving, willing to bear the thunderstorm, the attendant told me about the feature. One app update and a dry dog, I now use the feature often .
We climb out of the back of a small SUV in Lincoln Park, a handful of blocks away from Emerson’s, and in front of her favorite coffee shop in the neighborhood.
At the walk-up window, I order our usuals: black coffee for Emme and an iced oat milk latte with honey for me. As soon as our order is ready, Tucker is nudging my elbow with his nose.
Impatient little shit knocks my coffee, splashing my biker shorts with the milky liquid. Tucker doesn’t care, getting what he wants: his pup cup.
“Sit.” His tail is wild, helicoptering against the brick. I bend over to set it on the ground in front of him. “Wait.” I sit on the concrete ledge of a raised flower bed, placing the coffees next to me. “Okay, you can have it.”
Might be a little shit, but at least he’s a good listener—and he never talks back. Men should take notes. Listening would resolve half of their issues, and save women from most of ours.
Before ramming his nose into the small paper cup, he’s momentarily distracted by a runner who passes by us.
The runner backtracks, casting a shadow over where I’m sitting.
“Henry,” the voice says excitedly. I don’t need to pick my head up to know who it is. Callum Sullivan.
“Sullivan.” My head tips up toward where he is towering over me. The morning sun is a halo around him, making his blond hair and tan skin glow—a sweaty angel.
“You’re up early.”
“Morning person.”
“Do you live around here?” he asks.
I shake my head no. “I’m in the West Loop. Close to where we went to dinner last night. I’m headed to Emerson’s.” Gesturing to the coffees beside me. “What about you?”
“Training run with Liam.”
“Are you slower than him?”
Cal laughs, a deep chuckle, then snorts. “He’s asleep.”
“You know that’s not a run with him then. ”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Cool.” I rub my eyes.
Cal tracks my movement.
“Is everything okay?” he asks me.
“Uh. . . yeah. Tired. Early, remember?”
“Are you sure?” I go to pick up the cups, Cal notices, again, and beats me to them. “I’ve got those.”
“I don’t need your help.” Be nice, Chloe.
“Too bad.” He’s quick, snatching the cups. “I, too, was running to Emerson’s. Say morning, check on her.”
“Liar.” My right brow raises.
“Come on, Henry. We can get to know each other more.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
Cal leans forward, our noses inches from each other. His headphones hang around his neck. The low hum of a pop punk song I know every word to emanates from them. “I don’t know, but you know you want to. Be friends with me, Henry,” he taunts.
“Give me my coffee.” I open my palm for him to place it in it.
He smiles, a second dimple appearing on his left cheek. It’s dangerous how intoxicating Cal’s smile is. He knows he’s right.
Tucker finishes his pup cup. His golden snout covered in the white cream from the sides of his cup. He’s trying to lick it off, stretching his bright pink tongue as far it can go, when he notices Cal.
Tucker doesn’t like Seth—which should have been a telltale sign that Seth isn’t who I thought he was, but Tucker also hasn’t liked any guy I’ve brought home—so it surprises me when he walks right up to Cal.
“Tucker, stop.” He wipes his face on Cal’s athletic shorts.
Remnants of the whipped cream is stretched right across the upper thigh of his shorts.
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed, reaching for the napkins I used to clean up myself earlier. I lean forward, swiping the brown paper napkin over the spots .
His hand wraps around my wrist. “Henry.”
I open my eyes. All the way.
Shit.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again for a different reason.
My eyes aren’t puffy anymore. My skin no longer cold. Heat is prickling my cheeks.
I stand up quickly, flustered.
I don’t get flustered with men.
So why am I flustered right now?
Cal’s hand is still wrapped around my wrist, fingers on my rapid pulse, the napkin clutched in my fist.
“If you want to touch, just ask.” He takes the napkins out of my hand, finishing cleaning himself up. Crumpling the napkins up, he shoots them into the trash can. “I’d say yes.”
“Call us even?”
“We aren’t even close to even, Henry.” Cal smolders before slowly softening his features. “Who is this cutie?”
“Don’t feed his ego. Might end up as big as yours.” Cal ignores my comment, petting Tucker’s head. “That’s Tucker.”
“He likes me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Unfortunately, me too. He’s impossibly hard not to like.
“Which way is Emerson from here?”
The two of us walk next to each other, Tucker in front. He’s not much of a follower, but he is a momma’s boy, stopping to smell every flower. I think it would come as a shock if people knew that my Darth Vader exterior loves flowers as much as I do.
Two buildings down from Emerson’s apartment is our favorite garden.
A bright purple walk-up, a contrast to the brick and beige buildings that line the streets in this pocket of Chicago. The elderly woman, Donna, who lives here, is a widower. She never remarried after her husband passed two years ago. He was a gardener, owned a greenhouse, and had the best flower stand at the farmers’ market Emerson and I go to every week. Donna didn’t keep up with his business but kept his flowers out front.
Tucker pulls me up the steps, his new addition to stopping and smelling the roses.
“Earlier this spring, I traveled for almost three weeks straight. Emme watched Tucker so I wouldn’t have to board him for so long. Every evening, the two of them would stop here. More of Tucker forcing her because Donna would give him treats while she was gardening. Now she bakes them from scratch, and if she sees him, will bring us a bag to take home.”
I tug on his leash, his smiley face sad. “She’s not home this weekend and you still have cookies from the last time we saw Ms. Donna,” I remind my dog as if he understands what I’m saying.
Cal doesn’t look at me weirdly for talking to him. It annoys Seth.
“Smart boy.” He rubs behind an ear. “I’d want to stop, too.”
“Stop is more of a drag with his entire weight into it,” I joke, a laugh and smile slipping out.
“Wow,” Cal says.
I peer over my shoulder at him. “Huh?”
“Your smile.”
“What about it?”
“I thought it was missing. Didn’t know you could smile.”
“Missing?” I ask, making sure I didn’t misunderstand him.
“Yeah. Even though your scowl has a slight uptick here.” He pokes the corner of my mouth. “You haven’t smiled. Was worried for all our sakes you couldn’t.”
“I can smile.”
“I know.” He starts walking again, forcing Tucker and I to catch up. Annoyed. I’ve never chased after a man, they chase after me. “You should smile more,” Cal tells me, our arms brush as we fall into step together. “It’s beautiful.”
I snort. “Watch out, world. Callum Sullivan said I have a beautiful smile. Won’t be able to stop me now.” My tone leaks sarcasm.
“I mean it, Henry. ”
I take a sip of my coffee, avoiding smiling again.
There’s a moment of silence between us before Cal asks, “Why were you crying this morning?”
“I wasn’t crying.” My defense is back up. I cross my arms in front of me.
“I’ve been around enough women to know when one was crying.”
My brows arch, my fingers curling around my coffee, pinching the plastic into itself.
“That came out wrong.”
“You think?”
“My little sister, Audrey, she used to cry a lot. And I’ve seen Emerson when she’s trying to hide something after being upset.”
Emerson does cry a lot. She’s a sensitive black cat, and there’s nothing wrong with that. We are similar but different in this regard.
I’m sensitive, but when I try to feel anything, I can’t.
I’m empty.
Have been for years.
“You can tell me, Chloe.”
Chloe, not Henry.
His coaxing isn’t demanding. His presence is warming me from the inside out.
I chew on my cheek, teetering on opening up or not. No one knows about the change in my relationship. No one knows that Seth isn’t who I thought he could be.
Except Cal.
He saw. He’s already tried to step in for me.
Protect me .
“Seth is upset that I’m going to Emerson’s,” I confess. “He believes that I should be spending time with him. Which he isn’t wrong about, I know he flew here to be with me.”
“After not booking flights when he was supposed to?”
“You heard that? ”
“Thin walls.”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of coffee. “Seth isn’t comprehending that she’s my best friend, and I need to make sure she’s okay after last night. Plus he made a few accusations about you.”
“Me?”
“Mhm.”
Cal doesn’t ask about what Seth said about him. He brushes it off quickly. “He’s a prick.”
“He’s been different lately. When we first started dating—it doesn’t matter. I’m handling it.”
“Chloe.” My name, again. Cal stops walking, reaching out for my forearm. Missing, his fingers graze me lightly, igniting my skin. “Stop.”
I stop walking.
“Look at me,” he demands carefully.
Turning around, my eyes flutter open. My lips drawn into a line.
When we are facing each other, I look at him. Really look at him.
Has he been shirtless this entire time?
Probably. It’s almost August, and despite it being early and partly cloudy, the air is muggy and humid.
Sweat is dripping down my back in a line. But the sweat on his body? It’s traveling down the curves and dips of his muscles, an eight-pack, like a waterslide into the band of his shorts. A dusting of blond hair is in the center of the V carved into his stomach, and a tattoo is wrapped around his torso, going from mid-back and stopping at his ribcage.
I follow a bead of sweat trailing into his shorts, and I swallow at what I see peeking out from the bottom of his shorts.
Thigh tattoos. Kill me now and take me to heaven.
If I have any weakness, it’s that. I’m no foe of tattoos, I have several myself. Both of my arms are decorative art pieces, several knuckles, one above my knee, and a drunk college mistake.
I love tattoos. I love the stories they tell you about someone, the artistry behind them. I love how two people can have similar tattoos, yet they are completely unique—position, meaning, how their skin absorbs the ink.
I find them hot and attractive on females and males. Especially a thigh tattoo.
Cal flexes his muscles, almost unconsciously. I flutter my eyes, tearing them back to his face, waves of blond framing his golden skin with a dimple in his right cheek. I’m not short, but my neck strains to meet his icy blues.
“He’s wrong for you.”
“Who is right for me?”
For a second, I wonder if he's going to respond by saying himself.
We are outside of Emerson’s building. Our little get-to-know-each-other walk over. I need it to be over. “You need to dump him before he hurts you.”
How can someone hurt you when there is nothing left of you to hurt?
“I should go inside. Can I have Emerson’s coffee?”
Cal hands the cup to me.
“I mean it,” are his parting words. Cal turns back in the direction we came from and takes off running.