6. CHLOE
6
CHLOE
Like any other week, I thought my Tuesday morning would start precisely as every other Tuesday. An iced latte, of course, my weekly check-in with my boss, followed by a bi-weekly all-marketing and events team meeting.
Strutting to my office, I greet my coworkers, some on my team, most from other departments.
My four inch black heels click and clack on the tile floor. I enjoy wearing heels—and lingerie. Both empower me and I always feel in touch with my feminine side.
“Tamara.”
“Morning, Chloe,” she greets, way too cheery. “Have you had caffeine yet today?”
I shake my cup next to her head, the ice rattling.
“Why are you here? You’re never in this early.”
I hang my bag, a black Neverfull I splurged for when I accepted this job, on the coat hook, pulling out my laptop, tablet, and notebook.
Her face sets in a mischievous expression as I sit on the edge of my desk, crossing my arms over my chest. We’re the same age, but you’d never guess that. She cakes on her makeup, still wears one of those bombshell push-up bras, and has frown lines.
We were hired within the same month, brought on with the expectation of being this dynamic influencer marketing duo. Turns out I can’t stand her, not that I like many people. My circle is small, and I’m okay with that—fewer people mean fewer goodbyes.
Everything is a competition with Tamara. Everything .
If I share an idea, she has to share a ‘better’ idea, or if she can’t think of anything, which is typically the case, she’ll always inform everyone why I’m wrong.
I buy a new handbag. She gets a more expensive one.
I take a Diet Coke break. She makes sure everyone knows that she doesn’t need a break from work.
Aren’t we supposed to be done with all this female vs. female workplace competition? Female power, women supporting women, sisterhood?
“Seen the photos from Live Outdoor's latest event?”
“I haven’t.”
Live Outdoor, a ski apparel brand, is the company Seth works for. He’s on their brand partnership team, managing accounts. He attends most of their marketing events, that’s how we met.
Specifically an influencer brand trip that our respective companies were collaborating on in Vail. Second Chance Beauty was launching our winter sunscreen explicitly designed for outdoor winter sports. We partnered with Live Outdoors to host a brand trip to kickoff the start of the ski season.
Seth and I met at a cocktail bar one of the evenings, landing ourselves in bed together. We crossed paths at another event a month later, which spiraled into us casually seeing each other. Seth slipped up one day, introducing me as his girlfriend to a group of people. I never questioned it. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else at the time.
The word girlfriend didn’t come out of his mouth again unless he was making a point, like this past weekend.
We were exclusive, or so I thought.
Tamara flips her phone around, passing it to me. “Swipe right.”
I get why Tamara asked about the photos.
Looking at the set again, I wish I felt anything, but I don’t.
“Thank you.” I pass the phone back to her, keeping my reaction zipped up .
Tamara also knows Seth. Met him that same event. I swear she’s had the hots for him.
She did this on purpose. Either to get a rise out of me, or payback from Ryan picking my idea from last week’s meeting.
I swear she goes out of her way to be my nemesis.
“Not going to say anything?”
“Nope.” I push off the edge of my desk, walking around to my chair.
“Seriously, Chloe?”
“What do you want, Tamara? You obviously came in here to show those to me on purpose. Is my reaction not up to your satisfaction?”
She scoffs.
“I have a meeting to prep for. Leave.” I debated adding a please, but that’s a courtesy she doesn’t deserve.
She scoffs again. “You probably deserved this.”
I pretend not to hear her or watch her leave, the door slamming behind her.
Right, somehow I deserve to be shown photos of my boyfriend with his hand up another woman’s skirt and tongue down her throat.
I don’t even think twice about how she got those photos. Picking up my desk phone, I call the person who would have sent them to her, the Tweedledee to her Tweedledum. Twenty minutes later, I have the files downloaded to my phone.
Didn’t know I dyed my hair blonde. Oh, wait…
Seeing those photos of Seth removed the rose-colored glasses that’ve been glued to my face.
I should have known better.
The signs were there, but I truly didn’t think it would come down to this. To cheating .
I leave my phone in my office when I go to meet with Ryan. He’s always peppy in the morning. I swear he must drink rainbows for breakfast and shit sunshine.
He knows and understands that I am the opposite of him. So when I sit across from him in one of our meeting pods, he isn’t fazed by my lack of a smile.
“Is that a new tattoo?” he asks. I cross one ankle over the other.
“Which one?”
“On your wrist.” He points at the inside of my left wrist.
Coordinates.
I shake my head no. “Forgot my watch this morning. The watch face usually covers it.”
“That’s it.” He snaps, pointing his index finger. “What are the coordinates to?” My boss has zero tattoos; however, is interested in all of mine. He’s afraid of needles.
“College,” I say quickly; the word and memory are sour on my tongue. I change the subject to talk about our next brand trip in Miami.
Our check-in is quick. Which is another thing I appreciate about him. If we don’t have anything to talk about or make it through the pre-planned agenda, he doesn’t keep me. Time is money, as he says.
Back in my office, my texts to Seth have gone unanswered. Undelivered.
Did he block me?
Screw it, I’m calling him.
On the fourth ring, he answers.
“ Hello? ” Seth never answers my calls rudely. Did he even look at who was calling him?
“Hello.”
“I’m busy right now.”
That’s when I hear it. A gagged moan. Then a whimper.
“I-I uh. I need to go.”
“Seth, we need to talk.” I’m not relenting .
The call goes dead.
I call again, a video this time.
Dumbass answers.
The video isn’t on him. Well, it is, but not his face. The phone is perfectly positioned that it’s capturing his chest and stomach, bare. . . and a blonde giving him head. The same one from the photos.
“Is this what you wanted, Chloe? I told you I was busy.”
As if rehearsed, she peers up at the camera.
“Who is she?” I ask between gritted teeth.
“Not you.”
I laugh. Uncontrollable. I smack a hand to my heaving chest, a snort I’d maybe be embarrassed about escaping, but who cares right now? My boyfriend is giving me a front-row seat to his infidelity.
“You find this funny?” He switches the camera to his face. “Of course you do.”
I can’t stop laughing. Don’t answer his question.
“No retort from Chloe Henry? I’m shocked.”
I shrug my shoulders.
“We’re over. Done,” I tell him.
“Thank god.” Seth starts to say goodbye, but I hang up the call.
***
Firing off a text to Emerson, I ask her for Cal’s number.
She puts me through an interrogation before relinquishing his contact information. The shared information comes in, complete with a profile photo from one of the summers she traveled with him and Liam.
Emerson loves photography—she is a wedding photographer as a side gig. Finding her without her camera in her hands is a crime. She always has it .
Her photos from her summer abroad after college are some of my favorite photos she’s ever taken.
Of all the things she does with her photos, this is the funniest. Every contact in her phone has a photo, even an acquaintance. Memories capsulated in pictures or something is her reasoning. Come to think of it, I don’t know what my contact photo is.
What is my contact photo?
I swear if it’s that photo of me from college with the dog filter on it—
EMME: Dog filter photo?
Seriously. . .
EMME: You’re a dog mom?
I swipe out of our text thread, pulling up Cal’s contact again.
Tapping on the photo, I use two fingers to zoom in on his picture as much as my phone will allow—and I won’t allow myself to screenshot it to enlarge it even more, that’s ridiculous.
His smile. I recognize this one. It’s his ear-to-ear, double-dimple smile.
I’ve only seen it once.
How many times has Emerson seen it?
I take in the remainder of the photo, and you can tell it’s cropped down to only him. Liam and their other friend I’ve never met, George, have their arms slung around each other.
Cal’s hair is disheveled, and I suddenly desire to run my hand through it.
You were just cheated on .
From one boy to the next. Here we go again.
Snap out of it, Chloe.
But Cal is different.
I type out two letters and stare at the glowing screen. Hi? Seriously, Chloe?
Holding down the back arrow, I delete my text. Retype it. Delete it again. I repeat this process for too long that I land on calling him.
Isn’t that what all the old folks are saying? Why don’t you pick up the phone?
Callum picks up on the first ring.
“This is Callum,” he says, his voice securing around me like a life vest. There is an instant safety net catching me, but it is dangerous, as if there’s a small tear, and if I’m not careful, I’ll fall through it.
To what? A heartbreak? A real one, not this fissure that is happening because of Seth.
I have a few of those. Fissures, I mean. Slowly cracking my heart, all small and never enough to do any significant damage.
But you know how a windshield can function with a small crack or two, but over time, the crack grows until it forces your hand to fix it?
Boys are my cracks, and my heart is the windshield.
“This is Chloe Henry,” I say, then clarify, “Emerson’s friend.”
“Hi, Henry.”
“Hi, Sullivan.”
“I’m glad you called. How are you?”
“You are?”
“Of course, Liam has been a bore this morning.”
“Sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
He laughs. “Tell me about your morning?”
“What about over lunch?”
“Let me check my schedule.” We both go silent. I can hear him clicking around on the computer. “Cleared. I can meet you at one. Work?”
“Yeah.”
“Grand, see you then, Henry.”