9. CHLOE
9
CHLOE
Itake two deep breaths. Then another.
I hate work happy hours.
Three hours of ass kissing that I don’t want to do, but unfortunately have to do.
Taking a fourth deep inhale, I release the air from my lungs and open the door to an upscale dive bar.
There isn’t the smell of smoke clinging to your clothes when you leave, but drinks are cheap. I can’t think of another bar in downtown that serves up three-dollar beers and cocktails for less than ten.
It’s also two blocks from work.
Most of the office comes here on Fridays after work. I’ve been a handful of times, disliking almost every minute of it. The amount of people I genuinely like in the office is less than the handful of times I’ve been here.
Paul, a Regional Sales Manager.
Tilly, a Copywriter.
And my direct boss, Ryan.
Our company has taken over an entire corner of the bar. My saving graces are tucked into a small booth, playing Egyptian Ratscrew. I order a glass of red wine from the bar
“No tequila?” Tilly asks as I slide in beside her, dropping my bag on the leather between us.
“Do I need tequila?”
“Tamara is here. And,”—Tilly clicks her lips—“Michael came.”
“Seriously? ”
Ryan nods, dealing me into the next round. “They showed up together. She’s been boasting to anyone who’ll listen about getting to work with Vienna Hart, that TikToker with over ten million followers.”
“Did Michael bypass you?” Ryan may have blurred the boundaries of boss and friend with me, but he’s still great at his job and deserves respect.
“Rumor is someone recommended her directly to him. I have a meeting with him tomorrow.”
“Tell me once you know more?” He nods, and all of our eyes dart to her at the bar, loudly clinking shots with someone from IT. “I cannot stand her.” Hate is a strong word, but I’m slowly crossing into that territory when it comes to her. “Sorry, Ryan, I know we are on a team, and I’d never let that get in the way.”
“I know, Chloe.”
They order another round of drinks, ending our game to be good colleagues and mingle with others.
My stomach growls right as they set out apps. I’m stuffing my face with carrot sticks when I spot a familiar blondie.
Callum Sullivan is at a high-top table, sipping a beer. He’s nodding, and even from where I’m standing, I can tell he’s trying his best to pay attention to whoever is across from him.
I can’t see the woman. She has waist-length light brown hair. Pin straight and pulled back with a headband decorated in rhinestones.
A waiter comes by, exchanging his drinks. He switched to something harder—a dark amber liquid, maybe an old fashion.
I’m not sure why I keep watching, but I do. Cal doesn’t notice me, nor does he say a word. Damn, he’s handsome. Slightly relaxed, casual, not in a suit. The hunter green shirt with a few too many buttons undone is doing wonders. He’s all earth tones, the blue of his eyes reminding me of the irresistible water in the Caribbean.
Cal runs a hand through his hair along the back of his head and cups his neck .
My feet are carrying me in his direction before I have a second to think.
“Sullivan.” I pretend to be surprised that he’s here. Cal locks in on me, his mouth fighting a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m with someone,” he chokes out.
“Seriously? That’s rude. I thought we were together.” I turn, finally getting a good look at his date. She’s pretty. Light brown skin, caramel eyes, and rocking a monochromatic linen set. “Did he tell you about me?”
She’s caught off guard. “No?” Her stare bounces from my scowl and narrowed eyes to Cal biting his knuckle. “I thought—”
“Yeah, you thought wrong.” The burn from the spicy hummus I dipped the carrots into is still in my throat; I need a drink. Spotting the quarter of whatever she’s drinking left in the glass, I pick it up, finish the drink, and hopefully speed this along. “Your drink is out. Might be time to go.”
Whatever her name is, not that I care to know, huffs, seeking anything from Cal. He’s biting down hard on his knuckle, stifling a smile.
“Your mom won’t be happy about this,” she frustratedly tells him, grabbing her purse off the back of the chair and storming off.
Mom? Why would she care about him on a date?
I replace her in the seat, flagging down a waiter for another glass of wine.
“You’re welcome.”
Callum removes his fist from his mouth and bursts out in laughter, and I love the sound. I never realized a man’s laugh could be attractive, but here I am, squeezing my legs and pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Bad date?”
“Bad everything.” Cal shakes his head. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Work.” I thumb over my shoulder. “Spotted your miserable butt over here. ”
“You were watching me?”
“You try looking away from a train wreck.”
“That was not a train wreck,” he tries to get out with a straight face. “Okay, yeah, it was bad. I’d probably have watched, too.”
Resting my elbows on the table, I lean forward. “Didn’t know you dated.”
“I don’t. . . I do. I do, now .”
“Now?”
“Yeah. You thinking about getting back out there?”
“Are you asking for yourself?” I raise my wine to my lips. Lipstick staining the clean glass.
“Not my type, Henry.” He takes a sip of his Old Fashion.
I might not be in the market for another relationship, but that bruises the ego.
Why do I care if I’m his type?
I don’t.
“Bed is awfully cold at night,” I pretend to ponder the idea. Cal’s jaw ticks. I run a finger around the rim of my wine.
Cal squeezes his eyes shut. They open and are spinning. Various shades of blue swirling around his pupil.
“What if I was your boyfriend?”
I spit out my drink, coughing. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Are you asking me out, Sullivan?”
“Yes. No. Well. . .”
“Well?”
“I need a fake girlfriend.”
“You can’t find a real one?”
He cocks his head, glowering at me. “I tried, but you scared her off.”
“I’ll go get her back, but I think you’d rather watch paint dry than keep talking with her. Am I right?”
“Yeah. ”
“Thought so.” I take another drink of my wine. Sipping and swallowing slowly, letting his gaze heat. “You do realize you told me I wasn’t your type.”
“I lied.”
“Also thought that. Explain yourself, and I’ll think about it.” Cal gives me the 4-1-1 on his dilemma. The series of unfortunate dates he’s been set up on and how he needs to find someone to pretend to be his date to appease his mother.
It’s all comical.
“Henry,” he groans. I smirk devilishly.
“You need to work on your begging. A woman loves a man on his knees.”
“Is that what you want? Me to beg?” He takes my glass of wine from my fingers. “On my knees for you.” Holding my gaze he spins the glass to where my mouth was, planting his lips there and taking a drink. “Have been curious about what you taste like. Sweet? Spicy?”
We find ourselves in a staring contest.
“You’re blushing.”
“Am not.”
“Cheeks are quite red.”
“Makeup.”
“I think you’ve also been wanting a taste, even while you were dating that prick. Maybe you should beg.”
“As if.”
It’s not that I thought about Cal while my relationship was crumbling beneath me. I was more curious about what being with someone like him would be like. No immediate red flags. Kindness and large hands. A calculated mind.
He’s getting the higher ground.
This is not okay.
Scooting the chair back, my purse hanging from my shoulder. I get up to leave. Walking by him, I stop. Lean down so mouth grazes his ear.
“Nice try, Pretty Boy, but I don’t beg. If you need a girlfriend, try harder next time.”
I pat his shoulder and walk away, fully aware of the swing of my hips and his gaze heating my back. The idea is enticing and I kind of hope he asks again.
***
“Earth to Chloe,” Emerson says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Did you hear anything I was saying?”
“No.” I give her an apologetic smile. “What were we talking about?”
“My birthday.”
“Your birthday,” I repeat, trying to recall what we’ve been planning. Or I have been planning.
I love birthdays.
And why wouldn’t you? It’s the only day of the year that is solely about you. Plus, childbirth is wild, a magical miracle, and should be celebrated—not that I’m ready for one, I still appreciate everything that the female body can do.
It’s not that I have any prospects on the horizon, either. My taste in men is terrible. Take Seth, for example. Actually, while he sucks, he’s not the best example.
Dating is like sex to me. Casual. Filling my time with obsessed boys has always—an excellent way to stroke my ego, yes—been how I ensured I wasn’t alone. Not that it ever worked. It never mattered who was in my bed, what we were doing, or how them being inside me settled the voices in my head, I was alone.
I was empty.
It started in college, spring of my sophomore year. Up till then, I could have won the award for biggest tease .
Flirting with you? If the mitochondria are the powerhouse of a cell, flirting was the powerhouse of my personality—still am a flirt. I proudly wear my once-a-flirt, always-a-flirt badge with honor.
Take me on a date, kiss me? Child's play.
Bring home to Mom? Used to be me.
Think you are about to score? Good luck getting past first base.
Then everything changed.
That semester, I slipped down a rabbit hole. Voices in my head grew louder, new ones worming their way through. Guilt ran through my veins. Shame dressed me.
I’d never felt ashamed of myself. Now? It’s a tattoo on my body.
But I wasn’t going to be ashamed of my body—how it looks or what I do with it.
My first—I cringe at the thought of giving him that title—boyfriend was from the hockey team. He played with my brother, super hot and really good in bed. When casual progressed to something more serious, I dumped him—by a note tapped to his dorm desk.
It was empowering—a quick high.
This process repeated. Over and over.
Some of the boys were too sweet, and I’d feel bad, which inevitably resulted in selecting duds.
I knew what I was doing. A methodically planned self-destruction.
Dumping them let me remain in control. They never had the opportunity to hurt me or say goodbye. Leave .
Until Seth.
About three sips into my morning coffee yesterday, I realized while I never loved him, I was exhausted from the mindfuck I’ve been putting myself through. When I met him, I think I finally wanted someone for more than what we could do between the sheets.
“Where’d you go? You drifted away again. ”
“Mentally shopping my closet for what you are going to wear this weekend.”
Emerson chews on the inside of her cheek, eyes dancing over me. “Nothing too tight.” I give her a thumbs up. “I was thinking of drinks at Cindy’s before dinner. Any thoughts?”
I toss around the idea. Immediately thinking about restaurants within walking distance to the upscale rooftop bar—great views of the city, especially Millenium Park—knowing she will ask.
“If that’s what you want to do. It’s your birthday.”
She huffs. Dramatically. “But what would you want to do? I don’t want to drag people to a pla—”
I cut her off, “Emerson Lynn Clarke,” and full name her. “Pick what you want to do. It is your birthday. You do not need to worry about us. No one cares where we go or what we eat or what we do; we want to celebrate you.”
I adore how much Emerson cares about ensuring everyone’s emotions are accounted for, but it also makes her easy to walk over.
She’s opened up this summer about why she’s like this, a pathological people pleaser—explained her history with Liam, her parents, and Natalie. It was easier to let it go before I knew her deep-rooted fears, but now, it’s impossible to ignore. Emerson has to see herself as a priority, as her number one priority, and I’m not going to let her slide on the matter.
“Can you at least tell me what you might want to do?” She gives me a tight smile. “Maybe something to help you get over Seth?”
“I am over Seth,” I deadpan. The words pour out way too quickly.
“Ugh. Come on, Chloe,” she pesters on.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Emme.”
“You are no fun.” I toss her a look, and she modifies her statement, “You are a ball of fun. Now tell me. Just one.” She lifts her pointer finger .
“What about going dancing after dinner and drinks?” I cave.
She pulls out her phone. “Heard dancing is the new getting under someone to get over another.”
“The only person I’m going to be dancing with is you.”
“Uh huh.”
“What are you doing?” I ask her, trying to peer over her phone.
“Texting Cal about our plans.” Emerson curls her legs under her, her thumbs moving quickly across the screen.
My heart skips a beat.
“I saw that,” Emerson says without lifting her head.
“You aren’t going to invite Liam?”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Cal can invite him.”
I roll my eyes at her. “How long are you going to make him sweat it?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” she says playfully. “Jealousy looks good on him.”
“Your love life isn’t a game, Emme.”
“I know.” The bite of my words punctures her.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out that harsh.”
“You did.” She nods. Blinks several times. Her jewel eyes burn a vibrant green. “Tough love.”
“Protective of your heart.” There’s a silent thank you that passes between us when she squeezes my forearm, thumb rubbing over my tattoo for her. I have an E, and she has a C.
Climbing off the couch, I walk into my kitchen. Opening the fridge, I rummage through, searching for a bottle of white wine.
“Want a glass of wine?” I holler at Emerson.
“Sure!”
I pull out the only bottle I could find. It was behind a jug of iced coffee and a container of something my mother sent me a month ago. There is only about half of it remaining.
When did I open this?
I’m not much of a drinker. I enjoy a good glass of wine and a wild night here and there .
After the accident, drinking makes me anxious. An alarm for my anxiety, asking it to wake up.
It takes some elbow grease to loosen the resealable cork top. POP . That’s reassuring. Maybe the bottle isn’t wholly skunked yet.
I pull out two stemless glasses. One has a photo of Scooby-Doo that says, ‘Ruh roh, I’m empty’ . The other says, ‘To be used while reading.’ I picked that one out for Emerson.
She’s the reader between the two of us. She’ll recommend a spicy book here and there to me, but I’ve never felt the need to sit down for countless hours with my nose between pages of made-up people.
“I didn’t taste it. If it’s not good, blame my lack of grocery shopping in two weeks.” Or ever. Thank goodness for food delivery services.
Emerson sips on the wine. Coughs a little. “It’s—It’ll do.” She sets the glass on the side table and swivels to face me. “Can we talk about earlier? When you spaced out. Seth?”
A dam opens up, and I tell her everything. Rewinding, before hitting play and pausing on each hiccup, catching us up to Seth cheating. She knew about that. Video chatted her and screen recorded her reaction. Did the same with Natalie, then Adler, my childhood best friend. They were funny to watch back, pretty telling that no one liked him. Sort of bugged me that no one said anything except Cal—took him one interaction to see Seth’s true colors.
Anyways. . . they all asked the same question: Are you okay? And I had the same answer: I’m fine.
I wasn’t fine. Whoever says they are fine and means it?
What I told Cal wasn’t a lie, but I am human, and I still hurt. That night, I wept. Held onto Tucker’s paw, stroking his underbelly with my other hand, and cried.
If Aaron saw me now, what would he think?
I cried for myself and this life I had created. The beautifully crafted mask that I wear day after day. Chloe is fine, no one needs to worry about her. The girl with a bite, protecting and taking care of everyone else.
But who was taking care of me?
“I think I’m giving up men,” I relent, laying myself into her lap.
Emerson’s wheels are turning as she looks down at me. “Okay. Are we talking completely or dating or—”
“Completely.” I exhale. “Men suck, and I need to get back to the whole ‘I’m a strong independent woman; I don’t need no man.’”
Truth with a side of I need to go back to therapy; your order’s up.
There’s a silent chuckle coming from Emerson. She thinks I’m joking.
“I mean it.” I flick her nose. “I’m swearing off men.”
“You know that means sex, right?”
“Once again, I am a strong, independent woman who can pleasure herself. I don’t need no man.”
Emerson finishes off the glass of wine with a sour swallow and coughs. “That was terrible.” She puts the glass on the table. “Does that mean you told Cal no?”
Immediately the other night, I texted her about Cal’s proposition. I know he’s not as much of a talker as me, but geez, could have used a little explanation there.
“I haven’t answered yet.”
“What would be wrong with pretending to be his girlfriend? It would be a couple of pictures. It’s not like you are going to have to meet his family.”
“What if I meet someone else? Want to have sex, or I don’t know, realize that Cal is exactly like everyone else.”
“Thought we were giving up sex?” She parrots back my earlier statement which we both know had no backbone to it.
I roll my eyes, fingers moving around the undrunk glass.
Emerson braids a small section of my hair. “I can promise you he isn’t. And set rules. Tell him you want to be able to see or sleep with other people.” She scrunches her lips, brows furrow with an idea. “Or sleep with him. It’s not that serious, and knowing Cal, he doesn’t date, so it’s not like he will fall for you.”
“He is fun to hang out with.” That’s an understatement. “And nice.” Another understatement. “And attractive.”
I’m doing a solid job at underselling Callum to myself. I already know that I enjoy his company. He’s hot. Probably the most attractive man I’ve laid eyes on.
Emerson snickers.
“What?”
“I don’t care what you say about wanting to swear off men, the look on your face says you want to fu—”
“It does not.”
“Whatever you say, Chlo.”