38. CHLOE
38
CHLOE
My texts to Emerson goes unanswered.
I don’t know why I expect a response. She’s six hours ahead, and it’s closing in on midnight here.
I almost didn’t send the text, but I did. It’s as if I want to punish myself, a reminder that she’s left me too.
Alone.
I push my phone into a crack in the couch and wish I could also stick all of my problems into the couch with it.
“How are things with Cal?” Miller breaks my train of thought.
“What things with Cal?” I question way too quickly.
Miller tilts his head knowingly. “Your living arrangements. The fake dating?” he whispers the word fake. I don’t know why. There isn’t anyone else in here besides us and Riley, who is occupied putting dinosaur stickers all over Tucker.
Riveting way to spend New Year’s Eve.
I told Miller about our deal on Thanksgiving. It was part of my Share-More-With-Your-Brother Operation after we both agreed we needed to do a better job at opening up. Still haven’t found the words or confidence to tell him why he should keep me pushed away, though.
If I did, I would never get to see Riley again.
Avoiding the question momentarily, it’s my turn at the board game we’re playing. I flick the spinner, getting a two. Counting two squares, I land on a slide that carries my pawn back to the start and I can’t ignore the parallels to my life. To the question I’m ignoring .
Riley wanted to play Chutes and Ladders, but his attention span was too short for more than one game. Miller and I kept playing.
“Your turn.”
“You’re avoiding, Chlo.”
“It’s good, we’re good.”
“You have feelings for him, don’t you?” I try to shake my head no, but he calls me out. “I know you better than you think. I can tell you do.” Twin telepathy, I guess.
“I don’t,” I deny him and myself. Miller takes his turn, not responding to my lie. “I do.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
Hitting a ladder on the board, I climb to square twenty-six. Lifting my head, Miller’s sipping from a beer, looking over its neck at me.
Do I want to tell him?
Biting my lip, I ask, “Should I?”
I keep trying to convince myself that Cal wants me back. I chalked up his conversation with Riley in the kitchen to be an exaggeration. What was he supposed to do, tell my nephew no?
Miller’s eyes go heavy, something of regret swirling with them. What—or better, who does he regret?
He asks me a series of yes-no questions. Rapid fire, but he didn’t need to instruct that. My heart spoke faster than my brain. There was no space for fear or doubt to take over.
Every answer was yes.
I know if Emerson were here, she’d be incredulous, wanting to check me into a psych ward.
“Tell him. If he doesn’t feel that way—which I think he does—then at least you put yourself out there, Chlo. Don’t live with the regret of what if. Trust me, it’ll eat you alive.”
** *
My twenty-minute walk turns into a four mile stroll around Chicago. Along the Lakeshore Trail, I give my legs a break, sitting along the concrete edge. Tilting my head to the blue sky, I close my eyes, taking in the crisp, chilly air—relishing in the satisfying burn as the air hits my lungs.
I readjusted my hat, covering the sliver of ear peeking out below. Tugging on the sleeves of my thermal shirt under my winter coat, I head back.
In the front entryway, I hang up my coat. Putting my fanny pack in its designated spot and keys on the hook. Padding further in the place, the silence cuts deep.
The apartment is as empty as the city. As empty as me.
Even Tucker doesn’t greet me when I return, cozied up in Cal’s bed between his pillows.
Slipping off my shoes—Cal would be flustered that I even wore them upstairs—I pull back the covers next to Tucker and curl up in his bed.
The mattress is formed to his muscular body. He’s not even here, but being in his space is steadying me, calming the thoughts that are a storm within me.
The book Cal gifted me is staring at me, burning a hole of curiosity into me that picks at me, his words playing repeatedly.
The tabs make me think of you.
What am I supposed to do with this?
Read it.
Walking my fingers over the cover—vibrant and creative illustrated characters, not a shirtless man. Maybe I should ask him to print a picture of himself to tape on the cover—I slowly pull it to me. The book tumbles off the surface and onto the bed. Shifting to sit up against the headboard, Tucker adjusts his position, pushing his back under my elbow.
I flip through the pages and let out a sigh.
Don’t just read the tabs, Daisy . I can hear Cal’s voice in my head.
Opening the purple cover, I start on the first page .
Hours, maybe days, pass by.
I read the book. Then another. And another.
Only crawling out of my literary hibernation for a snack or to search his shelves for another book.
I think I finally get why Emerson loves reading.
Somehow, in the past two days, I’ve lived countless lives.
A dragon rider at a war college.
A vampire betrothed to a werewolf only to realize you are mates.
A member of London’s elite and a gang lord.
A female NHL player and her best friend reporter.
I’ve seen myself reflected in characters, places, and words. I’ve felt as if I’ve made friends with these fictional characters, been a part of their family, facing their troubles—their demons—with them.
The silence wasn’t as loud when I was reading.
The voices weren’t either.
I didn’t feel as alone, even though I was. And I don’t want to be alone anymore.
***
Our building installed a new security system at the beginning of December. Nothing too fancy for the co—I actually don’t know how much this place cost. Probably don’t even want to know.
Anyway, the security system now lets us know when someone is coming to our unit—guest or tenant. Garage code typed in, buzz . Unit number dialed at the front for secured entrance, buzz. Elevator depositing someone on your floor, buzz .
It’s annoying, a bit overkill—at least for someone who can’t stand notifications.
Oh, and having a dog that has to be walked ?
It’s not like I need to be notified when Cal is coming and going. The only other person who comes over is Miller, and he always texts or calls ahead of time.
I turned on my notifications this morning after showering, eagerly awaiting Callum’s return from London. Since we moved in together—maybe even since we met—this is the longest stint we’ve been apart, and I miss him.
I hate that I miss him.
These feelings are unwarranted and confusing. Misleading. Especially because I’m at the point in my cycle where my sex drive is ready to go from zero to one hundred. His romance books haven’t helped, and let’s all agree on this: a toy will never be as good as a man who knows how to eat and loves to eat.
Cal looks like both.
I still can’t stop thinking about Cal all day.
I cleaned the entire place, playing a memory game of what products get used where. My nerves about seeing him again had me fluffing the throw pillows and karate chopping the middle anytime I walked past them.
Tapping my phone, I open our text thread, clicking the link to his flight information. The status finally reads the word I’ve been craving to see: LANDED.
Sprinting up the stairs, it's like I’m back in high school getting ready for a first date again. Except I’m not stealing a dress from Adler to wear and having her help me do my makeup. Reaching under the bed, I pull out the bags I’ve been hiding.
Turning around to face the floor-length mirror, I slowly pick my chin up.
Caroline blue, sheer lace bralette. Dainty daisies dot up the thin straps. In the center of each cup, another daisy is pressed to conceal my rosy-brown nipples. My underwear leaves nothing to the imagination—my goal for tonight. I don’t want to leave what I believe is going on between us up to my imagination. I want it all. I want him, and I’m putting it out there for him to see .
Everything I can let him see.
I doubt this is what Miller meant when he said to tell him, but. . .
The material cuts up my hips, sitting above my hip bone. I’ve always had a petite but athletic build. I run my finger along the strap, over a couple stretch marks.
After the accident, I wasn’t able to eat. My appetite vanished as quickly as it all happened, and I lost weight. Became obsessed with it the more that boys noticed. It snowballed from there, becoming my vice: starving myself while I starved for any attention, looking to anything and anyone desperate to feel something.
It lasted a year, but by then, I was numb and didn’t know any better.
Not till Cal.
I want to feel everything with him. Not a quick high, everything.
Choking down the thought that he won’t like what he sees, that somehow when he sees my body again, he’ll notice the—some invisible—scars I’ve inflicted on myself.
A stretch mark from gaining the weight I lost back. A cut on my calf from a skate.
My phone buzzes. He’s entered the garage.
I run my hands through my hair, scrunching the top to add volume and give me a falsely effortless appearance.
Will he even like the lingerie? The question has me staggering on the bottom step. Was this a mistake?
You are going to mess this up, and he’s going to make you leave, leave you— Stop.
I take a deep breath, letting my racing heart return to its positive racing—a giddy anticipation.
Lingerie isn’t for everyone, but I love it. Even on the days I spend at home wearing my silly shirts, I enjoy putting it on.
For the longest time, it was how I expressed what the flirty, feminine, and soft side of me I hid from others. I always enjoyed the empowerment of wearing a matching set under my clothes. It was never for anyone else, only me.
So why are you nervous if this is for you?
My phone buzzes again, the notification for the elevator doors are opening.
I adjust the straps of the bralette, tightening them to push up my boobs, not that they need it. Climbing onto the counter, I lay on my side. Crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to find the most comfortable but hot position.
The keys in the door have me scrambling, deciding right over left, my head resting on my elbow.
Maybe we won’t evenmake it upstairs. Right here is perfectly fine by me. Legs wrapped around him while I’m seated on the counter or bent over.
“Welcome home, Pretty Boy,” I say as the door opens.
My mouth falls open. Eyes wide.
No. No. No, oh no.
I’m frozen in embarrassment, and I never get embarrassed.