Chapter 15 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing #3
“I mean, yeah. But I love my baby sister. I would do anything for her.” I scratch at the back of my neck awkwardly.
“Kyla and I are very close. We always have been. I hope we always will be. We live together now, although I’m not sure for how much longer.
She just graduated from college and is looking for a job.
It might take her to another city, or it might keep her in Toronto. I don’t know yet.”
“What about your dad?”
“He…also passed. A year ago. Actually, I guess the anniversary is in a few weeks.”
“Shit, Chloe. I thought my sob story was sad, but this…I’m sorry. I’m saying all the wrong things here.”
I laugh. Between both my parents’ deaths, I have a growing list of weird shit that people have said to me; everything from “They live within you” (which is so weird—why are you quoting The Lion King stage musical to an adult who just lost their parent?), to “Everything happens for a reason” (Oh, really?
What reason? To give me trauma and a sad backstory?).
“Nolan, don’t even worry about it. It’s sad, yeah, but it’s also…I don’t know, kind of full circle. Is that fucked-up to think?”
“It depends on what you mean.”
“Well, Dad was devastated when Mom died. Like, devastated. He never dated again, never remarried. He kind of floundered. But when he was in the hospital, he looked so happy at the idea that he would see Mom again. Like, he knew his daughters were adults and didn’t need him anymore, so he could finally go be with his one true love and let us figure ourselves out. ”
These are words I’ve never spoken aloud. And I know, before Nolan even responds, that they are fucked-up. Because they identify the one emotion constantly simmering beneath all my grief, even since my mom’s death: anger.
And I’m starting to wonder if that’s why talking about my family is so…
complicated. Because I’ve been angry at Dad for giving up.
For putting so much on me. He never acknowledged that I was still just a kid, when I stepped in to take care of Kyla after Mom died.
Because he could barely even take care of himself, let alone his two young daughters.
I know why his health failed—it was because he drank, smoked, and ate like shit.
I get why he spent the years after her death spiraling.
But I had needed him…and he hadn’t been there for me.
At the end, there was a moment, in the hospital.
We knew that Dad was in rough shape, and his heart was failing.
Death had been such a scary topic for all of us, but Kyla was trying to comfort him as things were looking grim, and she told him not to worry about what comes next, because “you’ll see Mama again. ”
And after those words slipped from her lips, he smiled.
It wasn’t a sad smile. It wasn’t a “Yes, but at what cost?” smile.
It was a “Finally” smile.
And it killed me.
I shake my head to shrug off the grief threatening to overtake me and flick my eyes to Nolan’s. “Pretty fucked-up, right?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” he agrees. “Look, I’m going to be weird for a second here, because that’s kind of my MO.”
“Oh, yeah?” I arch a brow as he gently pushes off from the island and steps toward me.
“Can I give you a hug?”
My instinct is to say no, like it always is.
I get it—hugs make people feel better. They make people feel closer.
But all I know about hugs is that they’re what you get anytime someone finds out your parents are dead. And it’s always stiff and awkward. The scent of the other person envelops you and then follows you for the rest of the day, their warmth feeling wrong, almost too hot.
But Nolan…I think I could let Nolan hug me.
I mean, not just because I’m very clearly attracted to him. It’s more like…if his hugs are anything like his smiles, then I’d want to experience that forever.
I nod, and he gently takes my hands, uncrosses them from over my chest, and draws me in toward him. I breathe in. Cinnamon and citrus, and a hint of vanilla. Spicy and fresh, but sweet, too. Just like Nolan.
He rests his chin on the top of my head, and I melt in his arms.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly. I lay my head against his chest and nod, closing my eyes. He holds me tighter.
We stay like that for a minute or two, but I don’t want to let go.
Only, the timer for the steak goes off and my stomach immediately screams out at the thought of food—so loudly that Nolan hears it and chuckles.
“You weren’t lying, you really are hungry.”
“Starving,” I say as we pull apart.
Nolan moves toward the oven, pulling it open and snagging a mitt off the counter. I watch him finish up dinner, plating it with the same intensity I imagine he has when he’s plating a meal for a guest.
“Come on, time to eat.” His grin is wolfish, and I realize that the anxious butterflies I had been feeling before have faded into something warm and comforting, like easing into a hot bath at the end of a long day.
I follow him out the door and smile—feeling, for the first time in a long time, like my heart is full.