15. Chloe
FIFTEEN
CHLOE
THEN
“It’s the first day of the rest of our lives,” I tell Anni on the morning of our first day of classes at UC San Diego.
College is the moment I’ve been waiting for since I was twelve.
I’d lie awake in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, wishing for the day I could leave my hometown.
Annika rolls her eyes at me as she gets dressed in her usual garb of denim shorts, a band tee, and her white Converse.
Her black hair is straightened, and she’s pulled it back with a thin red headband, matching the red logo on her shirt.
I smooth down my new scarlet dress. I fell in love with how the straps are tied around my shoulders and the ends cascade down my back.
I feel like I should be frolicking through a meadow, but the pavement of our college campus will have to do.
“You say that every day we start a new school year.”
“Yeah, but it’s actually true this time. We are in a new city—a big city!”
“I don’t know if I’d consider San Diego a big city.”
“Compared to Ojai, it’s massive,” I retort.
“I guess that is true.”
We leave our dorm suite and head to our first class.
Annika and I have the same major, Marketing, so most of our classes are the same, though there are a few that we had to take separately, like our electives.
I’m taking a fine art elective, and she’s trying a photography course.
As we walk along the paved sidewalks through campus, I feel invincible.
The sun is bright, and it constantly recharges my internal batteries.
We’ve lived here barely two weeks, and I never want to leave.
It feels like the place I’m meant to be.
I look around at the other students walking past. No one knows me or my past. No one knows me as the girl whose dad left her, or the freshman girl who slept with the soccer captain, or the girl who lives with her best friend’s family.
The people here know nothing about me. I could reinvent myself if I wanted to. Maybe I’ll change my name.
“What name do I look like?” I ask Anni suddenly.
“Hmm, maybe an Emma. Or an Audrey,” Annika says without missing a beat.
“Oh, Audrey, that sounds so sophisticated.”
“Honestly, you fit the name Chloe well. It is simple, effortless, and pretty,” Anni says, as if she didn’t just give me a wonderful compliment.
“I like my name too. It’s the only thing my parents got right,” I say, trying not to be solemn. Today is an exciting day, after all.
“Do you know why they named you Chloe?” she asks, and I can honestly say I do not. I have no clue why they named me Chloe. I assumed my mom found the name in a baby book and picked it without the slightest thought.
The time periods between speaking to her gradually became longer and longer.
When I first started staying at the Gomeses’ house, it would only be for a few hours, and then I would go back to my house.
However, even when I was home, I rarely saw my mom.
By the time I got to senior year and had my own room there, I’d stay sometimes a whole week at the Gomeses’.
I’d only go to my house on weekends to check on my mom out of guilt, like I was supposed to be a good daughter and see my mom.
Even if she rarely called me. The phone works both ways, after all.
But I couldn’t help but feel bad that maybe she was hurting and needed someone too.
We’re approaching the building of our first class, and I absolutely refuse to have my past dampen my future.
I close my eyes and tilt my head up to the sky.
I can feel Anni link her arm in mine so she can guide us to where we are going.
I give her arm a squeeze and take a big, deep breath in and out.
I look directly at the sky and see blue and white.
I feel at ease. Anni leans her head over to mine, and then we separate, heading into our first classes.
I’m not sure if marketing was the best choice for me.
I barely have a clue about what is being said, but thankfully, I have Anni by my side.
At the very minimum, I just need to pass.
I’ve never been the best at schoolwork, but not the worst either.
I feel satisfied when I complete things, so homework is my favorite task at school, and I always fly through it.
Lectures and tests, though, are a struggle.
I have trouble sitting still for long periods when hearing someone talk about a subject I barely care about.
And tests are the least satisfying thing ever, unless I get graded immediately after.
My fine arts elective is my favorite for obvious reasons.
I wish I could be a painter professionally.
I would bum it at a beach, painting strangers for cash if I could.
I fantasize about what it would be like to take off on my own and go by the rules I set out for myself.
A part of me feels like I am both untethered to anything yet stuck on where to go.
I don’t know how to be alone, and that scares me.
Going off to college with my best friend feels a bit like running off, even if it feels like we are playing roles set out for us—going to school, going to college, etc.
But I see it as a place to start fresh. It’s the first time in my life that I can experience new things that aren’t tied to my family.
My mother, father, and I would go to a pizza place in Ojai every Friday night when I was a kid.
It was my favorite tradition of ours. I’d order two slices of cheese pizza and a cup of ranch to dip them in.
My mom would order a slice of the Grandma’s Pie special, and my dad would get a slice of the Meat Lovers.
This was the only moment when I felt like we were actually a family.
It felt normal, like hanging out with Annika and her family.
But looking back, I can recognize my parents’ bickering—and the stares they’d give each other.
Disgust in my father’s eyes as he looked at my mother.
I don’t know how long my dad lived a secret life, but I wonder if he took his other family to a pizza place weekly.
I wonder if they laughed and looked at each other with love.
A part of me wants to wish he’s miserable wherever he is, but I don’t.
I wish him well. I hope he found happiness and love that he couldn’t find with me and my mom.
However, I am envious of his other family.
Why couldn’t the roles be reversed? Why couldn’t I be in the family that he loved?
I look out the window of our dorm room, which overlooks a corner of the campus, imagining making my own path here and finding new people to love me. Nothing here is stained with past memories, and I’m a brand-new version of myself.
Our campus has three coffee shops sprawled out at different ends of the school.
The one nearest to our dorm is where I’ve been spending a lot of free time.
It’s spacious and has plenty of tables and couches.
It isn’t anything special decor-wise. It feels just like a college café—uninspiring, flat, with dark green paint on the walls, and dark wooden tables—but the people inside give it life.
Other students around me have their laptops open while they either furiously type away or scroll on their phones.
Stickers adorn the backs of computers with brand names or characters from TV shows.
Some even have sayings that are clues to their majors.
I like to look around, guess each person’s personality, and give them a name.
At my corner seat, I can see most of the students in the room, the people walking in, and the baristas working the counter. I glance around at the people sitting and studying, pulling out my sketchbook to mindlessly doodle.
A guy with shaggy brown hair, wearing an oversized gray hoodie, sits hunched across from me at the other end of the café.
I’ll name him Shawn. Shawn’s laptop is littered with stickers of various bands.
I don’t recognize most of them, but from the looks of it, I’d guess indie rock.
I tend to sway toward the pop-country genre myself, but I can appreciate the enthusiasm Shawn gives.
I’d guess he’s a communications major and probably buying concert tickets right now.
A girl with a slicked-back high ponytail and tortoise-frame glasses walks in and takes a seat at a two-seater by the window.
Claiming her seat is a smart move. She takes a computer from her quilted bag and sets it on the table before heading to the counter to order.
She returns and sits down, opening the computer.
Her laptop has stickers like “Girls in STEM rule!” and “What? Like it’s hard?
” So, she’s a smart girl, maybe a math or chemistry major.
I’m going to give her the name Sarah. She seems nice; she smiles at her computer as if delighted to be typing away at whatever she’s working on.
I think she’s secretly writing a Western romance book that she won’t dare to publish until one night, when she’s had too much wine. She seems fun. I think we’d get along.
“Kate, a, uh, oat chai latte is ready for you,” the icy-blond-haired barista says.
However, I don’t think Sarah/Kate heard him.
She’s still typing away at her laptop. I look back at the barista, and he’s already working on the next order.
I don’t want her oat chai latte to get cold.
That’s the worst thing ever. To order a hot drink without realizing it’s been sitting at the counter for several minutes, only to take a sip and it’s lukewarm.
I get up, grab the cup, and walk it over to her.
“Hey, Kate? This is yours. He called your name, but I don’t think you heard,” I say, sliding the cup next to her. Her gaze shoots up at me. She pushes the bridge of her glasses higher on her nose.
“Oh, thanks!” she says, smiling, “Hey, can I get a napkin?”
“Oh, I don’t work here … but sure, hold on,” I say and dart over, grabbing her a small stack of napkins and handing it over. She smiles in thanks and goes back to typing furiously.
I walk over to the barista stand and wait for the blond guy to approach me. He’s making a drink, so I wait a few more moments, and he hasn’t even acknowledged me. I clear my throat to see if he notices me there. Nothing, not even a glance, comes my way.
“Excuse me,” I say to him. I think he’s ignoring me at this point.
I stand on my tiptoes and look at his apron.
The name “DANE” is written in all capitals.
“Hey, Dane!” I say a bit too loudly, but he finally looks up, his blond hair falling in front of his face, and he flips his head so the hair sways out of his face.
At this moment, I forget all the words in the English language because he’s perhaps the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen in my life.
Dane has grey eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like that before.
They have a softness about them that fits in with the rest of his appearance.
He’s cut the sleeves off his barista uniform, which has deep holes on the sides and an apron slung over the top.
I can see ridges of lean muscle through the holes in his shirt.
He looks up at me in question, biting his bottom lip and raising his eyebrows.
“Hi, can I order?”
“Didn’t you already order? You’ve been sitting over there for twenty minutes,” he says, gesturing to my seat in the corner. I realize now I left my sketchbook open, revealing my scratches of the other patrons in the café.
Wait, he’s noticed me?
“I didn’t realize you kept tabs on people here,” I say, tilting my head and giving him a small smirk.
He rolls his eyes. “Only the cute ones,” he says nonchalantly, and flips a towel over his shoulder. “What can I get you, Chloe?” he says to me with a straight face, looking down, wiping something from the counter. When he looks up at me again, he’s smiling and meets my blue eyes with his grey ones.
I bite my own lip now and say, “I’d like your phone number.”
He releases a breathy laugh and says, “Wow, bold.” He grabs a coffee cup, writes something on it, and then says, “You can wait over there—your order will be ready in a minute.” He gestures to the pick-up end.
“But I didn’t even tell you my drink order?”
“I know what you like, Chloe,” he says, looking up with a grin.
I walk over and watch him as he makes my drink. He slowly pours the milk foam into the cup, forming a heart on top, and slides it over to me.
“Chloe, your ‘date with me tomorrow at noon at Dean’s Park under the willow tree’ is ready for you.
” He gives me another wink, and I grab the cup and take a sip.
He made me my usual favorite. A whole milk latte with hazelnut syrup.
I turn the cup and see he’s written “Dane + Chloe” and a phone number underneath.
My heart does a cartwheel. I smile back at him and turn to the table I was sitting at, looking into the swirly milk foam heart, thinking, This one might be the one that sticks around after all.