18. Daniel
18
Daniel
I blame the dessert table.
I’m sitting in my home office, unable to do anything with Michelle all over the place from her sugar rush. She’s been like this since we got back from the party, unable to stop talking about Chloe.
“She’s just so pretty, Dad! And everyone could see it. Especially some of those guys you work with,” Michelle gushes, bouncing her eyebrows up and down.
I try to keep my focus on the screen in front of me, but it’s no use. “Sweetheart, she’s a very nice young woman, but that’s all there is to it. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for bed now?”
“But Dad, your face! Were you jealous? You kept looking at her…it was kinda cute…like a guard dog or something.”
Jealousy is a strong word, and I’m not about to admit to my wiser than her years ten-year-old that she’s onto something. Where does she get this wit and intuition from?
“Michelle, you’re a kid. You don’t understand how these things work.”
“Sure, Dad.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I was thinking…I want Chloe to come over for my birthday dinner. I wanna keep it small this time. And if you only think of her as a nice young woman, then she’s kinda a really good friend, right? At least, to me she is.”
Crickets.
My jaws drop.
I look up to find her staring at me with wide, curious eyes. They have grown closer together over the past few months, that’s for sure. And with her birthday around the corner, she knows I can’t deny her anything.
Well played, kid.
“Alright, sweetie. If it’ll make you happy, Chloe can come to your birthday dinner.”
“Thanks, Dad! You’re the best!” Michelle exclaims and throws her arms around me in a hug that squeezes the breath out of me.
“Go shower and get some sleep now. I have to catch up on some work.”
Michelle skips out of the room, and I get an unusual urge to bail on work. I open Facebook instead.
Chloe Summers, I type into the search bar. It’s been a good half-year since I last logged in. It’s pretty ironic, considering I run a media empire, yet I’m hardly ever on social media.
Since it’s almost 11:00 P.M. and sleep is playing hard to get, I decide to play detective. I start scrolling through her photos. The latest one she’s put up is an artsy pool shot, slapped with a filter that makes it look like something out of a magazine. The words ‘Just keep swimming.’ sit right there under the photo. Classic Chloe. I wonder if this is somehow related to me. Always finding the silver lining, no matter how stormy it gets. It drives me up the wall sometimes, but I’ve got to admit that the girl’s got grit.
I move on to the next photo and stop dead in my tracks. Is that... me ?
It must be from our drive out of town when trying to secure the Chef for the soirée. It’s just a shot of a hand—my hand, unmistakably—clutching the steering wheel with such force it looks like I’m in a death match with it. The knuckles are bone-white, the veins popping.
Why on earth was I gripping it like my life depended on it? Then I saw the caption she chose: ‘Let it go.’
Really? She’s bold for posting a stealthy shot of me, even if it’s anonymous. ‘Let it go,’ huh? I feel like marching over to her place and showing her exactly how I can ‘let it go.’
What else has Chloe been sharing about me onlin e?
I scroll through to another photo, and it’s a vase bursting with purple flowers. ‘Create your happiness. Create beauty.’ the caption reads. She can’t possibly find anything joyful about a pot of flowers, at least enough to post about it.
Next up is a cozy picture of Chloe and an older lady, probably her mom. They’re cheek to cheek with their teeth on full display. ‘The other piece of me.’ says the caption.
Then there’s a beach picture of Chloe and a friend, both hidden under huge straw hats, wearing bikinis and sipping on those fancy drinks with little umbrellas poking out. Its caption is ‘ Just pure fun in the sun.’
My eyes linger on her in the bikini. She has curves in all the right places. Thin, yet voluptuous. My mind flashes back to our kiss and how my arms wrapped around her waist, then slowly slid down to her hips.
Ugh. I shake my head. This was a bad idea.
I go back to my own Facebook page. It’s so different from Chloe’s colorful feed. The last update is a photo of Maddie and me that she’d taken right after our wedding reception. I remember the warmth of that day and how I looked at her, unaware of the heartache ahead.
I exhale slowly, wondering why my profile has been empty since then. What would I even share? Late nights at the office? Solo dinners? Or a candid moment with Michelle?
The pull of Chloe’s page is too strong, though, and I find myself drawn back to her recent uploads. I’m not sure what I’m searching for as I click through her life in pictures.
Then I see it—a photo of Chloe wrapped in an embrace with some guy, their lips locked in a kiss. Her hand is outstretched towards the camera, and a ring sparkling on her finger. The caption reads, ‘ I said yes! ’
But the ring is gone now. It seems Chloe and I may have something in common—both touched by love’s fleeting promise.
If I continue to browse, I’ll spiral forever thinking about what happened with her ex-fiancée.
I need to visit my therapist again. I used to see her consistently after Maddie’s passing, but our sessions have become more of an as needed basis over the past year. I sure need it now.
I send her a quick email and call it a night.
***
I get back on the grind the following day. I sit through calls behind closed doors and sign so many contracts that my fingers momentarily go numb. I catch myself about to call Chloe throughout the morning for some input, but I stop short. I figure I can handle it—or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
But the itch to talk to her doesn’t go away, and eventually, I cave. I dial her extension, only Sarah answers. “Daniel Andrews office, Sarah speaking.”
Sarah?
“Sarah, can you come in here for a second?” I ask.
Sarah pops into my office with a notepad a few minutes later. “You called for me, Mr. Andrews.”
“Where’s Chloe today? I called her extension but got routed to you.”
“She called in sick. I’m covering for her, sir.”
Sick? A knot forms in my stomach. Is she really sick, or is this just her way of avoiding me after overhearing what I said last night? The possibilities are unsettling.
“I see. Can you get Alex for me?” I dismiss Sarah with a nod.
Alex strolls inside a bit later. “Hi, Mr. Andrews.”
“Have you heard from Chloe today? I heard she called in sick. How sick is she?”
Alex nods, “I stopped by her place for a few minutes late last night to drop something off after she got home from the soirée. She started feeling sick around midnight and I heard it got worse this morning.”
A pang of jealousy hits me.
Did Alex spend the night with Chloe? What’s going on here? Or did he go there for her friend? Or are they all in cahoots with each other?
My thoughts consume me, but I regain focus.
“Did you take her to the hospital?”
He pauses. “Chloe’s got this thing about hospitals, and she’s pretty darn stubborn.”
“So, no?”
“No.”
“Alright. Thank you, Alex.”
Alex heads out, and I bury myself back in work, but my focus is anywhere but on task—the morning just slipped away, with my thoughts drifting off course. Thankfully, the afternoon’s packed schedule leaves no room for distractions.
As I step out of my office to make my way to the next meeting, I see Chloe’s office empty, and it feels… wrong . She should be here. It feels like I’m missing something when she’s not here. That’s it. I’m going to stop by her place when I leave the office, even though she made it clear that she doesn’t want me anywhere around there. I need to make sure she’s okay.
When I leave, I find myself pulling into the parking lot of a pharmacy first. I walk in, the automatic doors closing behind me with a soft whoosh.
The cashier looks up when I stop in front of her, expectant, and I realize I have no idea what I’m doing here.
What am I supposed to buy for Chloe? I don’t even know what’s wrong with her.
“I need... well, I want a little of everything,” I tell the woman. “The most popular painkillers, cold medicine, anything for the flu—just cover the bases.”
She looks at me like I’ve gone off the deep end.
“Just charge it to this,” I say, sliding my black credit card on the counter. The cashier nods and starts to gather a variety of first aid supplies, painkillers, upset stomach and flu remedies. I watch as she scans each item, the total climbing higher and higher, but I don’t care.
As the cashier bags up the last items, I take the heavy bags and head back to my car. Am I really going to go to her apartment? Things have already been intense, and I probably shouldn’t make it worse.
I grab my phone and dial Alex. “Meet me in front of the office in ten minutes.”
Alex is in front of the office building, waiting. He looks every bit as confused as I feel when I hand him the six bags filled with drugs.
“Give these to Chloe.” My voice is forced. “Let her pick whatever she needs if she’s too stubborn to see a doctor. And make sure she’s taken care of.”
“Mr. Andrews?” Alex asks just as I’m about to climb back into my car.
“I obviously need my assistant to get better and back at work. I can’t have her slacking off because she’s under the weather,” I say, and without waiting for a response, I slide into the driver’s seat and drive away.