Love, Chloe
Page 7
“Ahem.” My subtle throat clear got me nothing, the frantic kissing—if anything—heating up.
“Cam.” I reached for my cell, ready to throw it at her, my eyes instead catching on the time display. And that was when my irritation grew tenfold. Not even eight. On a Saturday morning. I rolled over on the loveseat, throwing the blanket over my head, not at all interested in meeting her date. I had a pretty good idea of who it was, especially when I heard the smooth scrape of an accent whisper her name. I hid under the covers, eavesdropping despite my best attempt to go back to sleep. At some point among their whispered goodbyes, I fell back asleep and was spared anything more ’til noon, when Cammie and Benta pushed me awake and into clothes, promising sushi and sake.
An hour later, and I would scream if I heard Dante’s name one more time. Cammie wouldn’t shut up about him. Granted, I might have been a teensy bit jealous, my own romp envisioned with the strong and silent Italian.
Plus, to be honest, how awkward would it be if this turned into anything—my co-worker and my best friend? Chances were it wouldn’t. In the five years I’d known Cammie, she’d never had a relationship last more than a few months. Her eye … wandered. That was the nicest way to say it. Tell her she couldn’t touch something, and she’d trample your ass in her haste to dig her fingers in. Benta, on the other hand … well, Benta was weird. I could spend an entire week talking about her crazy love life, one that included some of the freakiest sex on the planet.
After two sake bombs, courtesy of my friends, I forgot any irritation about being woken up early. Cammie was freaking beaming at us as she dissected every last moment with Dante, so I couldn’t help but be happy for her on that front too. Not that I could really stay mad at the person keeping me from sleeping on the streets.
We left lunch slightly buzzed, stumbling our way into her apartment, no evidence of flooding present, where she wandered to bed. I found cleaning supplies, determined to be the Best Houseguest Ever and clean the kitchen. I had Spotify playing, a Lysol wipe in hand, and was on a stool, emptying out the cabinet above the fridge, when I moved aside Cammie’s cereal and felt it. My fingers closed on it without thought, pulling it out, the box instantly recognizable, a powder blue one with a tag that made my stomach curl into a tight fist. I stepped off the stool and wondered why, in the jumble of healthy crap that had been in that cabinet—there was a jewelry box with my name on it.
I didn’t have to wonder too much. The box was trademark Vic, my name scrawled in his rough handwriting on a crisp white tag. My denied engagement ring had been Harry Winston, but every birthday, Valentine’s, and “just-because” present was from Tiffany’s.
I sat down on a stool, smoothing the label’s white ribbon with a trembling finger. Half of me wanted to rip off its lid in my haste to see the gift. The other half wanted to drive to the closest dumpster and fling the box inside. Vic had picked this out. Thought of me. Still wanted to spoil me. For a girl who’d spent Christmas ignored by everyone but my two friends, it hit hard. I gently tugged on the ribbon and lifted the lid, seeing a folded note on top.
When I opened the note, the spicy scent of him floated up from the linen stock.
My love,
I will think of you every Christmas for the rest of my life. I hope, whatever you do this year, you are happy.
Always yours,
Vic
I set it down, my heart seizing, the words painful to read. I picked up the box and looked at the pendant earrings, delicate clusters of diamonds that circled a larger stone. Perfect. Not that I had expected anything less. I closed the box and pushed it back, lowering my head ’til it rested on the counter and allowed myself a moment of tears.
I missed him. I loved him as strongly as I did when we were together. Yes, he’d broken my heart. But it had taken every bit of my willpower not to relent when he’d begged for forgiveness, when he’d drunkenly professed his devotion to me from a busy street while I stayed cozy in my old apartment, pretending not to hear. When he’d cried. The man, despite everything else, knew how to get me. Knew how to seduce and how to wrap my heart up so tight that I was scared I’d never rip it free.
I hated him.
I loved him.
I wanted him.
I missed him.
And I really should call and thank him for the gift.
I didn’t call him. Instead, I did the right thing, putting on my big girl pants and writing him a letter. A polite letter in which I thanked him for the gift, but firmly refused it. I stated that we were no longer together, and I didn’t feel such gifts were appropriate. I wrapped it and the Tiffany’s box together and put them in a bag for his driver to pick up.
My high road was a short one. Less than ten minutes later, I threw the letter in the trash and put the earrings in their proper place: my earlobes. I glanced at my watch, realized I had less than twenty minutes to escape before Cammie got home, and called Benta.
“Want to treat your poor best friend to dinner?”
The girl didn’t hesitate, and forty-five minutes later we were sitting at a rooftop bar and ordering drinks.
“Cute earrings,” she noted, gesturing with her straw toward my ears.
“Thanks.” I waved to the bartender, trying to divert this conversation to appetizers.
“They look like something I saw a few weeks ago. In a box. From Viiiiicc.” She stretched his name into three syllables.
Shit. I stopped trying to get the bartender’s attention and turned to her. “You knew?”
Of course she knew. Cammie couldn’t get her eyebrows waxed without a sidekick so Benta had been the first call made when Vic dropped off the gift. They’d decided I was better off not knowing and hid it.
“I told her it was too risky keeping them at her house, especially with you staying there.” She rolled her eyes, as if to say, Rookie mistake…
My irritation mounted. “I can handle Vic. It wasn’t up to either of you to keep that from me.”
“Oh please!” Benta’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Do you remember what you were like after that breakup? How you lived on your couch, binging on reality TV and subjecting every poor food delivery guy to your sob story?” It was true. I still couldn’t order from my favorite pizza place. “I know you. Right now, you’re thinking that you should call Vic and thank him for the earrings. Let me tell you, Vic bought that present with the change rattling around in his cupholder. It’s not like he thought out the gift and is sitting by the phone, anxiously waiting on your call.”
I shut my mouth, my witty comeback dampened, the picture she drew of Vic exactly what I had been envisioning.
Benta leaned forward. “Forget Vic. Let me set you up with this guy we’ve hired. He’s gorgeous, Chloe, and he’s hilarious.”
“Yeah?” I looked at her. “Then why aren’t you dating him?”
“He’s too passive for me. I need a man who’ll fight back when I kick.”
Too passive. Wow, she knew how to sell ’em. “Pass. I could use some singledom.”
“You’ve been single eight months. It’s been long enough.”
Food came, saving me from a response, and I pulled out my phone. Checked my email and saw a few from Nicole. Skimmed their contents and murmured support while Benta checked out the bartender’s ass.
The last email caused me to look up, catching her stealing a sip of my drink. I snagged it back. “Nicole just emailed me, saying she’ll be in Vegas in March.”
“Cam.” I reached for my cell, ready to throw it at her, my eyes instead catching on the time display. And that was when my irritation grew tenfold. Not even eight. On a Saturday morning. I rolled over on the loveseat, throwing the blanket over my head, not at all interested in meeting her date. I had a pretty good idea of who it was, especially when I heard the smooth scrape of an accent whisper her name. I hid under the covers, eavesdropping despite my best attempt to go back to sleep. At some point among their whispered goodbyes, I fell back asleep and was spared anything more ’til noon, when Cammie and Benta pushed me awake and into clothes, promising sushi and sake.
An hour later, and I would scream if I heard Dante’s name one more time. Cammie wouldn’t shut up about him. Granted, I might have been a teensy bit jealous, my own romp envisioned with the strong and silent Italian.
Plus, to be honest, how awkward would it be if this turned into anything—my co-worker and my best friend? Chances were it wouldn’t. In the five years I’d known Cammie, she’d never had a relationship last more than a few months. Her eye … wandered. That was the nicest way to say it. Tell her she couldn’t touch something, and she’d trample your ass in her haste to dig her fingers in. Benta, on the other hand … well, Benta was weird. I could spend an entire week talking about her crazy love life, one that included some of the freakiest sex on the planet.
After two sake bombs, courtesy of my friends, I forgot any irritation about being woken up early. Cammie was freaking beaming at us as she dissected every last moment with Dante, so I couldn’t help but be happy for her on that front too. Not that I could really stay mad at the person keeping me from sleeping on the streets.
We left lunch slightly buzzed, stumbling our way into her apartment, no evidence of flooding present, where she wandered to bed. I found cleaning supplies, determined to be the Best Houseguest Ever and clean the kitchen. I had Spotify playing, a Lysol wipe in hand, and was on a stool, emptying out the cabinet above the fridge, when I moved aside Cammie’s cereal and felt it. My fingers closed on it without thought, pulling it out, the box instantly recognizable, a powder blue one with a tag that made my stomach curl into a tight fist. I stepped off the stool and wondered why, in the jumble of healthy crap that had been in that cabinet—there was a jewelry box with my name on it.
I didn’t have to wonder too much. The box was trademark Vic, my name scrawled in his rough handwriting on a crisp white tag. My denied engagement ring had been Harry Winston, but every birthday, Valentine’s, and “just-because” present was from Tiffany’s.
I sat down on a stool, smoothing the label’s white ribbon with a trembling finger. Half of me wanted to rip off its lid in my haste to see the gift. The other half wanted to drive to the closest dumpster and fling the box inside. Vic had picked this out. Thought of me. Still wanted to spoil me. For a girl who’d spent Christmas ignored by everyone but my two friends, it hit hard. I gently tugged on the ribbon and lifted the lid, seeing a folded note on top.
When I opened the note, the spicy scent of him floated up from the linen stock.
My love,
I will think of you every Christmas for the rest of my life. I hope, whatever you do this year, you are happy.
Always yours,
Vic
I set it down, my heart seizing, the words painful to read. I picked up the box and looked at the pendant earrings, delicate clusters of diamonds that circled a larger stone. Perfect. Not that I had expected anything less. I closed the box and pushed it back, lowering my head ’til it rested on the counter and allowed myself a moment of tears.
I missed him. I loved him as strongly as I did when we were together. Yes, he’d broken my heart. But it had taken every bit of my willpower not to relent when he’d begged for forgiveness, when he’d drunkenly professed his devotion to me from a busy street while I stayed cozy in my old apartment, pretending not to hear. When he’d cried. The man, despite everything else, knew how to get me. Knew how to seduce and how to wrap my heart up so tight that I was scared I’d never rip it free.
I hated him.
I loved him.
I wanted him.
I missed him.
And I really should call and thank him for the gift.
I didn’t call him. Instead, I did the right thing, putting on my big girl pants and writing him a letter. A polite letter in which I thanked him for the gift, but firmly refused it. I stated that we were no longer together, and I didn’t feel such gifts were appropriate. I wrapped it and the Tiffany’s box together and put them in a bag for his driver to pick up.
My high road was a short one. Less than ten minutes later, I threw the letter in the trash and put the earrings in their proper place: my earlobes. I glanced at my watch, realized I had less than twenty minutes to escape before Cammie got home, and called Benta.
“Want to treat your poor best friend to dinner?”
The girl didn’t hesitate, and forty-five minutes later we were sitting at a rooftop bar and ordering drinks.
“Cute earrings,” she noted, gesturing with her straw toward my ears.
“Thanks.” I waved to the bartender, trying to divert this conversation to appetizers.
“They look like something I saw a few weeks ago. In a box. From Viiiiicc.” She stretched his name into three syllables.
Shit. I stopped trying to get the bartender’s attention and turned to her. “You knew?”
Of course she knew. Cammie couldn’t get her eyebrows waxed without a sidekick so Benta had been the first call made when Vic dropped off the gift. They’d decided I was better off not knowing and hid it.
“I told her it was too risky keeping them at her house, especially with you staying there.” She rolled her eyes, as if to say, Rookie mistake…
My irritation mounted. “I can handle Vic. It wasn’t up to either of you to keep that from me.”
“Oh please!” Benta’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Do you remember what you were like after that breakup? How you lived on your couch, binging on reality TV and subjecting every poor food delivery guy to your sob story?” It was true. I still couldn’t order from my favorite pizza place. “I know you. Right now, you’re thinking that you should call Vic and thank him for the earrings. Let me tell you, Vic bought that present with the change rattling around in his cupholder. It’s not like he thought out the gift and is sitting by the phone, anxiously waiting on your call.”
I shut my mouth, my witty comeback dampened, the picture she drew of Vic exactly what I had been envisioning.
Benta leaned forward. “Forget Vic. Let me set you up with this guy we’ve hired. He’s gorgeous, Chloe, and he’s hilarious.”
“Yeah?” I looked at her. “Then why aren’t you dating him?”
“He’s too passive for me. I need a man who’ll fight back when I kick.”
Too passive. Wow, she knew how to sell ’em. “Pass. I could use some singledom.”
“You’ve been single eight months. It’s been long enough.”
Food came, saving me from a response, and I pulled out my phone. Checked my email and saw a few from Nicole. Skimmed their contents and murmured support while Benta checked out the bartender’s ass.
The last email caused me to look up, catching her stealing a sip of my drink. I snagged it back. “Nicole just emailed me, saying she’ll be in Vegas in March.”
