Chloe (13 page)

“Not yet,” she repeats. It is a strange way to answer his
questions. He supposes it means she plans on it.

James practically flops back into bed, beset by relief.
“Thank God.”

Chloe laughs, hurriedly settling a hand on her stack of
papers so they do not go sliding all over the place. She hasn’t laughed in a
while. James sits up, briefly sharing in the laugh that is gradually tapering
off. They stare into each other’s eyes. James’ eyes start to trace the telling
path between Chloe’s eyes and her lips. He moves his lips closer to hers. She
pulls away.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

James laughs nervously and rights himself. He rubs the back
of his neck, kicking himself inside. When it comes to Chloe, everything
backfires. Embarrassed, “May have misread that. Thought we were about to kiss.”

Chloe watches him from the corners of her eyes, trying to
keep the heat out of her cheeks. “Why would you think that?”

Sometimes, James just wants to shake her. And then kiss some
sense into her. “Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head while he maintains some
semblance of a smile.

As if he does not already know, “Best friends don’t kiss,”
she reminds him.

Lovelorn, “I know.”

Chloe narrows her bright eyes. “Is there something you want
to tell me, James?”

You don’t want to know you missed something beautiful
because you chose to be silent,
he hears his mother say.

And Chloe is
so
beautiful…

James considers pouring his heart out—a scene he has envisioned
many times before, on bended knee even. It does not feel like the right time.
Then again, how should he know? Every move he has ever made has been at the
wrong time. Every time is the wrong time. Besides, the way she asks that
question presents him with the truth: She does know. She has probably known for
some time.

James picks up a few sheets from Chloe’s pile of work. “Are
these all poems?” His eyes dart over the prose.

“Short stories,” Chloe explains. “One novella. Think the
novella would make a good movie.” She smiles excitedly.

“A movie?” James repeats, recalling the two tickets he never
uses, still collecting dust in his dresser drawer.

“Yeah,” she celebrates. “Gonna’ stop at the book store and
get some books on writing a movie script.” Her eyes practically sparkle like
precious gems just beyond his reach.

“Love your enthusiasm,” he encourages. Chloe can do
anything. Of this, he is certain.

“Only ma’ enthusiasm?” she asks, gently nudging his arm with
her elbow. It is as though she is
trying
to get him to pour his heart
out. He is probably reading too much into it. As well as Chloe writes, she is
impossible for him to read. Not the work. The
girl
.

So James smiles, but remains silent.

•

The bookstore is largely empty this afternoon. So is the
complementary newspaper rack. The small coffee corner along the wall is closing
shop for the day. A barista clears out the bakery display, putting the
pastries, cookies, and bagels away so they will not spoil for the following
morning. Soothing alternative music plays from the speakers situated in the
corners of the ceiling as the world gradually winds down.

Chloe browses through the playwriting and screenwriting
sections, searching for several books on technique and formatting. She has a
mind to try it. If she fails, she fails. She is having trouble deciding between
several selections. More than once, she puts a book back on the shelf only to
take it out again. She holds one in each hand, her attention volleying between
them as though her body is a measuring scale of sorts.

Meanwhile, the cashier is watching her from the front
counter. She is young, tall, and slender with an array of piercings and a
creative up-do. The right side of her head is buzzed to the skull. Her double
shift is just about over and she is itching to go home. She stands, chewing her
gum lazily. Her nametag reads
Beth
.

Chloe decides on a few titles and hopes she will not regret
buying them. It is not a waste of money if she plans to use them, right? Even
as she reaches for her final decisions, she feels uncertain.

She extracts two copies from the shelf, creating a space big
enough to see the adjoining aisle, and the face of Patrick staring back at her.
Chloe startles, nearly dropping the books. Clutching them tight against her
chest, she quickly goes around to the other isle and peeks around the corner,
but there is no one there. Chloe’s brows knit together. Finally, she shrugs.

Chloe heads over to the cashier who greets her with a tight
smile and starts scanning the books one at a time. Chloe drums her fingers on
the counter, her eyes watching the price screen and the growing dollar amount.
She turns her head and glances back down the aisle again. Patrick is standing
at the end. He steps behind the shelf, out of sight. Chloe races back down the
aisle, searching for him wildly. Beth, holding the scanner in one hand and a
book in the other, is no longer smiling.

Chloe reaches the end of the aisle. She looks in both directions,
scanning the immediate area for any sign of her phantom father. Again, she
finds no one. Discouraged and confused, Chloe treks back to the check-out
counter, dragging her feet. She starts fishing for her wallet when Beth hands
her the books, already packaged and ready to go.

“How much?” Chloe asks, shifting the stack to her hip as she
fumbles through her wallet, past old receipts and coupons that have gone
unused.

Beth blows a bubble with her baby blue gum. Chloe can smell
the cotton candy flavor. She smacks the gum for a moment. Deadpan, “Already
paid for.”

Chloe looks up and meets her eyes. She frowns and blinks,
waiting to see if the mistake will register with Beth. It doesn’t. “I don’t
remember paying you,” she prompts.

“You didn’t,” she declares simply, as though it should be
obvious. Beth directs Chloe’s attention towards the door with a deliberate
point of her finger. “
He
did.” Chloe knows who Beth is referring to
before she even looks. Patrick is standing within view outside of the glass double
doors. He is waiting by the side of the busy roadway, standing casually with
his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. Steady traffic zooms past him,
which is typical during rush hour. Chloe closes her wallet.

Chloe’s feet carry her out of the bookstore, flanked by the
cheerful door-chime. She moves to join her father on the curb. The weather is
balmy, buffered by a light breeze. It is all so surreal. This feels so
ridiculously trivial, standing out here in the middle of plain-as-white-rice
ordinary reality with
him
when he is supposed to be some mysterious,
spectral being. She wonders if the people zooming by in their cars can see him,
and if they can, if they have any grasp of the gravity of that.

Do they have any inkling whatsoever of the implications his
mere presence entails? The effect it has on her life?

She gives him a quizzical once-over, managing to restrain
herself from succumbing to the urge to reach out and poke and prod him. Beth
can see him. He has substance enough to make a purchase. “You’re not a figment
of ma’ imagination… are you?” she asks.

“Afraid not,” Patrick says, turning his head and leveling
her with a melancholy smirk.

Chloe shakes her head and combs her fingers through her
hair. She does not know how to respond. It almost feels like he is upset not to
be just a figment. Or perhaps he is just less than thrilled to be standing here
with her at all. That must be it. Chloe glances down at the books in her arms.

“What do you want from me?” she asks softly.

“This is not your life, Chloe,” he declares. “We are all
trapped in an endless, meaningless cycle. None of us are free. Nothing is as it
seems.”

Chloe balks, narrowing her eyes and regarding Patrick in a
completely different light.
Trapped.
She hates that word. It frightens her.
She wants freedom. That is why she writes. “I have absolutely no idea what
you’re talking about.”

Patrick shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to show you.”

Before Chloe can ask him how he plans to do that, Patrick
steps off of the curb and out into the path of an oncoming bus. Chloe screams,
the books spilling out of her arms. A horn blares. Breaks screech. The bus
slams into Patrick.

Chloe awakens in a cold sweat. She sits up in bed with a
start and a shriek on the tip of her tongue. She frantically wipes her face,
checking herself over, looking for blood. It is clean. In fact, nothing is
amiss at all. Her room looks perfectly normal. Chloe exhales a great sigh of
relief and flops back into bed and scrubs her face with her hands.

She takes slow breaths to calm her hammering heart. She
stretches. Her knuckles brush against a stack of books. She turns her head to
discover the same books she picked up in the book store, in what she had only
seconds beforehand convinced herself was only a dream. Chloe gawks in shock,
struggling with what to think or say.

Chloe’s phone beeps, alerting her of an incoming text
message. She picks up the phone and thumbs the prompt open. The text message is
from James.

“Dinner. My Place. 7PM.”

Chloe glances at the clock beside her bed, reading 7:00AM in
big red block letters. She has to be ready for work in a few hours. There is no
possible way she could sleep now. She sighs, sets her phone aside, and gets out
of bed.

The supermarket bathroom is done in forest green tiles that
reflect the fluorescent lighting like a turtle’s shell reflects the sun. Night
has arrived and so has the end of Chloe’s shift. Chloe is freshening up in
front of the mirror, getting ready to leave for dinner with James and his
mother. She reapplies her make-up and fixes her hair. Chloe’s eyes drift down
to her spiked collar. She remembers James mentioning something about how it
scares his mom, or rather that she does not like it. Being that she is going
over for dinner at their house, she should be mindful of Kathleen’s feelings.
She takes it off and finds, strangely enough, that she does not miss it. Chloe
stuffs it in her bag.

Everything is on the up and up… until Sandra strolls in.

“Need you to do stock taking tonight,” Sandra informs her
with her special brand of animosity.

Chloe gestures to her things and the fact that she is no
longer in uniform. “Was just about to leave,” she starts with a sinking
stomach.

Sandra cuts in quickly, raising her hands. “You took a day
off this week. Been late a few mornings. Taking extended lunch breaks. Leaving
work excessively early… You’re doing stock taking tonight.”

Chloe scrambles for the right thing to say. She highly
doubts Sandra has any sympathy for her, no matter how many times she has missed
dinner with James and Kathleen. “Can’t I just do it tomorrow?”

Sandra, swollen hands finding her stalky hips, pretends to
think it over. Sharply, “No. But you could quit.”

Sandra leaves, flashing Chloe a catty smile over her shoulder
on the way out. Chloe takes out her phone. She calls James.

The operator comes on with a, “You have no credit to make
this call.” And Chloe hates how happy the automated voice sounds about it.

Chloe throws down the phone, dislodging the battery and
sending it sliding over the counter. She balls up her fist and hits it against
the mirror. Luckily, the impact is not hard enough to break the glass. Lord
knows Sandra would make her pay for that too. Then again, maybe having a
bloodied up hand would get her out of stocking.

Is the entire world united against her?!

•

James and Kathleen are at the dining room table. James looks
at his watch, nervously chewing on the corner of his lips. The food is prepared
and laid out before them: salmon, asparagus, baked peaches, and buttered
crescent rolls.

James looks at the empty seat next to him… and sighs.

“She’s not coming,” he concludes dourly. “Work.” Or at
least, that is the default reason. He hopes that is why she would pull yet
another no-show after yet another invitation. James cannot find it in his heart
to be angry about it anymore. It has happened once too often and he is growing
numb to the disappointment.

“You should shoot her a text,” Kathleen suggests, reaching
across the tablecloth to lay her hand over his.

James laughs shortly. “Why?”

Kathleen fixes him in a perceptive stare, pursing her lips.
She pats his hand consolingly. “So she knows you are understanding.” She adopts
a kind smile. “Tell her we’re rescheduling dinner for Sunday.”

James turns his hand over and gives her hand a squeeze. He
sits up and takes the bowl of steamed asparagus with both hands. “I’ll do it
later. Now we eat.” James helps himself to a serving.

Kathleen cannot help but mark this as a rather significant
moment. It is the first time she can recall that she has witnessed James put
Chloe second. She shakes her head softly, wearing a disheartened expression. If
that girl does not step up, she might lose him. And that would be a tragedy
indeed. He is such a good young man…

Maybe Chloe losing him is precisely how it should be.

•

An old purple Sentra pulls up into the driveway and
Cleopatra climbs out of the passenger side. She shuts the door and waves at the
driver—her shopping friend, Rachel. She cannot tell if she is waving back because
the windows are so heavily tinted. (Rachel’s boyfriend is involved in a number
of shady things. He usually uses this car.) Plus, the porch light is busted.

Rachel pulls out of the driveway and speeds down the street.

Cleopatra rummages in her bag for her house keys. She
unlocks the front door and walks into the house. She does not notice that Greg
is watching through a window. He releases the curtain. Cleopatra closes the
door, locks up, and puts her keys back in her bag. She drops the shopping sack
from a nearby thrift store on the kitchen counter. Greg is standing by the
coach drinking.