Page 26 of It's Not All Fake

Chloe laughs softly. “I know. It’s okay.”

It’s not lost on me that Chloe has shared deeply painful memories, yet she’s been the one constantly reassuring us throughout breakfast.

As my mother walks away, Chloe and I fall silent. She remains standing, watching my mother leave, but there’s still half a waffle on her plate. I expect her to sit back down and finish breakfast with me, but instead, she turns toward me, fiddling with her necklace again.

“I think I’d like to head out too, if that’s okay.” Her eyes search mine, waiting for my permission.

She wants to leave.

I am taken aback by my own disappointment. Of course, the job is over for the day now that my mother is gone. It makes sense that she would leave. Did I expect that she would want to spend time alone with me, off the clock? I suppose a part of me wanted her to.

“Sure, of course.” I stand to walk her back to the house. Guilt lingers as I realize she seems okay on the surface, but I know she’s not. I want to take her hand as I lead her back through the house, but something feels different.

Chloe doesn’t say a word as we walk together. She appears lost in her thoughts. By the time we reach the main hallway near the front door, I’m afraid I may miss my chance.

I need to know what she’s thinking.

“Chloe—” I touch her arm gently to bring her to a halt. She turns to me with surprise. “I’m sorry about all those questions. And don’t tell me ‘it’s okay,’ because it wasn’t.”

She gives me a slight, pained smile, which confirms what I already knew. She looks down the hall toward the front door, but no one is there. We’re alone.

“This is harder than I thought,” she admits, meeting my gaze. I wait for her to continue, and she exhales. “I didn’t expect things to get so… real, I guess.” She searches my eyes.

I swallow. “I know what you mean.”

I step closer to her, and she doesn’t back away.

“Chloe, do you—” I start to ask, but hesitate. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

“You can ask me,” she assures me, and I sense she already knows what my question is.

I’m not sure I want the answer, but I clear my throat. “Do you know if you have what your mom had?”

“Oh,” she breathes. Her expression suggests she anticipated a different question, and for a moment, I wonder what she thought I was going to ask. “Um, yeah,” she answers matter-of-factly. “I did.”

My heart jolts. She did?

“It’s called a ventricular septal defect—VSD,” she explains, tugging at her necklace again. “It’s a hole in the wall of the heart. I had it at birth, and my mother did too. After my mom died, my dad had my brother and me tested. My brother was fine, but they found I had a small VSD.” She watches me closely, gauging my reaction.

I’m frozen, my head spinning. “And?” I ask gently.

“My doctor monitored me, but it closed up on its own by the time I was eighteen. My mom’s didn’t close, but…” Tears invade her eyes, and she swallows. “Um, it would’ve been completely treatable with surgery if we’d known.” I can see the layers of pain beneath her eyes.

Instinctively, I pull her into a hug. She buries her face in my shoulder, and I hold her close. I feel Chloe’s body relax into me, and she sniffles quietly.

I don’t know what to say. There is nothing to say, I realize. I just need to hold her.

When she slowly pulls away, I see her cheeks are wet. I use my thumb to wipe away the leftover tears. Her watery, sea-colored eyes lock with mine.

“I’m so glad you're okay,” I say softly, holding my hand on her cheek. I smooth a curly piece of hair away from her face.

Suddenly, I want to kiss her. My eyes drift to her lips and back to her eyes, the air thickening so I almost can’t breathe.

The sound of footsteps interrupts the moment. Someone is approaching, and my hand drops away from Chloe. Our tension-filled moment is burst as one of my staff members walks through the foyer, glancing briefly at us before hurrying on. As the footsteps recede, I study Chloe again. She seems to have regained some of her composure, sobered by our interruption.

She gives me a small smile, both of us understanding that something substantial has happened between us, but I can’t pretend to know exactly what it is.

“I got your shirt wet.” Her fingertips touch the small damp spot on my chest. Her eyes meet mine, apologetic, but there’s something else there too.

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