Page 32 of It's Not All Fake

“No—not until that last night.” I shift on the couch, but it’s impossible to get comfortable. “I tried to intervene, and he pushed me. I hit my head, that’s how I got this,” I run my finger over the scar on my temple.

She watches me as I trace the scar, her eyebrows knitted together. She doesn’t speak, she just sits with me. I’m sure she has a lot of questions, but I’m grateful for the momentary pause, as painful as it is to stay in this memory.

I try to refocus on her agenda—why I’m “blocked” from relationships—and suddenly, I realize she might be thinking something very wrong about me. I scrunch up my face, feeling defensive.

“I’m not avoiding relationships because I’m worried I’ll be like my dad, Chloe. I’d never do that.” I hold her gaze, trying to make her understand.

“I know,” she says softly, reassuring me and I realize I was wrong. She must have other ideas about the deeper roots of my “avoidance” of relationships.

“What’s your diagnosis, then?” I raise my eyebrow playfully, trying to bring a little levity to our conversation.

She forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and sadness lingers. “You’ve associated relationships with hurt from an early age. It makes sense why you’d steer clear.” In her eyes, there’s a depth of understanding and acceptance that I’m not used to.

It sounds so simple, a neat explanation for everything in my life that has been anything but simple.

Chloe sits patiently, using silence as a tool to draw more out of me. But my thoughts take a turn as I gaze into her striking green eyes, wondering how she is single. She is smart, ambitious, beautiful, and—with her life coaching skills—you’d think she would’ve found Mr. Right by now.

“What about you, Chloe? Why are you single?” I ask gently, realizing this is the same line of questioning that got me into trouble during our first session.

Chloe stiffens and shifts uneasily on the couch cushion. A nervous smile plays on her lips. “Liam, we don’t have to talk about me. Our chats are about you, to help you.”

She has a point. This was her one “ask” in our deal, and it was always meant to be about me. But now, I need this conversation to feel more natural, to be two-sided.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, Chloe, but I want to know you.” There are many ways that I would like to know her. I admit this isn’t just business anymore. It’s become very personal.

She narrows her eyes, the hint of a smile on her lips. “Just tell me the truth, Liam. You like making me feel uncomfortable.”

She’s not wrong. I enjoy being the one who brings a blush to her cheeks.

I chuckle and then shrug. “You’re intent to push me out of my comfort zone too.”

After a pause, Chloe looks down at her lap, fiddling with the material of her skirt. “Well, I suppose this isn’t life coaching,” she reasons, sighing before meeting my eyes again. “My last boyfriend wasn’t who I thought he was.” Her tone is careful, and I can tell she’s understating the situation.

“Who was he?” I ask, not satisfied by her vague answer.

“Well, Lucas was controlling, manipulative... not a good guy.”

I have more questions, but I’m a quick study. I wait patiently for her to fill the silence with more information.

Chloe picks up on my cue and inhales like she’s summoning courage. “He was always in trouble—financial, legal, always moving to dodge debts, mostly from defrauding investors.”

She looks away, haunted. “Not all the debt collectors were on the… up and up, I guess you’d say. Once, they beat him so badly his face was swollen and bruised,” she recalls with a shiver. “They'd even show up at my place looking for him.”

My concern sharpens. “Did they ever hurt you?”

“No. But I was worried what they’d do to him if I gave him up,” she confesses, shame flickering in her eyes as she meets my gaze, seeking understanding.

My jaw tightens, anger mingled with empathy. I understand her compassion, but I’m enraged that he dragged her into his mess. That he put her at risk.

I sense there’s more to her pained look. “Did he ever hurt you?” I ask, trying to contain my rising frustration. How could she be with a guy like that?

“No,” she replies quickly, too quickly. She hesitates, and my heart sinks. “No,” she repeats, shaking her head, dismissing whatever memory might have qualified as a “yes” to my question.

“You hesitated,” I note softly.

A nervous laugh escapes her. “He threw a phone. It almost hit me, but it didn’t,” she shrugs. “I called it quits after that.” She meets my gaze.

“I’m glad,” I tell her sincerely.

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