Page 54 of We Can't Be Friends

Chloe brings them in front of her face, smelling them audibly.

“You bought me flowers.” Her statement is more of a question, and I instantly question my decision to do this.

“Boyfriends are supposed to buy their girlfriends flowers.”

“Fakeboyfriend,” she corrects. “Which you aren’t.” Yet. Her dark brows raise. I cock my head to the side. “Doesn’t matter if you were real, anyway. All my real ones never did.”

I gulp. Did I mess up doing this? It’s weird. It’s weird I bought her flowers.

Chloe must read my mind. Slivers of silver peer at me over the tops of the petals. “It’s not weird, maybe surprising. Kind.”

She keeps talking for a second, trailing off before rambling again. I make out bits and pieces between my thoughts. They skip between anger that no one has ever bought her flowers, every girl deserves them, especially my wildflower.My daisy.

And that’s the other thought.

My daisy.

Our quick friendship is deeper than anything I’ve ever had—even with Liam and George. My connection with Chloe stretches beyond a surface-level conversation with someone at the bar to try to take her home.

More than a potential fake girlfriend status.

This moment right here, I feel a possessiveness, a protectiveness over her clicking into place. Like she is mine to take care of and that I’d do anything to make her smile.

“Thank you,” she says louder. Chloe must have already expressed her gratitude based on how round her eyes are.

“You’re welcome.” I smile. “Where are your vases? We can probably make a few with the bouquet.”

Chloe points me in the direction of the vases. Adding water to each, we spend the next ten minutes cutting and building each smaller bouquet when I learn that her mom is a florist.

She’s scrapping her hand on the counter like a broom, collecting all the fallen petals and leaves into a pile on the linoleum.

“Do you play piano?” I ask.

Her face goes flat, shoulders stiffen. She does a big sweep of her pile into the trash can, body straightening after.

“No.” Her eyes float to the piano, lingering on the keys hauntingly. “My brother played, but when he stopped, I favored the piece too much to get rid of it. I asked if I could have it. I tried to learn to play a handful of years ago. Took lessons for an entire spring but could never pick it up.”

“I play,” I blurt.

Chloe’s face brightens with surprise.

“I know, shocker, a suit-clad, finance bro,”—I air quotebro—“reads books, drinks tea, and plays piano.” I snicker. “I was captain of my rugby team, don’t worry.”

“Not at all worried.” She takes one of the vases, places it on the piano, and readjusts the picture frame. “When did you learn to play?”

“When I was seven.”

“How did you get into playing?” It was the only thing my brothers didn’t succeed at and I thought I’d be noticed for once by my mother. It’s the only thing she let me continue to do before suggesting I play rugby.

“Appreciation for the arts,” I give her a half-truth.

“Do you play classics?”

“Classics at first, but then I started playing what was popular on the radio. What I was listening to.” What my brothers were listening to. “This kind of music.” I point at the air as if the music was tangible around us.

“I’d want to play this kind of music, too. He used to play a lot of Goo Goo Dolls. “Iris” was always my favorite.”

If there was a song for me, maybe Chloe, I think it’d be that one. We keep talking about music and our childhood. Both hesitantand darting around answers, as the sun sets and the world fades to black.

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