Page 92 of We Can't Be Friends

“Hate is a strong word.”

“Then how would you describe your feelings about Chicago? Because from here, it looks a lot like youdespiseit.” She cuts open an egg, the yolk puddling. For a minute, I think she’s asking about herself, not the city. Then she continues, “You don’t leave the apartment except for work.”

“I go to the gym. And the grocery store,” I point out.

“That doesn’t count.” She takes a bite. “And you order groceries for delivery.” Then points the fork at me.

Something she has turned me on to.

“I don’t hate the city.”

“Does it bore you then?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I have work. I’m not here for fun.”

“I don’t think you have any fun,” she mumbles, biting off a piece of the bacon in her hand.

“I heard that. Do you think I’m boring?”

“No.” She bobbles her head. “Maybe.” She sets down her fork. “I know work is important, and that’s great. You are incredible at what you do. I. . .I just think you focus too much on it.” She hit the nail on the head with that. “You’re always mister cool, calm,and collected, but I think you are missing out on a bit of life—and this city—because of it.”

Not wrong again. I haven’t even been to The Bean.

“You want me to love Chicago?” I ask her.

Chloe bounces her shoulders. “Like, love, I don’t care. I don’t want you to want toleave.”

I don’t want to leave either.

After finishing her breakfast, Chloe dropped her rinsed plate in the sink, and bolted upstairs.

“We’re going out,” she calls from them. “Wear something warm!”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

I washed our dishes, towel-dried them, and let them rest on the drying rack by the sink. Tucker’s water bowl was drained, his head lying on the rim, pathetically begging for more. I filled it before heading to my room to change.

Tugging on a pair of black jeans and an oatmeal knitted sweater, back downstairs, I find a wool coat in the closet. I opted for a pair of boots instead of sneakers after peeking out the window and seeing a light dusting of snow on the ground.

Chloe walks into the entryway with two beanies in hand. She’s wearing a similar outfit. Black jeans that are like a second skin on her with a rip in the knee, a baggy lavender sweater with a white thermal turtleneck under it. She trades her traditional Converse for a pair of black combat boots with the daintiest flowers on them.

“Here.” Chloe passes a beanie to me. “I got this for you the other day when I was reorganizing the closet and noticed you didn’t have one. I wasn’t sure how cold it gets in London, but you’ll want it for the winter here.”

I hadn’t packed many winter clothes with me. I didn’t expect to be in the States this long or be spending the winter here.

When the temperature dropped a few weeks ago, I shopped for new clothes. Jeans, sweaters, coats, but I forgot to buy a hat.

I take it from her, and our fingers brush. Chloe’s eyes flick up to mine. “Thanks, Dais.”

“You’re welcome.” The corners of her mouth tick up in the slightest smile. Chloe isn’t wearing lipstick today, but her lips are glossy. Shiny pink and very kissable.

Pulling on the beanie, I adjust my ears. “Fits.”

“Almost bought an XXL, didn’t know what size would fit your big head,” she jokes, sliding her hat on.

Dark strands of hair get folded up in the black pom-pom hat.

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