Page 93 of We Can't Be Friends

Chloe’s hair has grown out since the summer. She hasn’t gone to get it cut. I know she’s trying to grow it out. All the girls my mom set me up with, including the one Chloe saw me with, had long hair. I wonder if that’s why she’s been growing it out.

Not that she would or need to do anything for me.

But is she?

I swallow down the thought, coating my dry throat before speaking. “You look pretty today.”

Reaching out, I fix her hair, placing it over her clavicles.

“Watch it. Don’t need you to start calling me pretty girl.”

“I can if that’s what you want.” My hands linger on the ends of her hair.

“Daisy is good.” She nods.

I drop my hands, going for Tucker’s leash. “Are we bringing him?”

“Nope. I’m your only date for the day.” She gives me a sassy wink. “Your official Chicago tour guide.”

***

Ioffered to drive, but Chloe said that was unnecessary.

We walked to Millenium Park, snapping pictures in front of and under The Bean. I wonder how many people know that its proper name is Cloud Gate? I didn’t.

We checked off a few other touristy items as we made our way to Navy Pier. Chloe was right, I don’t get out much nearly enough. My routine, which I crafted and thrive on, is confined to my flat, the office, gym and the hotel. Most of my time is occupied by work, but not entirely of late.

Now there’s a cheeky dark-haired girl making herself my world. I haven’t spent an evening working in a month. Not since she moved in.

“I know this is also touristy, but when you live in a city as great as Chicago, you can’t help but appreciate those parts,” she tells me as we are in line for hot chocolate. “I love the Navy Pier. Tucker and I walk down here during the summer and can spend hours sitting along the water. It’s my favorite during the winter, though.”

I exchange a twenty for the hot chocolates, handing one to Chloe.

“This is definitely one of the reasons.” She lets out a soft moan as she takes her first sip. Eyes closed and head thrown back. My eyes refuse to close and not see her like this.

Most of the activities at the pier are for kids or families, but we still walk around.

We pass an ice skating rink. Fake ice surrounded my boards and a small stand at the front where you can purchase tickets and rent skates. Her head turns, watching a group of middle school girls skate by.

“Do you want to skate?”

Her attention remains on the ice. Gaze following the clockwise path of skaters.

“Henry?”

“You can if you want.” Chloe pulls away, pointing over her shoulder to the stands. “I’ll watch.”

“I don’t know how to skate either. We could try together.”

“My brother plays professional hockey; I know how to ice skate,” she bites back, a defensiveness to her tone that’s fierce and matches her body language.

“Then why aren’t we skating?”

“There’s a long line and kids. . .” She rattles off a few more excuses, all of them skating around the real reason. If she doesn’t want to, that’s all she needs to say. Chloe’s shoulder slump forward as if she’s retreating into herself. “Can we keep walking?”

Falling in step, Chloe tells me more about the pier and the history behind it. You can tell she loves this city with all the history she knows about it. I’m quiet, enthralled with listening to her talk. It could be about how paint is made, and I’d listen to her. I’d listen to anything she says.

Chloe’s raspy voice has become one of comfort. I look forward to coming home each day and hearing it. Or when she’s had to travel for work, she calls me to check in on Tucker—I tell myself it’s because she wants to talk to me, but I know her priorities.

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