Page 165 of We Can't Be Friends

I didn’t realize I took my tea so many ways.

Chloe takes her coffee one way and only one way—an iced oat milk latte with honey.

“I like that you know that. You’ve been watching me, paying attention.”

“I have,” she admits. “Plus, it’s the least I could do, especially after last night.” Chloe spins the straw in the cup she picked up.

“I told you whatever you need, Chloe. I’m here.”

She nods. “I know.”

There’s a pause—a silent moment between us.

“Did you eat? I’m starved.”

“Actually, I was thinking about taking Tucker for a long walk. Want to come, and we can grab breakfast?”

“I’d love that.”

***

“You don’t have to keep eating gluten-free because of me.” Chloe looks up at me as we start walking again after breakfast—we split a stack of GF pancakes with blueberry compote.

“I know.” I smiled down at her. She could tell me she only ate cardboard, and I’d probably make it my every meal. “You don’t have to wear my shirt,” I tease, finally bringing it up.

Once we agreed to go on the walk, we both changed. Chloe threw on a pair of leggings, a winter coat over my shirt, and a wooly hat.

Her head turns down, realizing what she’s still wearing, her jacket unzipped a quarter way down.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s better on you.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, so I snuck into your room and grabbed the first clean shirt I could find.”

“You mean going into my dresser drawers?”

“No. . .” Her lip quivers, and a single brow arches.

“Admit it, you want to wear it.”

“No.” She walks ahead of me, forcing me to chase after her.

We walk silently, taking the long way back to our place—Chloe’s people-watching. I’m Chloe watching.

Making our way down the stairs to the River Walk, crossing the DuSable Bridge, Chloe says, “About last night—”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” I cut in, not wanting her to feel any responsibility to explain.

Do I want to know? Yes.

Would I force her to tell me? No.

“I know, but I want to.” Her head tilts up, gray locking with blue. She exhales and you can see it. “I want to tell you.”

On the bottom stair, my expression must be weary because Chloe follows up with, “If that’s okay with you. I—I don’t have to talk about it.” Threading my fingers into hers, I tug her to the side, out of the way, once we are off the stairs.

“Please tell me. I don’t care how big or small it is; I want to know everything about you, Dais.” I adjust her hat for her, letting my fingers linger on the sides of her face. “But you don’t owe me an explanation.

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