Page 7 of Je T'aime, Actually
It could mean anything, really. Fresh wounds, or old ones reopened. Maybe Monroe wasn’t over someone, or wasn’t sure she could trust someone new. Maybe she was just tired—emotionally threadbare in that quiet, invisible way people often are after too much giving and not enough receiving.
It didn’t put Chloé off.
If anything, it softened something in her.
Chloé wasn’t exactly tidy either. And she’d long stopped expecting people to show up all tied in bows, ready-made and neat. Mess meant truth. And truth was a far better place to start.
She tapped out a reply:
Chloe:Good. I like honest. We’ll keep it simple. A drink, no pressure. Name the day.
Send.
She set the phone aside and finally picked up her fork.
Leah watched her for a moment, grinning. “You’ve got that look again.”
Chloé shrugged, a quiet smile still playing at her mouth. “It’s just a drink.”
But she knew it wasn’t just the drink she was thinking about.
It was the way Monroe had looked out of that tiny window; the curve of her mouth when Chloé said something humorous, the guarded softness of her voice. A mess? Maybe. But there was something else, too.
Something real.
Leah twirled pasta around her fork, eyes still on Chloé. “You like her.”
Chloé gave a quiet, non-committal sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I don’t know her.”
“You don’t need to. I can tell.”
Chloé nudged the wine glass with her finger. “She’s...gentle. Sad, maybe. But interesting.”
Leah tilted her head. “You’re already defending her.”
“I’m not.” Chloé paused. “I’m just saying—it felt different. Not forced. Like I didn’t have to...perform.”
That earned a knowing glance from Leah. “You do that a lot.”
Chloé didn’t answer straight away. She reached down to rub behind the terrier’s ears, the soft fur grounding her.
“You know how it was with Anais,” she said quietly. “She wanted the fantasy version of me. And I gave it to her, for a while. The charm, the smiles, the perfect dates—I played the role so well I forgot I wasn’t happy.”
“You were trying to be enough for her.”
Chloé nodded, lips tightening.
“She didn’t want to see the cracks. She didn’t want real.” Chloé looked at Leah. “And when I finally showed her my truth—when I needed her to stay—she was already out the door.”
Leah sighed, softer now. “That was over a year ago.”
“I know.” Chloé shrugged. “But I don’t jump in anymore. I watch. I wait. I look for the parts that don’t sparkle.”
“And Monroe?”
Chloé was quiet. “She doesn’t sparkle. Not in that way. But there’s something...sincere. Like she’s trying to hold it together, even though she’s tired of pretending.”
Leah studied her for a moment, then reached for the wine and topped up both glasses.
