Love, Chloe

  It made me a little nostalgic, a big chapter of my life to close, a chapter in which I changed a lot, grew up a lot.

  I skipped a shower and changed into pajamas, crawling into bed, all of the lights off, the television dark. I lay there for a long time, waiting for sleep, trying to drown out my thoughts, so many what ifs floating through my head, trying to find places to settle.

  I hoped for his knock, and when it came, I was out of the bed and ready, swinging open the door, my voice quiet considering the screaming of my heart.

  Carter stood there, pajama pants low on his hips, his shirt off, every muscle on his torso tense as he stopped mid-knock. He looked at me and said nothing.

  I stepped back and waved him in.

  That night was one of our first without sex. He pulled back the covers and climbed in, pulling me beside him and close to his chest. Hugging me tight, his arm around my chest, his legs hooked through mine and he said only one thing, his breath against my neck, his heart beating a hard rhythm against my back.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” It was my first time saying the words out loud, and they almost rushed from my lips. His arms tightened a little around me, and I felt the relief in his grip, a moment of hold before we both relaxed. I fell asleep there, in his arms, the murmur of the city loud outside the window, my body warm in his embrace.

  Below us, on the floor where I’d carelessly dropped it, was my purse. Inside, my phone vibrated with each new tweet and Instagram post that mentioned me. As Carter and I slept, social media exploded.

  83. Aren’t Visitors Supposed to Call First?

  Someone hammered on my door. The pounds were hard enough to wake us, the door shaking against its jamb. Carter jumped from the bed, moving to the door, and I groped for my phone, pulling the sheet around me, trying to figure out through a haze of sleep what day it was, where I was, and who the demon in the hall might be.

  Carter spoke, his hands on the door, eye to the peephole. “It’s a woman.”

  I found my purse, then my phone, and didn’t bother unlocking it, seeing a chorus of missed calls from Dante and Nicole. “Oh God,” I mumbled.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Carter remarked, the door shaking with a fresh round of knocks.

  I tossed the phone on the bed and walked to the door, waving Carter aside and steeling myself. I pulled opened the door.

  I’d seen fury in human form. I’d never seen this before. Dante stood behind Nicole with a warning on his face, but none was needed. Not when the woman before me sizzled with emotion. She glared at me, and I could see the edges of her psyche breaking. She was as close to killing me as sobbing in my arms.

  “You … bitch.” The words spat from her mouth and I flinched.

  “Nicole, I don’t know what—”

  “Shut up!” she seethed, pushing forward, a sharp fingernail jabbing my shoulder. “Do you know what you’ve done?” She screamed the words, her voice shaking on the final syllables.

  I didn’t feel like guessing. Paulo? Her pregnancy? The fact that I’d been sneaking Chanel non-organic treats?

  “I’ve got the studio on my ass, the press on my ass, a heartbroken husband and Paulo is flipping his shit, Chloe.”

  Ouch. So her pregnancy had leaked, as had her affair. “I’m sorry Nicole, it was a bad situation. No one should have overheard—”

  “Overheard?” she seethed. “Not just overheard. There are a dozen different videos of you blabbing about my personal business. You’ve spelled out my entire life for anyone with an internet connection; you wouldn’t shut up.”

  I got her point. Realized my fuck-up. And there, in my pajamas on a Saturday morning, finally decided that I didn’t care. Not about this woman. Not about her issues. Not about the consequences of her actions. I met her eyes and said, for the first time since she hired me, what I really thought. “You got yourself in this situation. You shouldn’t have cheated on Clarke. And you should have told him yourself that you were pregnant.”

  She stepped closer, fully inside my apartment, and slammed the door shut on Dante’s face. I stayed in place and met her murderous stare.

  Then, her mouth trembled and, oh my God … she was about to cry.

  “Do you know how long Clarke and I have been trying?” she whispered. “All of the doctors, the fertility treatments…” Her words died, and she looked away, swallowing hard. She suddenly looked, in the harsh morning light of my apartment, old. Like she’d been up for hours, her eyes puffy, wrinkles not covered by makeup, dark shadows not covered with concealer. “Clarke would have been so happy to find out I was pregnant. That was our moment, Chloe. One for us to celebrate, one we’ve waited for seven years for.”

  “If it’s his,” I pointed out. “Paulo—”

  “Paulo had a vasectomy five years ago,” she snapped, her eyes hardening. “Not that that’s any of your business.”

  Very rarely had I felt as much of an asshole as I did right then. And that was before I read all of the gossip articles, the tweets, and posts. That was before Nicole stiffened, her hand grabbing at her stomach, her face going pale. I watched her grope for the wall, her eyes darting to me in panic, and I barely caught her before she crumpled.

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” Carter grabbed his phone and I sank to the floor, propping Nicole’s head up on one of my pumpkin pajama legs and shushing her. I didn’t know why I shushed. I thought it was, for some reason, soothing.

  It wasn’t. For one, her cursing drowned out any effective soothing qualities. For another, Carter held the phone away from his mouth, mid-directions to 911, and told me to shut up.

  So I did. I shut up and let Nicole curse me. I held her in my arms, and I prayed that her baby was all right. I had already messed this up. I couldn’t take any more consequences from my actions.

  In the distance, there was the wail of a siren, the sound almost swallowed by its city.

  84. Loose Lips Sink Everything

  I sat on the floor of the ambulance and stared at my shoes. Pink Nikes. They clashed horribly with my pajama pants. And I wasn’t wearing a bra, my nipples standing out in the cold air of the vehicle. In between my knees, my phone buzzed, Joey calling. I stopped its vibration and wondered what I would tell him and Hannah. Wondered if the secret of Paulo’s involvement would keep. I wouldn’t be the one to spill it. I had already, in the last twelve hours, done more than enough damage.

  I didn’t know anything about babies or pregnancy. But I did know that the Moment You Tell the Father was a pretty big deal. So was the Moment You Tell Your Friends … and Your Mother … and Everyone Else. There were a hundred websites devoted to helping you break the news. Some people put plastic babies in cakes for an unsuspecting relative to break a tooth on. Some put a literal bun in the oven and hope someone gets the witty reference. Some flew banner planes, some rented billboards, but NO ONE wanted the news broke via an assistant’s blabby mouth on YouTube. No one wanted a thousand gossip sites running the headline Who Is Nicole Brantley’s Baby Daddy? I thought of all of the people that news hit. Clarke, her husband who didn’t even know about her affair. Her friends, those social maggots who would feast on this for years. Her parents, those society mavens who had earned all of their fortune on condoms, yet got all a flutter if her table settings didn’t include a fish knife. All of those people, everyone in her life, got her joyous baby news in that horrific fashion. Something ten years in the making … and I had ruined it.

  I felt terrible. Even worse once I found out that Paulo wasn’t the dad. All of my texts back and forth with Cammie, all my soul-searching and inner debates … wasted. I had a moment of guilt over some gleeful moments where we had made fun of her predicament. Nicole probably wasn’t even with Paulo anymore. She probably got pregnant and kissed goodbye to that affair—fully focused on her new future.

  The ambulance went over a pothole and I winced, my head hitting the side of the vehicle, my nerves past shot. Nicole held out her h
and, asking for mine, and I took it. I held her hand and realized, my mind spinning through everything, that I was going to quit. In that moment, while gripping the hand of a woman I didn’t like, praying for her baby, the ambulance rough as it fought for its place in a city that didn’t budge, the right decision was clear. Life was too short, morals were too important, and I flat out didn’t like my job. I’d rather be back on Cammie’s couch, working for minimum wage, than be her assistant.

  I didn’t say anything to Nicole. I figured it wasn’t exactly the time. With everything the poor woman had going on, she might need one dramaless moment.

  We finally arrived, and I was sent to the waiting room. Clarke and Dante showed up and we sat there, the weirdest threesome ever, in the corner of the hell that was an NYC emergency room.

  I watched Clarke as he sat in his seat, beside Dante, his elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders hunched, pulling the lines of his shirt tight. I didn’t know what to say to him. I felt like I should say something, but the shitstorm of drama that I had caused seemed too big, too impossible to resolve in the time that stretched before us.

  He lifted his head and looked at me, and I saw the thin edge of emotion that he straddled. “The newspapers…” He swallowed, his beautiful mouth tightening for a beat. “They said that you said you didn’t know who the father was.”

  The conversation that I had dreaded for a year was finally here. “Yes,” I managed, hoping he would stop talking, hoping we would go back to silence.

  “Why?” He adjusted the end of one shirtsleeve, pulling it tight, his eyes dropping briefly. “Why wouldn’t it be me? Who else could it be?”

  When he looked back at me, it was two sets of eyes in total. Dante also watched, every muscle in his body ready to pounce. This was a test. I realized it instantly. Not from Clarke. Poor, beautiful Clarke just wanted to know what the hell was happening in his life. But Dante, he watched to see what I was made of. I wished I knew. I looked down at my pink Nikes and bought a sliver of time.

  I had always hoped that Nicole would be the one to confess. If I took away that option, telling Clarke about Paulo, would it ruin any chance of him trusting Nicole again? Or had I already ruined that moment by bringing up the paternity at all? It was pretty much assumed, from my quick glance at social media, that Nicole was the Unfaithful Slut of the Week.

  “It was Paulo.”

  85. Spilling the Beans

  “It was Paulo.”

  That bomb didn’t come from me; it came from Dante, who muttered the words, his voice dark. My head snapped to him, my eyes widening, any inner debate over spilling the beans on Nicole’s lover ended. Clarke’s attention turned from me and zeroed in on Dante.

  “Paulo?” Clarke sounded surprised.

  “This couldn’t have been a surprise.” Dante stood and faced him. “How often was he at your house? And her getting this role?”

  I didn’t know why Dante was getting so self-rightous. He had kept the secret, same as me, all of us guilty in this situation except Clarke. Clarke sank back in his seat, his head resting against the wall. He looked beaten. Lost. I watched his brow pinch and wondered if I had looked that defeated and broken, in the aftermath of discovering Vic’s affair. But then, I’d been caught completely off guard. Clarke, he’d spent almost a day sitting, waiting for the guillotine to fall.

  Waiting to find out who the executioner was.

  86. She Doesn’t Deserve Children

  Clarke clammed up. I watched him sink against his seat, his gaze shuttering, his arms crossing, his mouth narrowing into a thin line. Our group fell back into silence, nothing said until a nurse walked out and asked for me.

  “I’m Chloe.” I stood up, hesitantly raising a hand.

  “Mrs. Brantley has asked for you.”

  I glanced at Clarke, then back at the nurse, who had already turned, her scrubs pushing through the double doors. I grabbed my purse and darted after her, worried about being left. I didn’t glance at Clarke when I scurried past. Didn’t want to see the questions in his eyes. I didn’t want to know why she had asked for me, didn’t want to see her, was too terrified of a negative outcome to ask the nurse about the baby.

  “The baby is fine.” The nurse spoke over her shoulder, waiting on a hospital bed to cross our path.

  “It’s fine?” A swell of emotion filled my chest at the news, and I sent a silent thank you up to heaven.

  “Yes. Mrs. Brantley has an ulcer, one that flared, probably due to stress and a daily ibuprofen habit. But she’s stable now. Still in some pain, but the medicine will kick in soon.”

  She stopped outside a room and nodded me forward. I steeled myself and stepped into the room, ready for battle. Instead, I found a different woman. Not the enraged, screaming banshee from hours earlier; Nicole had sunk into a large bed, tiny among all of the IVs and equipment. Her room had a window and she looked out it, her gaze barely flicking to me when I entered.

  “Does Clarke know about Paulo?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes.” I didn’t bother telling her that it was Dante who shared the news, or that Clarke had pulled it out of us. At that moment, she didn’t seem to care and I was running out of the energy to deal with all of this.

  “I don’t want to talk to him,” she whispered the words and wrapped her hands around her stomach. “I’m just so tired. Of everything.”

  Well, that made two of us. I sank into a recliner next to her bed and closed my eyes. The last few days had been such a whirlwind; I’d hardly had a moment to rest. I wondered where all of her friends were. Then again … I wasn’t sure Nicole really had any friends. Acquaintances? Yes. Fellow social maggots? Yes. True friends? No. Another domino on top of Nicole’s stack of sadness. I had a fleeting thought of Chanel and wondered where she was.

  “Is he staying?” Nicole’s question was so subdued, so quiet and naked in its vulnerability, I almost missed it.

  “Who? Clarke?” It seemed like a ridiculous question. “Here at the hospital? Yeah, he’s in the waiting room.” Wanting to see you. An addition I should have added, but I was chicken.

  “He should leave me,” she mumbled. “After everything…”

  I didn’t know what to say. I completely agreed with her. During the last year, I’d asked myself a dozen times why the damn man stayed. On one hand, it was endearing, his commitment and devotion. On the other hand, it was stupid. But what did I know? I’d stayed with Vic for two years. There were probably plenty in his inner circle who had laughed behind my back, who had questioned my intelligence level. I couldn’t really judge Clarke for anything. “This could be a fresh start for you two.” I ventured. “You could be honest with him. Faithful.”

  She snorted, a little taste of old Nicole fighting to the surface. “Like I have a choice?” She scowled. “My body is going to be shot after this.”

  This. That was her reference to the baby. I swallowed every response that bubbled in my throat and mentally circled, in bold red pen, my date of resignation. Next Monday. She should be out of the hospital by then. Maybe I could kidnap Chanel on my way out. With all the baby and affair drama, they probably wouldn’t even notice.

  I glanced at my watch and decided to move this pity party along. “I’ve got to run.” I stood, snagging my purse off of the floor. “I’ll send Clarke back.”

  Her head lifted off the pillow. “Where are you going? What is more important than this?”

  “I’m sorry. An appointment,” I lied, moving for the door quickly, before she had a chance to retort.

  Her last words were shouted at me, the demand slipping through the door right before it shut. “Don’t send Clarke back here!”

  I considered the order, and then, in one of my final acts as Assistant to Nicole, discarded it.

  I saw Carter the minute I stepped from the taxi. He stood on the front steps of our building, his hands in his back pockets, the pose accenting the tight fit of his shirt on his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, a sl
ight peek of abs visible above the low hang of his jeans.

  I stopped before him and looked up into his face. “Hey.”

  “I love you.” The best response in the whole world. I smiled bigger.

  “I love you too.”

  “I can’t decide if I want to carry you to my bedroom or to lunch.”

  “Bed,” I said immediately, and he laughed, dropping his arms and stepping down a few steps, pulling me against his chest and looking down at me for a moment—one heart-stopping moment where he stared at me as if I were everything in his world. I lifted my chin, and he kissed me softly.

  When the kiss ended, he kept me there, his face serious. “Do you know how scared I was last night? When he proposed?”

  Last night. How could so much have happened in just twenty-four hours? I wet my lips, and his hands tightened a little on my hips. “You shouldn’t have been. I was yours the entire time.”

  He swallowed and his eyes moved to my mouth, then he kissed me again, this kiss hard and dominant, his tongue diving in and claiming me, his fingers hard as they pulled me close. “Bed,” he whispered, and I nodded.

  “Now.”

  My bag fell in his hall, my clothes got lost along the way, and I lay back on his bed and watched him yank at his shirt, his abs stretching and popping as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He kicked off his shoes as he undid his jeans, shoving them over his hips, taking his boxer briefs along with them, and then he was naked—fully naked—the sun coming in the window and showcasing the utter perfection of the man. Already hard, he took his time walking over to the bed, his hand gripping his cock, moving in slow and delicious strokes. I hated to glance away from the scene, but then he spoke, and I looked up to his face and there … I was a goner. Intense heat in those eyes, he looked at me with such need that I was instantly addicted, never wanting to look away from his face again.