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But, mostly, I hate that I really can't hate him.
"Expires at midnight," he says.
"Won't you be balls deep in some babe at midnight?" I bite my lip, but it does nothing to chase away the jealousy brewing in my gut. I hate the idea of him with anyone else much less with some anonymous leggy blonde. Because, in my head, it's always a leggy blonde with curves for days and all the experience in the world and everything I don't have.
"I work first thing tomorrow."
"So, you'll be done by eleven?"
He gives me a long, slow once over. "You know me too well."
Chapter Thirteen
Chloe
"Mmmm." I let out a soft moan.
This tea is perfection. Creamy milk, sweet honey, the astringent mix of bergamot, lavender, and black tea.
Is there anything better than a London Fog? Doubtful.
"I don't see it." Gia takes a long sip. Scrunches her nose in distaste. "It's so…"
"Robust."
"Weak." She stares at her mug curiously. "I'm trying, honestly, Chlo. But I just don't get tea." She takes another sip. "The honey is good." She reaches for a chocolate chip cookie.
After I got back from lunch with Dean, I needed to clear my head. I was too tired to go for a swim, so I started baking. Four hours later, the house is flush with sweet treats.
I grab an Earl Grey brownie and take a bite. Chocolate chips melt on my tongue. The Earl Grey flavor is subtle. Just enough to add depth to the semi-sweet chocolate.
Gia looks at the brownie curiously. "I don't know."
"I've made you espresso brownies a hundred times."
"But coffee and chocolate… that's everything that's right in the world."
"If you don't want it, don't eat it."
She tears a chunk from my plain white plate. After Mom died, Dad packed away all the fancy plates and cutlery.
At first, it was strange, like he was erasing her. But that wasn't it. He couldn't stomach the tiny memories of her. He couldn't handle scooping eggs onto his plate and seeing everything he'd lost.
All right. Maybe it was me as much as it was Dad.
But now the white plates and the dull silverware speak to her absence as much as the fancy plates do.
This is the plate for a life without Mom.
For a world where she doesn't exist.
Outside, the garage door whirs.
Gia slides out of her chair. Moves into the kitchen and starts scooping ground coffee into the machine. "You think he'll want some?"
"Probably." Coffee has always been Dad's drink. Tea was Mom's. I feel closer to her when I brew a cup. And, well, I guess after nearly fifteen years I'm desperate to hold onto her memory.
I savor the last sip of my London Fog then get to work on Gia's. It's lukewarm, but it's still good.
