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I pull out my cell and text Dean.
Chloe: I'm in.
My heart thuds against my chest. My face flushes. My toes tingle. He can still change his mind. Back out. Find a way to get me fired.
I can still lose this.
And I can't lose this.
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Dean: Damn. Right down to the wire.
Chloe: Almost ninety minutes.
Dean: Even so.
Chloe: I had to weigh my options.
Dean: Smart.
Chloe: I try.
My palms get slick with sweat. My phone slips. Lands on my desk with a soft thunk. It drowns out the sounds of conversation downstairs. The drip, drip, drip of the coffee maker. The low murmur of the TV.
My stomach twists. Because of Dean or the test or the thought of losing everything again, I don't know.
I'm so tired of missing out on life.
On losing what I want.
It needs to change.
I need to change.
Chloe: What are we doing next Saturday?
Dean: Haven't worked that out yet.
Chloe: Will I need a swimsuit?
Dean: You might.
Chloe: Noted.
Dean: You own something besides that lap suit?
Chloe: Yeah.
Dean: Go on.
Chloe: I own bikinis. I just thought the lap suit would be more comfortable.
Dean: Was it?
Chloe: In some ways. Where are you?
Dean: Home.
