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This was Chloe, Zoey’s sister. I turned my attention to her once more, and could see a slight resemblance. The eyes, the hair, and maybe a little fraction of the face, but that’s where the similarity ended.
She was buttoned up, while Zoey was free and unencumbered.
I saw her eyes come to me and widen, then lower to my arm around Zoey’s waist, before coming back to me again, and I literally watched the blood drain out of her face.
Then something else niggled in my brain, as she lifted a hand to her mouth and emitted a cry, before turning on her heel and running back out of the room.
Zoey muttered, “What in the world?” before turning to me and saying, “Be right back,” and running after her sister.
I stood still as a statue as my head swiveled to Christopher, who was staring after his mother and aunt, confusion apparent on his face. His handsome face, with a strong jaw, topped with thick dark hair, and a body that was taller than usual for a twelve-year-old boy.
That niggling grew into a hot ball of fire in my chest, when Reardon leaned in and asked, “Isn’t that the woman from the after-party … Your first Super Bowl?”
“Thirteen years ago,” I stated, my voice barely audible.
“Yeah,” Reardon said, his eyes burning a hole in the side of my head. “Chloe, right?”
“Right,” I replied, as my entire world crashed around me.
Chapter Thirty ~ Zoey
“Chloe,” I called as I ran out the door and swiveled my head, trying to see which direction she went.
When I looked to the right, I saw her standing down at the end of the porch, her hands on the railing, bent over at the waist.
“What is going on?” I asked when I reached her.
Chloe’s head came up, and her face had a haunted look that scared the bejesus out of me.
“Chloe,” I urged. “I don’t understand … You said you couldn’t come, then you do, and you run out like your skirt is on fire. Talk to me.”
“You and Gabriel Lewis?” she asked, which struck me as weird. Why was that what she was focused on? She couldn’t be jealous…
“Yes, but, why would that make you run out? Do you know him?” I asked, confusion swirling around in my head.
“It’s … complicated.”
“How?” I asked, my confusion turning to frustration at her vague answers. “Just spit it out, Chlo.”
“I was going to come here … with Chris … but I chickened out,” Chloe started randomly. “I couldn’t do it … didn’t know how. I was afraid.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at my sister.
“Afraid of what?”
“I told you that I’d contacted Chris’s father and he didn’t want anything to do with Christopher, so I refused to tell anyone who he was or put him on the birth certificate.”
“I know what you told me,” I answered warily.
“I lied,” she said, and the frustration turned to anger.
“You lied? For thirteen years?” I asked, throwing my hands up. “So, who’s the father?”
Chloe stood, turned to me, and put her hands on my arms. This was her big sister “I’m about to break it to you” stance, so I braced.
“It’s no accident that Chris developed a love for football, who his favorite team was, or his favorite player, because I encouraged it … When this camp started, I told him about it and kept it in the back of his mind for the past three years, so when he was old enough, he could come. I had it all planned out…”
The anger turned to a cold stark fear and I ripped out of her grasp.
