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The ridiculousness of her question catches me by surprise. “What?”
“Do you believe in wishes? Yes or no?” She turns her head toward me.
Our breaths mingle together from the proximity.
My eyes drop to her lips. “Uhm...No?”
She palms her face. “Figures.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe in wishes.”
I can’t help it. Her response makes me laugh, releasing the tension from my body.
“Hey, it’s not nice to laugh at someone sharing a story. I’ve only told this to one other person in the entire world, and your reaction makes me not want to share it anymore.” She pinches my side, knowing the exact spot to make my body jolt.
“You’re right. Please forgive me?”
Her smile doesn’t match her faux offense. “Yeah. So, I have this thing called a wish journal. And I get it’s ridiculous, but I’ve made wishes ever since I watched Pinocchio as a kid.”
“But you wish in a journal instead of on a star? How does that work?”
“In New York, the only star you’ll find is on Broadway since there are too many lights to see the sky clearly. I was practical and found a journal instead. Plus, it’s easier to keep track of all my wishes that way. And boy do I keep track.”
“I don’t know what’s more shocking about this story. The fact that you write wishes in a journal or how you call yourself practical.”
Chloe lets out a melodic laugh up to the ceiling. “Okay wise guy, what if I told you some of my wishes came true?”
“Then I’d tell you that you have a flawless case of confirmation bias.”
Chloe goes wild from my comment. God. I love the way she laughs—like she might die from oxygen deprivation. I’m tempted to make her laugh again and again. Isolation has made me a sad sap of a man, begging for attention from someone who seems equally lonely.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, please quit the comedy act while you’re ahead. There’s only room for one of us in this sham of a relationship, and it isn’t you, buddy.”
I chuckle. “Fine.”
“Anyway, it might seem stupid to some”—her eyes narrow at me as she turns her head in my direction—“but my wish journal is really important to me. It was the one thing that was exclusively mine, especially after I was forced to move out of my mom’s place and into a foster home.”
Her voice lacks the sorrowful note I’d expect from a depressing story like this. I imagine a young Chloe, clinging to a journal, wishing for better circumstances only to be disappointed time and time again. The notion sits heavy in my chest. How does she stay so damn positive after growing up like that? Who would?
She continues, “You can laugh all you want, but one of my wishes landed me here, so I’d say there’s a bit of magic in my journal. Don’t you think?”
I’m hooked on the story, craving more from her. “What did you wish for?”
“Two things actually.”
“Oh, really?”
“The first wish was for me to find my dad and reunite with him.”
“And obviously that happened.”
She smiles “Yeah.”
“And what was your second wish?”
“I don’t know if I should share it. I might be suffering from a wicked sense of confirmation bias.” She sticks out her tongue at me.
