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“I don’t know shit,” she bites out and her defensiveness is exactly what the police will latch on to. “I’m going through a lot right now,” she adds, but her voice wavers. Her gaze falls as she visibly swallows and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear before peeking back up to the wallpaper. “I don’t want to think about any of it.” Her voice lowers to a murmur as she says, “Sure as shit, not Barry.”
As time slowly passes, her anger diminishes, and I watch as she returns to her typical quiet state. She’s nestled in the sofa with the sad smile she always carries gracing her lips. Picking at the hem of her skirt, she glances at me thoughtfully. “Is that really what you wanted to know?”
“How are the nightmares?” I ask her, feeling my chest get tight as the smile vanishes and her eyes shift to a hollow expression I hate and know all too well. She’s good at hiding. Hiding her pain behind a smile. Hiding her reality behind the thought that one day she’ll get out of here. Well, she used to, anyway. She used to be good at all of that.
Time changes a lot of things.
She starts to answer me, but she can’t hide the emotion in her voice. Before she can lie and tell me she’s fine, her voice hitches and she turns her gaze toward the empty hallway.
“Why do you care?” Her words cut deep. Chloe’s pain is clear, but does she really think I don’t care about her?
She’s smarter than this. It’s the second time tonight I’ve had that thought. “You know I care,” is all I give her. But for the first time since I stepped foot on her porch, I feel the mask slip from me, letting her see what’s inside without putting up a wall for her to break through.
She can see it all anyway. If I stop trying to hide, maybe she will too.
She still hasn’t answered my question though.
“So how are you handling them? The nightmares?”
“They’re back. I’ve had them every night since Saturday,” she tells me. Saturday. The day they caught her mother’s killer. She’s back to fidgeting with the hem of her skirt as her gaze flickers between me and the floor.
“How did you know?” she asks, peeking up at me and I almost allow myself to get lost in the pain reflected in her baby blues. I’d rather be lost in hers than mine.
“You look tired,” I answer her honestly. She drops her gaze though, sighing deeply and pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes.
“Well if you wanted to know if I knew who killed Barry, I don’t. So, you can go now, and I can get some sleep.” She stands up and hugs her chest, although her posture is more aggressive than defensive.
For nearly a year, I could feel her watching me whenever I was near her. The pull to be at her side was stronger than anything else. Nothing could compete with her, but I resisted. I couldn’t let her get caught up in this shit.
Now she’s the one pushing me away. Fair enough, I suppose. It doesn’t change the fact that this is a small world, and I know she still feels that draw, just like I do.
“I have something that can help you,” I tell her as I stand with no intention of walking out just yet. She can pretend that she has the ability to tell me what to do. We both know that’s not the case, but I respect her too much to rub it in her face. Besides, I can’t let her push me away when I have something she needs.
“What is it?” She’s wary but curious. That’s the Chloe I know.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the vial I prepared before coming here and roll it between my fingers. “It’s something to make you sleep.”
“Drugs?” she scoffs and shakes her head at me, letting out a sarcastic laugh like I’ve gone mad.
“It’s something you could get at any pharmacy,” I offer her, letting a smile slip onto my lips.
That’s not completely true. A friend gave it to me to see if there’d be any interest for it on the streets, but people in this city want harder drugs. Drugs to help them forget, to escape, even if just for a short time. I thought it could help Chloe though.
She’s a good girl, but she needs this. The sweets will knock her out and give her the rest she so desperately needs. I would know.
“You’re a bad liar,” she says, and the irony doesn’t escape me.
“I’ll put a few drops in your tea,” I tell her as I walk past her, brushing my arm against hers and feeling that familiar combination of heat and want seep into my blood. Her quick intake of air is all I need to keep moving forward, walking to her kitchen before I hear her take even a single step.
I go right to where I know she keeps her mugs and tea as I hear her walking toward the kitchen.
“I don’t drink tea at night,” she tells me, and I know she’s lying again. Glancing at the box in my hands, I show her the label then pull out what I know is her favorite mug. She picked it up at a used bookstore last year. If she’s not working or home, she’s always at that bookstore.
“Decaffeinated tea then?” She only crosses her arms aggressively again and leans against the small table in the kitchen. “I’m getting tired of you lying to me tonight,” I add with my back to her as I fill the mug with water and put it into the microwave.
When I turn to her, the hum of the microwave filling the room along with the tension between us, she meets my gaze with a hardened expression.
“How many years will go by this time? You know, before you barge into my life, then pretend I don’t exist the next day?” She sounds bitter, but I know it’s fake.
