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“I can’t.” And Chloe’s shaking her head. “I already decided that the next time I saw Lucy and the others, I would tell them the truth. I don’t want to lie anymore.”
“Is that why you’ve avoided them the last few days?” I arch an eyebrow. “And here I thought you wanted me all to yourself.”
“Well, that was part of it.” She pokes me in the side, and that’s how I know she’s rounded the bend, leaving despair behind, and rallying toward hope. “But you’re right. I need to ask them again.” Chloe pauses. “I only hope that when I tell them the truth, they’ll still be willing to help.”
“The good thing is, the Chloe Effect doesn’t just work on me.”
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“The Chloe Effect.”
“And what, may I ask, is that?”
I take her face between my palms and wipe the black makeup from under one eye with my thumb. Then the other. “Thatis the phenomenon whereby you make someone feel so special they are willing to go to the ends of the earth for you.”
“That’s not a thing.”
I huff out a laugh. “I assure you, it is.”
nineteen
CHLOE
The moment of truth has arrived, and my stomach won’t let me forget it.
I might be sick in the lovely bushes outside Burt and Bea Reynolds’ house, where Lucy has lived since she moved in at the age of sixteen. She hasn’t told me exactly what happened to her parents, but I gather it’s not good. So she moved here from Texas and has lived with her aunt and uncle ever since.
Ah, drat.Just knock already, Chloe.
But the last time I knocked on a door—thirty minutes ago—everything fell apart.
I glance back at Frederick, who is standing beside the car and gives me the thumbs-up. He wanted to come inside, but this is my secret to tell. Sure, he’s been part of this lie, but I’m the one who originally started it. Or, who went along with Lucy’s assumptions, anyhow.
The good thing is, Frederick feels comfortable enough with Lucy that he’s okay with me going inside alone. He’ll just stay stationed out here, offering me protection—and emotional support. Goodness, I lucked out with that man.
Blowing out a breath, I finally knock on the door. The brick home is simple, modest, a far cry from the grandeur of Greta’s house, but not in a bad way. The shutters on the front windows are painted a cheery blue and the small grass yard has been well maintained. A huge tree provides shade for the home. I think that a home like this would make me quite happy someday.
So long as a certain someone is sharing it with me.
Before I get taken away by my fantasies, the door opens, and Lucy pops her head out. Her hair is piled on her head in a ridiculously high ponytail-braid thing, and her face … well, her face looks like a makeup kit threw up on it. Bright green eyeshadow encompasses not just her eyelid but the entire section of skin between her lashes and eyebrows. Blush that should be discontinued for its extreme gaudiness has been caked on her cheeks, and her lips are a purple color that is definitely made for people with a darker skin tone than hers.
“Hi,” she says brightly and pulls back the door with a sweeping gesture. “Come on in.”
I follow her into the house, which is just as warm and inviting as I’d imagined it. “Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but what happened to you?”
She glances behind her and then leans in toward me. “Scarlett happened to me.” Then Lucy pulls me into a hug. “I’ve missed you! Sorry I couldn’t meet you somewhere else, but I’m babysitting this afternoon while April has a job interview over at Bluestocking Books. I guess they decided to move here from San Francisco, which is super exciting but also very spontaneous. Anyway, Scarlett wanted to do makeovers.” She frames her face with her hands, makes a duck face, and strikes a pose.
“You look fabulous, darling.” I laugh at her antics. “And no worries. I know it was last minute, but I had something come up and needed your help.”
“Always. I pulled up a show on Scarlett’s tablet and she’s tucked away in her room for a bit so we can talk.” Lucy moves into the living room, which is small, but cozy, with homemade quilts thrown over the back of the worn blue couch and a beige recliner that I can picture Burt using to watch the huge television mounted across the room. There’s also a chipped oak coffee table, side tables that don’t match, lamps with striped shades, and family portraits on the wall.
It’s the complete and total opposite of my home in Kentonia. And while my mother has tried to make that a home, there’s no real way to tone down the opulence when you live in a palace.
Lucy keeps talking. “You want anything to drink?”
“Sure,” I say, wondering if my stomach will rebel if I try to put something into it. “Water would be lovely. Thanks.”
Lucy heads into the kitchen, which is adjacent to the living room, talking over her shoulder. “Just move the stuff on the couch out of the way.”
