Chapter 9: Chloe's Coffee

Chloe sat in the lobby of Stroud Hotels with a folded blanket on her knees.

Two paper cups stood on the table in front of her.

The boot was on her left foot now.

She had fixed it overnight.

"Gillian," she said, and half rose, wincing. "I'm so sorry to turn up like this. I was afraid you wouldn't see me."

Vaughn stood three steps behind me with his arms folded.

The guard stood three steps behind him.

At the front desk, two receptionists had stopped pretending to type.

"I'll be at the lifts," Vaughn said quietly.

"Stay in sight," I said.

"Always."

I sat down across from Chloe.

She slid a cup toward me.

"Oat milk, one sugar. That's how you take it."

"How do you know how I take it?"

"Dillon talks about you all the time."

"He talks about you more."

"He's worried about me," she said, and her eyes filled.

"I know it hurts you. I came to say I never wanted any of this."

"You posted my phone number."

"My friends did. I never told them to."

"It was on your page."

She gave a small, wounded laugh. "You think I'd do something like that?"

"I think you'd do it and cry about it afterward."

The tears stopped.

Chloe set down her cup.

She looked past me, at the receptionists, at Vaughn by the lifts, at the guard.

Then she leaned across the table, and her voice dropped to a smooth, quiet register I had never heard her use.

"You were never going to win," she said.

"I'm not in a contest."

"Everyone's in a contest. You counted ninety-nine times. That's cute. Do you want to know how many it is for real?"

"Go on."

"Eleven years." She smiled. "He's been coming for me for eleven years, Gillian. You were a six-month hobby."

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