Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,14
Benta had a driver and carried chocolate on her person, so she won the Who Helps Chloe Pick an Apartment competition, hands-down. Lucky girl.
All we had to do was walk in, and I was in love. First off, it had a closet. TWO, if you counted the coat closet. It was the type of thing I wouldn’t have thought twice about in Miami. Or, hell, three months earlier. But standing there in last season’s jacket and my working-girl mentality, I swooned a little. Benta reached out and gripped my elbow, so yeah. I think there was some sexy knee buckling.
The only thing was, I had to complete what the broker described as a “rigorous” application process. It was family owned, and they were picky about their tenants, yada yada yada, so I needed their approval. I stopped listening on the second sentence and (politely) snatched the application out of the realtor’s hand so fast she blinked.
Later that night, with my feet tucked under me on the couch, I read over the application, attempting to polish off my rough edges before I scanned it over to her. My name, birthday, and address were all easy. Cammie’s address was highly respectable, and she had cheerfully volunteered to play pretend landlord, should they make a reference call.
Marital status? None.
Relationship status? My pen hesitated over that one. If I put Single, would they worry that strange men would visit at all hours of the night? Ha. I would never be so lucky. If I put that I was in a relationship, would they want my imaginary boyfriend’s information? Or worry about two of us living in the place? I wrote Single in clear, dignified letters, hoping my neat handwriting would win them over.
Occupation? I tapped my pen on the counter and tried to think of the most glamorous description of my job. Closet Organizer? Pomeranian Companion? I settled on the boring title of Administrative Assistant.
I read over the application a final time and wondered if I would be good enough.
13. The Italian Stallion
Cammie and Dante were having sex. Ridiculously loud sex. I sat on the couch, one thin door away from grunts, screams and a repetitive knock of her bedframe, and tried to watch Pretty Little Liars on DVR. Chewed really loudly on popcorn in an attempt to drown out the sounds.
Cammie, apparently, was a shrieker. How I hadn’t discovered that in four years of BFF bliss, I didn’t know. And Dante was making this breathy, grunty noise, which sounded unappealing when I described it, but was oh-my-god hot. I gave up on PLL and lay down, Adele playing through my headphones and still not drowning them out.
I rolled over on the couch and added a pillow to the mix.
Another fifteen minutes passed, and I glanced at the wall clock, impressed. Irritated, mind you, but impressed. The bedpost hit the wall, followed by a wail that lasted so long our neighbor pounded on the walls and screamed something along the lines of shut the hell up. I smiled despite myself. Closed my eyes and tried to go through tomorrow’s work itinerary. My job description had finally graduated from dogsitting, Nicole unleashing enough information to fill three pages in my notebook. This week was her trip to Vegas, strict instructions left to “keep Chanel entertained.” Whatever that meant. I listened to Cammie moan and brainstormed dog-friendly activities. Maybe we could hit a dog park. Make homemade dog biscuits? I watched the second hand move on Cammie’s clock and ran out of dogsitting ideas.
Vic and I had wanted a dog. We were going to get a Goldendoodle. I thought of the last time I saw him, when he’d used his key and let himself into my old apartment, crawling into my bed in the middle of the night, all apologies and tender touches and kisses. I had rolled over into his arms, and pretended for a few hours, that everything between us was okay. And it had been—in the hours before I tearfully kicked him out—wonderful. I felt a pang of something sharp and fresh and wondered, with Adele crooning in my ear, when the pain would go away. I wondered how much of my pain was heartbreak and how much was hurt over his betrayal.
The song ended, and I realized that Cammie’s shrieks had stopped. I pulled the earphones off and waited a beat. The bathroom sink began to run and I let out a sigh of relief, stopping my playlist and unplugging the headphones,