Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,94

blew my nose. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known. Mother wouldn’t do prison. Father would probably come apart at the seams. And both of them, regardless of their actions, seemed to think they were above punishment. And they must, despite all of my thoughts to the contrary, still have money. When I’d walked them outside, I’d watched their designer shoes clip right into a chauffeured Mercedes. No taxi for Mom and Dad.

“It just seems unfair,” I continued. “They aren’t getting punished at all. And I’m here, trying to pay off my tuition and…” And Mom was sashaying around town with a twenty-thousand dollar purse. It was so unfair that they were headed to a new life and so frustrating to know that any chance of us regaining a relationship was disappearing in that flight.

“Chloe.” Cammie pushed me upright. “Not to be bitchy, but I think this was actually good for you.”

“What?”

“You were pretty entitled before.” She shrugged. “You’ve changed from all this.”

“Entitled?” I raised my eyebrows at her. “You aren’t exactly scraping by on your Tahitian vacations.”

She leveled me with a look. “You were spoiled.”

“We were all spoiled.”

“But you’re nicer now,” she said gently. “You’re smarter. You see things differently. Before, you wouldn’t have given Carter the time of day.”

I laughed into a fresh tissue. “I kinda didn’t. Not in the beginning.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.” She said the words quietly and I hated the change in topic, the return to this ugly reality.

“Thanks,” I said flatly. “I just don’t know what to do with them.” I didn’t even think of calling the police. It seemed, no matter how flawed family may be, they were still that: family. They still required your love, your acceptance, your protection. Or maybe I’d just watched too many episodes of The Sopranos.

I crawled into bed that night and lay in the dark, the room spinning a little from the wine. Was I happy they had stopped by to say goodbye? I couldn’t, through all of my emotions, decide.

90. Was I Reading Too Much Into This?

I sat in the backseat of the Brantleys’ SUV, Chanel in my lap, and stared at the text from Carter.

We should talk. Dinner tonight?

Hmm. My first instinct was to run in the opposite direction. We should talk?

I hadn’t told him about my parents’ visit. Had sworn Cammie to secrecy so it was a non-event, something that had never happened. If the cops or FBI ever showed up, I wanted his statement to be truthful and non-discriminating. And it wasn’t like I was lying to him. I was just excluding facts.

Which … was kind of exactly what he did with me. Like how he conveniently failed to mention his parents’ wealth or their eight-million-dollar Fifth Avenue penthouse (Benta’s research, not mine). Granted, I really should have asked more questions. Or any questions. The ironic thing was, a few weeks ago, I didn’t really want details, assuming that his poor upbringing would make me feel guilty for mine. HA. Silly me.

I glanced up, toward Dante, the SUV idling at a red light. “I just got a text from Carter. He wants to talk.” The clear enunciation of the last two words would have had any female lifting her head in interest, eyes widening, full understanding instant. Dante simply sat there. Silent.

I leaned forward. “Did you hear me?”

“So?”

“So?” I repeated. A typical man’s response. “So what should I do? What could he want to talk about?”

“Why don’t you just ask him?” He said the words slowly, as if my brain might not process words spoken at any other rate of speed.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

I hesitated, my fingers over the phone. What a simple and novel idea. One that might reduce my stress in the six or seven hours before dinner and This Talk. I blew out a breath, Chanel jumping up, her tongue licking at my jaw, and I smiled despite myself.

What do you want to talk about?

I stared at the question, then sent it, my text bouncing off satellites and landing before him, three little dots indicating an impending response.

My parents. The things I haven’t told you.

Oh thank God. I let out a sigh of relief and saw Dante’s eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. “It’s nothing,” I blurted out. “I thought it was about me.” Or us. Or something Vic did. Or breaking us. Or a hundred other things because it seemed like all I’d done lately was mess up.

He coughed out a laugh. “Girls are so weird.”

I