Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,22
wanted to pluck off one of Chanel’s booties and throw it at her, followed by that dirty Starbucks cup. She was married to Clarke, the beautiful man who worked nonstop and still got up an extra hour early to cook her breakfast. The man who massaged her shoulders when she bitched, brought her flowers, opened her car door, and looked gorgeous doing it all. She had all that—yet was in this stranger’s arms.
The guy wasn’t even drool-worthy. He wore a plaid cardigan (yuck) and had a beard, one of those flimsy ones that signified a late attempt to jump on the trend. He looked mid-thirties, with a thin build, his legs spread in black jeans, the hint of a light gray T-shirt peeking out from beneath the cardigan when he shifted toward me. He glanced in my direction, and I got a good look at his face. It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t beautiful. It was normal. Nothing when you compared it to Clarke.
Our gazes met and I knew the judgment must have shown on my face. I knew I should turn away but didn’t. I’d forgotten how to function. In the world of fight or flight, I froze in place and got eaten.
Chanel stopped her interrogation of the empty Starbucks cup, the leash going slack, her leopard print body trotting forward. I pulled on the leash, tried to turn but she saw Nicole and lunged forward, yipping loudly.
Oh shit. I pulled harder, my eyes flitting to Nicole and watched, in almost slow motion, as her head snapped my way. She raised a hand to her mouth, stepping back from the man. I scooped up Chanel’s rigid body, fighting her strain toward the pair, her yaps loud and harsh in the quiet cold. Shushing her, I turned away and blocked her view with my body, my flats quick on the street. I was running by the time I climbed the steps to their house, out of breath, Chanel’s body wiggling to be free, our fall through the front doors done with a fair amount of drama, despite my best attempt to be quiet. Nancy, one of the maids, rushed in, her hurry ceasing when she saw it was just me.
“You’re tracking snow in. Get those stupid shoes off the dog before she ruins the floors.” She snapped out the words, oblivious to my situation.
I wanted to tell her that I also thought the doggie shoes were stupid. I wanted to tell her that I just saw Nicole kissing a stranger and—Chanel darted out of my hands, her booties tip-tapping across the floor, leaving dots of water. I scrambled to my feet, going after her, apologizing to Nancy. She shouted at me to remove my shoes and I chucked them off, the action too enthusiastic, one flying up and hitting a large crystal dancer that sat on the entrance table, everyone but Chanel freezing as we watched it fall to the floor.
At any other time, it would have been a beautiful sound, a thousand tiny splinters of glass on marble. We stared at the damage, Nancy letting out a sharp gasp.
“Fuck,” I whispered. Between catching Nicole in the act and destroying this, I was most likely staring at unemployment in that pile of crystal.
What could I have done? What could I have said? I still didn’t know what the right action was to take on that Manhattan side street.
Should I have confronted her? Pointed a judgmental finger at Nicole and asked what in the hell she was doing?
Should I have looked away, pretended I didn’t see anything?
Waved cheerily as if cheating was an everyday activity?
I stared at the broken crystal and drew a complete blank.
21. What Had Happened Was…
“You broke this?” Clarke looked up at me, a question on his face.
“Yes. It was an accident. I was trying to catch Chanel … my shoe…” My voice faltered; my explanation weak as hell.
He looked down at the dustpan, the crystal remains inside, Nancy keeping the evidence and pointing it out the minute he’d walked in the door, as if I had planned to keep it a secret. He straightened and picked up his drink, taking a hefty swallow before glancing at his watch. “Where’s Nicki?”
“I … ahh … I don’t know.” My voice shook, no alibi created for Nicole, his eyebrows raised when he looked at me. “She left a few hours ago,” I managed.
“She’s gonna loose her shit over this, excuse my French.” He tipped back the heavy tumbler again, small cubes