Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,85

at my dinner and tried to process my feelings. I was disappointed. Disenchanted. Not just with Carter, but with myself. I was no longer the fallen society girl who had fallen in love with a poor boy and tossed away her materialism. I was the fallen society girl who would climb right back into her old life, clawing up the chest of her sexy boyfriend.

Much more fairytale. Much less inspirational.

I picked up my fork and tried to find my appetite. Tried to perk up by telling myself that the worst of the evening was over.

Famous last words.

79. Walking the Plank

We left the restaurant, my hand stiff in Carter’s firm grip, his parents huddling together against the wind. I breathed it in with relief, grateful for fresh air after the tension-filled dinner, his mother’s judgment choking me the entire meal. She thought I was a gold digger, had all but called me one during the meal, multiple insinuations made that I was with Carter for his inheritance. An inheritance I hadn’t even known about. It was ridiculous.

I couldn’t wait to get home, was almost distracted enough by the idea to miss his mom inviting themselves over. I blinked, turning my head against the wind, toward their conversation, just in time to hear Carter politely push them off.

His mother, damn her soul, didn’t back down. “Don’t be silly, Carter. I haven’t seen the building since … gosh. Since we interviewed Chloe. Let us check in on our investment, sweetie. It’s the least you can do.” Her eyes glowed at me, and I wanted to throw up my hands in frustration.

“You don’t mind, do you Chloe?” Oh … the witch. Bringing me into it.

I gave my best smile. “Of course not.”

She eyed me with suspicion. “Well. Let’s go before it gets too late.”

Oh yes. One thing I agreed with. Let’s move this disaster along as quickly as possible.

We walked the few blocks home, Carter and I following behind his parents, their slow shuffle painful to follow. I gripped Carter’s arm and watched the street, the road bumper-to-bumper, an odd occurrence at 10 PM on a weeknight. I looked up ahead, trying to see past the mess of traffic, hoping to see the source of the problem. Probably an accident. Maybe a brazen New York jaywalker got hit. It was a wonder we didn’t all end up splattered on these dirty streets. I glanced up at Carter, wanting to whisper an apology, wanting to laugh about this ridiculous situation, but his body was tense, his eyes straight ahead, and I didn’t.

Just across from our apartment building, his parents suddenly stopped, right in the middle of a crosswalk. I swallowed a response, pulling on Carter’s arm to go around the suicidal couple. It was then, stepping around them, that I saw what had slowed traffic, the face of our building transformed, and I stopped, my eyes darting in a hundred places at once.

I saw our building through wisps of my breath in the crisp night air. Beside me, my silent boyfriend, a man who had been tense all evening, something I had attributed to stress over his parents, then anger over my secrets. I hadn’t even considered something else. Something like this. When had he done it all?

The trees before our building were wrapped and draped in white lights, white rose petals lining the front walkway, our front planters suddenly overflowing with jasmine, orchids and roses. But the real impact was the building itself, the white brick illuminated with a light show, images dancing across its surface, the production impressive in its detail and clarity, the twelve stories a giant canvas of all things Chloe.

Me, as a child, in pigtails, running through the Miami surf, my head thrown back in a laugh. The image dissolved into a more recent one, me sipping a drink, my eyes on the camera, my mouth curved into a smile. I tried to place the image but then it was gone, replaced with a slow-motion shot of me, spinning in the New York snow, my arms outstretched. I remembered the day, Cammie and Benta and me in Central Park. It was a couple of years ago, and I smiled at the memory. I snuck a glance at Carter but couldn’t read his expression, his face in shadow.

Across the street, the parking lot had been emptied, all the cars gone—all except my gleaming Maserati—music started. Lilting, haunting music, and I stepped forward to get a better look, moving through the stalled