Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,93

had done something to imagine my mother, her arm slipped carelessly through a Gucci crocodile bag, my father towering behind her. I hadn’t seen them in over a year, and yet, somehow, they looked exactly the same. No extra wrinkles from stress, no salt and pepper roots betraying the months since a proper dye job, no worn suitcase in hand. Mother was in a St. John suit, her hair perfect, smile wide, a mink stole around her shoulders. My father was in his typical garb: an oxford shirt tucked into dress pants, sunglasses perched on his thick head of hair despite the late hour. As handsome as ever, they looked like a million bucks. A million highly illegal bucks.

“Chloe, where are your manners?” She scowled at me as if she still owned my dwelling, her hand pushing open my door, and as she swept past, the scent of Chanel No. 5 catching me, a thousand memories tied to the smell.

“Chloe.” My father nodded stiffly and I nodded back.

“What are you guys doing here?” I didn’t close the door, just pivoted in place, a little wine sloshing out, and stared at them. Mom didn’t respond, too busy surveying my apartment, her lip curled in a manner that clearly indicated her disapproval. Something inside of me snapped.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Aren’t you both under house arrest?”

“Oh,” she said airily, waving her hand. “Nothing so barbaric as that. I mean … the hearing is tomorrow morning. Then we’ll probably be restricted to the house.”

“If the judge doesn’t send us straight to jail.” My father said the statement mildly, lifting up my bottle of wine and examining the label.

“It’s turned into such a mess, it’s really quiet humorous.” Mom turned back to me, her eyebrows raised, and she grinned at me, as if we were teenage girls sharing a delicious secret.

“You have a hearing tomorrow?” I tried to follow this.

“Yes.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. “We came all the way up here just to see you, Chloe. You should really act happier to see us.”

I didn’t have a response. I patted her back awkwardly and looked to my father, who was busy tipping back a glass of my cheap wine. “So … you fly home tonight?”

“Oh, I’m not sure.” Mom pulled back and reached in her bag, finding a tube of lipstick and pulling it out. “We may do a little traveling. We tried to deal with the investigators, but…” She waved a hand in the air like the FBI was a pesky little kid who was stomping through her hibiscus.

Then it hit me, and the only thing that really surprised me was that they had stopped in New York first. “You’re running?”

It was a waste of words. I knew, before my dad even coughed on my wine, the answer.

Twenty minutes. That was how long they stayed. How long I got to say goodbye. Long enough for a glass of wine, some critical comments on my apartment, a lot of evasive answers, and a brief set of hugs before they left. And when they did, I swore I smelled relief in their departure.

They missed Cammie by minutes. I met her in the lobby, my wine glass still in hand. I managed a hello then burst into tears. I didn’t know why I was crying. Why, after all this time, did I expect more from them? What did I want? A mention that they were proud of me? Recognition that I found my own way, got on my own two feet? They didn’t even ask if I was seeing someone. They didn’t even tell me they loved me.

Cammie got me upstairs, found a box of tissues, and refilled my wine glass.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffed, leaning into her arms, us side-by-side on the couch.

“Don’t be,” she chided. “You were overdue for this.”

I sobbed out a laugh. “You damn bloodhound. You must have smelled my tears.” Benta and I used to joke with her about it. If you were ever going to have a breakdown, do it with Cammie. She’d kick your ass into shape while feeding, nursing, and loving you through your pain. She sensed emotional weakness, and she came running.

She smiled. “It was good timing.”

I wished I had Cammie’s parents. They would have stayed longer than twenty minutes. Then again, they wouldn’t be on the run. They wouldn’t have broken the law.

“I can’t believe they are running.” I grabbed the tissue Cammie offered and