Chloe (21 page)

Chloe stands on the ledge, balancing on the stout wall with
her arms outstretched. James’ eyes fly open wide. He hurries to her, but keeps
a cautious distance between them, as though he is afraid his mere presence will
push her overboard.

She knows he is trying to hide his growing anxiety when he
says gently, “I think we should go back down now.”

Chloe stares out over the city. There is no turning back at
this point. “Do you have trouble sleeping at night, James?”

James seems relieved that she is talking to him again, as
though that is somehow an indication that she is only joking around and does
not mean to go through with this. “I don’t think so,” he says, calling boyish
charm into his voice. Once again, trying to bring humor to the situation, “My
problem is usually waking up.” He laughs hollowly, mirthlessly.

Chloe’s face remains a grim mask. “Do you remember going to
sleep?”

After a pause, “Can you please come away from that ledge?”

Chloe closes her eyes tightly. This is going to shock him.
This is going to horrify and terrify him, especially if he meant what he said
on the beach about loving her. This will hurt him. Her heart aches. This is
harder than she thought.

Willing her voice not to crack, “Tonight, try to remember.”
In the same moment, she reminds herself that she has committed suicide twice in
the last three days and is going to rouse in her bed tomorrow, unharmed. “I’ll
see you when I wake up,” she promises.

With that, Chloe jumps to her death, throwing herself off
the building, pitched headlong into the open air. She plunges downward,
spiraling wildly, with the roar of the wind in her ears. And then there is
nothing.

As she predicts, James is horrified. He stands for a moment,
rooted to the concrete, breath eluding him as all color drains from his face.
He slowly approaches the edge, ambling towards what he dreads most. He cannot
lose her. Why would she…? Why would she do this?!

He looks down to see a crowd begin to gather down below
around a body on the sidewalk.

•

Kathleen is cooking up a storm in the Jones’ kitchen.
Preparing meals is one of her favorite pass times, even if they are only for
two people. She loves cooking. More specifically she loves the look on guest’s
faces when they taste it. She loves the abundance of the lord’s blessings in
their life.

James sits by the counter, lost in thought with his elbows
on the ledge and his fists bracing his cheeks up. He sighs quietly, in that
lovelorn way she has grown accustomed to. Every time she sees that look on her
son’s face, she wants to strangle that girl.

Kathleen notices the way his eyes droop and tries to ignore
him, but it’s not working.

Kathleen knows all about the ring and how, when the moment
was right, Chloe denied him without even knowing it. He didn’t even get a
chance to propose. She knew by the way James looked when he finally came home
that night.

The boy hasn’t been eating well, throwing himself into his
architecture studies behind an “I’m fine” and a locked door.

That stupid girl… Any mother would be angry.

“Have you told her how you feel? Really told her?” she asks
carefully.

James replies with a subtle nod. She can tell he would
rather not talk about it when he says, “I was kind of suave about it too.
Didn’t make much difference.”

Kathleen wishes she knew what to say. Her eloquence as a
pastor does not always extend to eloquence in the home. Her better instincts
tell her to advise him to move on and find a sensible young lady with a good
head on her shoulders and both feet on the ground. But love is not so easily
bartered. She should know.

Kathleen cracks another egg into the mixing bowl before she
starts whisking. “Have faith,” she encourages. “It will work out.”

James folds his arms, pushing up his elbows over the counter
to nestle his chin inside them. “Not so sure anything will ever change between
me and her,” he whispers hollowly. “She’s on a downward spiral, about to
crash.” He is right about that one. “Always carrying on about strange things… I
can’t seem to do anything to stop it.”

“There is power in prayer. She got saved,” his mother
reminds him. “That’s a start.”

“I pray for her all the time, as you so candidly pointed out
last time she was over… It doesn’t seem to be working.” Kathleen feels bad
about the secrets she let slip when Chloe finally came to dinner with them. She
has asked James for forgiveness, and of course her beloved son gave it to her,
but she still carries the guilt like an old stain.

James sits up and scrubs his face with his hands, his
shoulders carrying a burden that only seems to grow. In spite of it all, “She’s
such a great writer, mom. You should read her screenplay.
Passion on the
Cross
. It brought me to tears. If it ever makes it to the screen, I’m
pretty sure we’ll experience a worldwide reaction.” He frowns with
determination. “I think a lot of people would come to Christ if they could see
it.”

Kathleen takes a rolling pin to the blob of raw dough,
flattening it deftly in preparation for the cheese and spinach loaf. “Maybe you
need to make sure it gets to the screen.”

Just like that, the candle of hope seems to go out of his
eyes. It is as though he can see what might become of Chloe if her work and
talents are never realized by anyone but himself. Obviously, his opinion only
holds so much weight, only so much merit, with Chloe. “95% of new screenwriters
never make it,” he whispers.

Kathleen gathers herself to full height, bringing a fist
against one hip while her other hand shakes the rolling pin at her son. “With
God all things are possible,” she reminds sternly. Kathleen assumes a doting
smile as her pride and joy. James manages a shallow smile back. Kathleen walks
over and gives James a taste of her cake mixture.

He smiles. He likes it.

•

Chloe opens her eyes. Morning again. Nothing has changed,
just as she knew it would not. The scene is still fresh in her mind, as is the
rush of adrenaline in her veins. She imagines that is what sky diving feels
like, minus the splat at the end. She gets out of bed and checks her phone to
find one text from James.

“Dinner. Usual Spot. 7PM.”

Will he remember?

She wishes the text told her more. The unfeeling letters
give no glimpse at his emotions. Chloe tosses her phone onto her bed with a
light thud. She stretches. She should probably go to work today, assuming
Sandra has not already fired her. Chloe grabs some clothes and heads into the
bathroom to shower up and get ready.

That evening, well past seven, James waits in their usual
restaurant at their usual table on his usual side.

He is surprised he has not dented the table with how many
times his fingers have drummed over the surface. There are two empty baskets of
breadsticks and one salad bowl in front of him… and he lost count of how many
times the waitress refilled his water glass and how many times another offered
him complementary wine. Maybe he should have accepted the wine. Heck, he would
be a bottle in by now.

He also chose to ignore the sympathetic sheen in their eyes.

The entire wait-staff knows them here by now and they are
more than accustomed to seeing Chloe come in late. It’s embarrassing, but he
has to accept it. He checks his watch for the umpteenth time. James has it in
his mind to leave, telling himself every five minutes that he will wait just
five more minutes.

Why does he feel like he has lost his dignity tonight?

He looks up to see Chloe hurrying through the restaurant,
between tables and curious customers.

He smiles. What else can he do?

“Not bad,” he says. “Just an hour and a half late.”

“Work,” she replies. “Witch is on ma’ case. Says I’ve gotten
tardy, so she made me stay late. You think she even knows what that word
means?”

James assumes a wry frown, but he does find the comment
funny. “You’re gonna get yourself fired if you don’t stop chasing ghosts.”

Chloe picks up the menu and scans through it. James does not
see her glance at him from over the top of it. She licks her lips. “You uh… You
remember anything from yesterday?”

James looks up from the menu he has memorized on multiple
occasions. Maybe he could get a position as a server here. In fact, he is sure
he could. His mind drifts back to yesterday, mulling it over. “Anything in
particular?”

Chloe shrugs. “Just wanted to know if anything about
yesterday…” She narrows her eyes, as if she is trying to be facetious, “stands
out in your mind.”

“The park was nice,” he acknowledges. “And standing in front
of that random building with you was very-“ he tries to think of a word that
might appease her, “
romantic.
”

Actually it was anything
but
romantic.

Chloe kept staring up at the damned building, paying him no
mind whatsoever. She closed her eyes, unresponsive to anything he had to say,
and muttered to herself until she fainted. He caught her, but of course she was
not conscious to see it. Nor was she conscious enough to see that he brought
her home, safe and sound, and laid her in bed. He made no mention of it from
her mother.

Nothing serious. He knew it was just from the heat and the
fact that she locked her knees—nothing serious.

Chloe’s face lights up. She drops her menu on the table top.
James jumps slightly, surprised. “What happened after that?” she asks eagerly.

James does not like where this is going. He has no interest
in hearing about what happened in her fantasy land when she was closing her
eyes. He eyes her incredulously. “Are you about to get all weird on me again?”

Chloe blinks, the light dashed from her face. “What do you
mean?”

“Seriously, Chloe. I’ve been sitting here way too long,
refusing way too much wine to muddle through all that weirdness.” A waiter
comes and pour sparkling white wine into their glasses. He smiles and moves on
to another table.

Chloe stares at the glass of wine with a dazed expression.
James has a serious case of déjà vu, especially from the look on her face. She
remembers.

“What is it?” James wonders aloud, disturbed by the lack
of color in her face.

“This is white wine,” she whispers.

James blinks, his brows knitting together. He begins to
slowly nod. “Ravenswood,” he adds. “Great brand.”

Chloe’s jaw works, but she cannot immediately formulate
words. She shakes her head again, more adamantly this time. “The waiter poured
red wine.”

James’ eyes narrow. “I was here when he poured the white
wine. Complimentary wine is always white.”

James sighs, taking his napkin off of his lap and putting it
on the table. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Chloe.”

“Do what?” she says, suddenly yanked form her revelry.

The fact that she has to ask tells him enough. Then again,
there is duality in James’ statement. The fact that he is fed up as everything
to do with, “Us,” but Chloe’s strange behavior is at fault as well.

Chloe frowns. “We’re just friends.”

“Exactly,” James replies, more sharply than he wanted to.

“What are we talking about right now?” Because clearly, this
is not the subject she prefers.

James is stung by the memory of his confession on the beach
and the silence that followed.

“I’ve been lying to you about something,” he blurts. He
licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “I’m not just in love with your
writing.” They meet eyes. James’ heart is hammering. It flutters wildly, but
not in the same terrified way it did as a boy. “I’m also in love with the
writer.”

James shakes his head and fixes Chloe in a deliberate stare,
brimming with conviction. “Is there a point in our lives that I’ve never been
there for you?”

“Not that I recall,” she says cautiously, picking up her
menu again, probably hoping it will prompt a change in the topic of
conversation. James will not have it. This needs to be resolved. He just spend
an hour and a half waiting for her in the midst of a restaurant where people
regard him so piteously that he wants to lash out at the next one to talk to
him. It makes him feel stupid and led on and worthless.

He’s a man. He’s not someone’s puppy. He’s not going to wait
around for Chloe forever, until she comes home and he can pounce on her.

“So why are we still just friends?” he wants to know. “After
all this time, why aren’t we more than that?”

Chloe lowers her voice to a whisper. “You want to do this
now?
Here?”

“Yes,” James says, his voice continuing to climb in volume.

Chloe’s eyes grow, willing him to be quieter. She still uses
that annoying harsh whisper voice. “Because I don’t love you—like that.”

James can feel his anger growing, which feels much better
than the pain that would plague him were it not present. “You sure about that?”
he challenges.

Chloe pauses, as if he should be anticipating what she will
say next. When he realizes that is exactly what he is doing, he kicks himself
inside. “I would know,” she states callously. “I think that’s how it works.”
That was precisely what he did not want to hear.

James’ brows knit together, refusing to believe her. “Maybe
you are incapable of feeling love,” he rebuts.

“That would make me a psycho,” she says carefully. Her eyes
fly open, as though she is profoundly insulted. “You think I’m mental! I’m not
a psycho!”

Now he’s in a hole and it’s only getting deeper. It comes
out before he has a chance to stop himself. He was pushing his luck yesterday
when he told her she was acting crazy. He did not call her crazy, but acting
like it is not too far away.

“I think something is
wrong
and we can’t rule out any
possibility!”