Reluctantly Yours(33)

“No, it’s fine. I’m good.”

“I want to make sure you get into your apartment okay.” Whether it’s because I don’t want her to pass out in her hallway or because I’m plain curious, I’m not sure.

Chloe grabs the bag with her work clothes in it and proceeds to an orange door nestled between a pawn shop and a business advertising money orders and jail bonds. I glance down the street. My attention in the car had been on Chloe. I don’t even know where we are. I haven’t seen the inside and I already hate it.

Inside the small entryway, there are four mailboxes on the wall, and a steep set of stairs leading upward.

“No doorman, I take it?”

Chloe narrows her eyes at me. She coughs and I swear I hear the word ‘snob’ under her breath. Trying to keep an open mind, I follow Chloe’s lead, up another flight of stairs, to the third floor.

After inserting the key, she jiggles the handle twice before cranking it to the right.

“That doesn’t seem safe,” I say.

“You have to know just how to jiggle it or it doesn’t work. It’s more effective than if the key worked normally. Trust me, I’ve been locked out several times. It’s the equivalent of a randomly selected password online. You know the ones where you’re never going to remember them because they’re like twenty characters long and have no relevance to you whatsoever so you immediately change it to Bobcatpretzel1997?”

What is she even talking about right now? Maybe I shouldn’t let her stay alone.

These thoughts immediately invade my brain, but I don’t voice them.

“What significance is that?” I ask.

“I had a cat named Bob, he liked to lick pretzels and I was born in 1997. I probably shouldn’t be telling you that. I use that password for everything.” She sighs, obviously disgruntled that she’s going to have to change her password now. “Okay, I made it. Thanks for seeing me home.”

Ignoring her attempt to leave me on the outside of the door, I quickly move past her. I’m only two strides in and nearly run into a brick wall. I look around. Chloe’s apartment is the smallest I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if it could technically be called an apartment, but more so a room.

“What the hell, Chloe?” I motion to the space around me. The twelve-by-eighteen room that appears to be Chloe’s home.

She closes the door and turns toward me. We’re practically on top of each other.

“I didn’t move the wall. It’s always been there.” She points to the brick wall I nearly crashed into. We would have both had facial injuries if I hadn’t stopped short. “You act like I did some kind of voodoo magic to make the walls close in on themselves. Don’t worry, your perfect nose didn’t get crushed.” She heels off her tennis shoes, then mumbles, but not quietly at all, “Maybe if you weren’t so tall and broad shouldered, you’d fit better.”

“Right, because my stature is the issue here.”

I glance around, finally able to take in the rest of her place now that I know this is all of it. A twin bed with a pink comforter with tiny flowers on it. A six-drawer dresser that also serves as a nightstand and a desk with her laptop, lamp and books on it. A folding camp chair tucked in the corner is the only seating other than her bed. On the wall opposite her bed there’s a two-foot-wide counter with a sink and one upper and lower cabinet. There’s a hot plate taking up the remainder of the counter, its cord hanging precariously close to the sink.

I move toward the kitchen area.

“This is where you live?” I ask, examining the hot plate, before opening the cabinet above the counter. A variety of brightly colored mugs and a mismatch of plates and bowls are on one side, while a few box dinners and miscellaneous pantry items are on the other.

“Would you like a tour?” Chloe can’t help but laugh at her own joke. “It’s supposed to be funny, because you don’t need a tour to see all of my stuff. It’s all within arm’s reach.”

I don’t find this funny at all.

“I can tell you’re excited. You’re thinking ‘wow, look at all the deeply personal items I can peruse through to get to know my fake girlfriend better.’”

I look around again. There is a stack of books by her bed. Instead of a closet, there’s a clothing rack affixed to the wall with garment bags on hangers.

I push one aside to see the label on the front.

“What’s Threads?”

“It’s a wardrobe service. You pay a monthly fee and they send you outfits for the week. You return them when you’re done and they send more. I figured since I don’t have much room for clothes or a budget it made the most sense. Also, it’s eco-friendly. I feel better about not purchasing so many clothes and they have really cute designer stuff that I wouldn’t be able to afford anyway. I’ve been telling everyone about it. I think if we all did something like this it would really help cut down on fashion waste in our landfills.”

It occurs to me; I haven’t seen Chloe in the same outfit twice. It’s a shame that pink skirt she wore on Monday isn’t hers. I’ve been thinking about it all week. My hands fisting the bubblegum pink material to push it up around her hips and explore what’s underneath.

I shake the thought loose.

“All your clothes are from this service?”