Addicted(93)

“I’m not sure it could get any worse,” I tell her honestly, sliding into a little sundress that makes my shoulders look good. I figure it can’t hurt at a job interview like this one.

“Oh, Chloe, sweetheart, things can always get worse.”

“There’s the pessimist I know and love!” I pat her cheek with mock enthusiasm. “I was afraid I’d lost you forever.”

She turns her head, tries to bite my fingers, but before I can do much more than dodge her snapping teeth, there’s a knock on the door.

“I’ve got it!” she yells, all but tearing down the hallway.

I think about following her, about fighting her for it, but it takes too much effort. Everything takes too much effort these days. It’s not a good sign.

Maybe I really am depressed.

When Tori doesn’t come find me again, I figure one of the neighbors has stopped by to see her. It happens a lot. But after I finish getting dressed—which only takes a couple of minutes since I’m not trying that hard to get this job, though I should be—I wander down to the kitchen and find Tori sitting there with a large knife posed over a package.

“What’d you order?” I ask as I debate whether I want to eat anything before the interview or not.

“Nothing. It’s for you. From Ethan.”

And then, under my horrified eyes, she plunges the knife straight through the packing tape.

“What’d you do that for?” I demand, rushing toward her and trying to take the knife. She refuses to yield.

“No, damn it. You act like you’re the only one affected by this whole thing and you’re not. One, because you’re so damned depressed I’m afraid you’re going to walk into traffic one day and not even pay attention to where you’re going. And two, I’m human and if I don’t get to see what’s in at least one of these boxes you keep getting, I’m going to lose my mind. I signed for this one, so I say this is it.”




“I don’t want to know.”

She shrugs, but doesn’t stop hacking away at the box. “Fine. But I do.”

I turn around, head back to my room like it doesn’t bother me that she’s opening my present. But within five minutes I’m back, desperate to see what’s in the package—I only have willpower with closed packages from him, I see.

By the time I get back to the kitchen, I expect to see packing paper everywhere—Tori’s a little bit of a freak when it comes to presents—but instead the box is sitting neatly on the counter. Open, but undisturbed.

Fuck.

I want to walk away. I need to walk away, for my own sanity.

Instead I find myself walking toward the box, my fingers actually itching with the need to open it. Just like they’ve been itching to open the others that have come.

I’ve managed to resist all six of those—one for every day since I walked away from Ethan in Napa—but here, now, with the box open and Tori’s words ringing in my ears, I can’t resist this present, too.

Despite all my convictions circling my head, I open the flaps and peer inside. And once I do, there really is nothing else to say. Because in the box is just one present instead of the bunch of little ones Ethan usually sends me.

With trembling hands, I reach inside and pull out the small jeweler’s box that is nestled directly in the center of the larger box. I pull it out with shaking hands, then open it, because I can’t not open it.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting. A necklace, a pair of earrings, a diamond ring, maybe—although I won’t admit that last one, even to myself. It’s none of those things, though. Instead, it’s a thick platinum bracelet in a chain design, made with links as heavy as those on my belly chain are delicate.

“What the hell?” Tori asks, staring at the thing in disappointment. “I thought for sure it’d be a ring. She reaches for it, but I snatch the box away, holding it to my chest in what I figure must be a pretty good Gollum impression. All that’s missing is me whispering, “My precious” in a creepy voice.

Because I know exactly what this is, and for the first time since I walked out on Ethan, a little spark of hope ignites deep in my belly. It’s just a spark, mind you, but it’s more than I had before. More than I’ve had in six long days. Maybe more than I’ve had in forever.

And when the doorbell rings a minute later, I feel that spark grow into a tiny flame. One that maybe, just maybe, can burn the chill away.