Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(11)
He was not prepared for the spectacle he found outside.
CHAPTER THREE
Walking improved heart health, significantly reduced one’s chances of breast cancer, and qualified as a relatively low-impact sport. Despite this last fact, and despite the New Balance walking trainers Chloe had bought especially, her knees were bloody killing her.
“You,” she muttered to the pavement beneath her feet, “are a first-class scoundrel.”
The pavement refused to respond, which struck her as rather petty. If it was bold enough to jar her bones with every step, it should be bold enough to defend its reprehensible solidity.
Then again, Chloe’s current predicament could be her own fault. She’d skipped her painkillers this morning because she was feeling lively—so she probably shouldn’t have spent the last twenty-seven minutes messing around outdoors, gulping down the crisp autumn air and pushing herself just a bit harder than usual. Hindsight was 20/20, and all that.
She could feel familiar tendrils of soreness burrowing into her body’s weak points, could see the dull gray of exhaustion at the edges of her mind. But she was nearly home now. Chloe wandered across the little park opposite her building—Grass! Thank Christ—and planned to reward herself with some lovely drugs, fluffy pajamas, and several dark-chocolate-chip cookies. Dark chocolate, obviously, was an extremely healthy choice. The antioxidants canceled out the sugar almost entirely.
Oh—there was a cat in a tree.
She stopped short, her thoughts scattered. A cat. In a tree. Had she stumbled into the pages of a children’s book? To her right stood the oak tree that dominated most of this random green area, and in the highest, spindly branches of that oak sat a cat. It was both a familiar concept and a completely baffling sight. For all that she’d heard of cats in trees, she’d never actually come across one.
She folded her arms, squinted against the too-bright, too-pale sky, and listened to the creature’s plaintive miaows.
After a moment, she called, “You sound as though you’re stuck.”
The cat screeched its affirmative like a miniature murder victim. It was small, but wonderfully fat, with fur so gray as to seem almost black, and piercing eyes that said, Surely you won’t leave me here?
Chloe sighed. “Are you sure you can’t get down? I don’t mean to be rude, but you know how this goes. Some gullible, bleeding-heart type clambers into a tree after a cat, only for said cat to leap mischievously down at the last second—”
Another shriek, this one blatantly indignant.
“Fair point,” Chloe conceded. “Just because you appear well, doesn’t mean you don’t require help. I, above all, should know that. I will call the fire brigade for you.”
The cat miaowed some more and glared down at her, a skeptical smudge against the sky. She was now quite certain that it was saying something like, The fire brigade, you wasteful cow? Don’t you realize we are in an era of austerity? Would you take much-needed public services away from children trapped in bathrooms and old ladies who’ve left the iron on? For shame.
This cat, like most of its species, seemed rather judgmental. Chloe didn’t mind; she appreciated bluntness in a beastly companion. And … well, it had a point. Why should she bother the fire-type people when she had a semifunctional body of her own? Fetching this cat might not be the cleverest way to end her walk, but then, staid, sensible Chloe Brown was dead. New Chloe was a reckless, exciting sort of woman who, in moments of crisis, didn’t wait for the assistance of trained professionals.
The thought plucked at her like a harpist plucked at strings. She vibrated with ill-advised intent. She would dominate this tree.
A decent hand-and foothold were required to begin; she knew that from watching a young Dani scamper up and down these things for years. The oak’s trunk was both soft and hard under Chloe’s hands, its bark crumbly and damp, its core immovable. She liked the contrast, even if it scratched at her palms and threatened to snag on her leggings. Her waterproof jacket made an odd, slithery noise as she reached up toward the first branch. Then her fingers closed around a sturdy bough, and she heaved herself up as her feet pushed off the trunk, and everything felt utterly free.
Her muscles were still weary and her joints still ached; the only difference was, she no longer gave a damn. There was a nasty little voice in her head that warned her she’d pay for this, that her body would demand retribution. She had been practicing telling that voice to eff off, and she did so now. The cat’s whining spiked as she climbed, and Chloe chose to interpret that as enthusiastic cheerleading. Well done, human! miaowed the cat. You’re a total badass! You should definitely add this to your Get a Life list so that you can cross it off immediately and feel extra accomplished!
Chloe considered, then discarded, the cat’s generous suggestion. The Get a Life list was an historical document that she couldn’t bring herself to alter.
“Thank you, though,” she panted, and then worried about the fact that she was panting. Her lungs were working overtime and every breath felt like the edge of a saw. She had a metallic taste at the back of her mouth that reminded her, unpleasantly, of blood, and also of the days when she’d had to run laps in PE. Apparently, this climb was wearing her out—but she’d been taking irregular walks for years, damn it. Surely she should be a semipro athlete by now? Apparently not. The human body was an inconvenient and unreasonable thing.