Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(37)
Yours sincerely (not silly),
Red
Dear Red,
Well, thank you. You are, of course, correct; I always look excellent. But if you actually intend to start calling me Button, I may sew one into your tongue.
While it would be very thrilling to think I rode on the back of a soulless demon’s motorbike, I feel compelled to point out that your behavior suggests you do in fact have a soul. For example, the way you let that very boring man from the third floor barge up to you whenever he likes to whine about the lightbulb that keeps going out. Clearly, he’s doing something questionable with that lightbulb. And yet, you keep replacing it.
I have seen sense and decided to abandon the Instagram topic. For now.
And, since I feel like you might have misunderstood, I wasn’t being serious before. You really do look fine. Nice, even. And you have lovely hair.
Yours sincerely,
Chloe
Dear Button,
I would love to see you try and sew something into my tongue. Really. I need to witness this in action. I’m sure you have a detailed plan. Are there drugs involved, a good whack over the head, or are you just planning to hold me down somehow?
I can’t really comment on a tenant’s behavior, but I can confirm that, considering the number of times I’ve been up to SOMEONE’S flat to change the same fucking lightbulb, I really must have a soul. An extra shiny, golden one.
And don’t worry; I knew you were joking. I was joking, too. But I might fish for compliments more often because you really snapped up that bait.
By the way—you’ve now spent the whole day emailing me, a client. That’s a lot of hours, really. So maybe we should talk about your list tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s even.
Yours,
Red
Dear Red,
You’ll soon get to see my violent plan in action, since you flagrantly ignored my button threat, and extorted compliments from me, too. Come over tomorrow when you finish work, and I will attack. Or show you the list. We’ll have to wait and see.
Yours,
Chloe
CHAPTER NINE
For some reason, emailing Red all day made Chloe alarmingly upbeat. Of course, the universe put a stop to that cheer the moment she went to bed by cursing her with a numb right foot that kept her awake all night.
Some people (like singularly unhelpful and clearly underqualified physical therapists, unsympathetic GPs, and that supremely irritating second cousin who ate all the stuffing at Christmas) assumed that a lack of feeling in certain body parts shouldn’t affect sleep at all. Her insomnia in such situations, they said, was something she could easily overcome. Chloe liked to remind those people that the human brain tended to keep track of all body parts, and was prone to panic when one of those parts went offline. Actually, what Chloe liked to do was imagine hitting those people with a brick. But she restrained herself to scathing explanations and used her brick-hitting fantasies to occupy her when sleep refused to come.
After hours of numb-footed hell, she dragged herself up to feed Smudge, who had spent the night beside her offering moral support. If she was going to get any work done today, she needed to feed herself, too. She should brew green tea for the antioxidants and make a healthy breakfast rich in whole grains for slow-release energy. However, since that sounded extremely difficult and her body ached as if she’d been stomped on by a god, she improvised by eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight from the box and gulping apple juice from the carton.
Thus fortified, and wrapped up in her favorite plush, gray onesie, she settled on the sofa and opened her laptop. Sitting at her desk wasn’t happening today, no matter how much fine detail her monitors allowed. In the end, though, Chloe’s choice of computer didn’t matter—because, after 0.5 seconds of staring at a pixelated screen, she developed a sudden headache. Or perhaps someone had shot her. It felt roughly the same.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I will not be defeated.”
Smudge miaowed supportively.
She opened her eyes and got to work.
Hours later, a knock came at the door. Chloe sat bolt upright and realized three things in quick succession:
1. She had fallen asleep. Oops.
2. The flat had warmed up considerably since this morning, because she was now far too hot in her onesie.
3. It was after five o’clock and Redford Morgan was here.
“Fudge,” she muttered darkly, swiping the drool off her cheek. Judging by the fine lines and indents under her fingers, she had a mess of pillow creases on her face, too. Wonderful.
She glowered at Smudge, who was stretched out across her PlayStation with outrageous disregard for the house rules. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He waved his tale with open belligerence.
“Oh, you are useless. I bet you wouldn’t nudge me awake during a fire. Get off there, would you?”
He casually kicked out his back paw, knocking her copy of Overwatch off the TV cabinet.
“I swear,” she huffed, rising to her feet and adjusting the Velcro straps of her wrist supports. “I’ve no idea what to do about your attitude. This is your last warning.”
She tried to sound stern, but as she hurried to answer the door, she heard mocking kitty laughter echoing behind her.
Still, she couldn’t worry about feline insubordination right now. She was too busy worrying about other things, like how utterly unprepared she was for Redford’s arrival. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. She’d had a plan—one that involved her looking calm and put together, not half asleep in a onesie designed to make her resemble a giant lemur. She hovered awkwardly by her own front door, smoothing flustered hands over her hair, wondering if her and Red’s increasingly familiar emails yesterday meant they were now proper friends, or if she’d simply read too much into things.