Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(6)

Fudge. Chloe knew that tone, and it never boded well for her. “You know, every time I answer your calls, I quickly find myself regretting it.” She hit Speaker and put her phone on the sofa arm, her hands returning to the laptop balanced on her knees.

“What rubbish. You adore me. I am catatonically adorable.”

“Do you mean categorically, darling?”

“No,” Eve said. “Now, listen closely. I am about to give you a series of instructions. Don’t think, don’t argue, just obey.”

This ought to be good.

“Karaoke night begins in one hour down at the Hockley bar—no, Chloe, stop groaning. Don’t think, don’t argue, just obey, remember? I want you to get up, put on some lipstick—”

“Too late,” Chloe interrupted dryly. “My pajamas are on. I’m finished for the night.”

“At half-past eight?” Eve’s enthusiasm faltered, replaced by hesitant concern. “You’re not having a spell, are you?”

Chloe softened at the question. “No, love.”

Most people had trouble accepting the fact that Chloe was ill. Fibromyalgia and chronic pain were invisible afflictions, so they were easy to dismiss. Eve was healthy, so she would never feel Chloe’s bone-deep exhaustion, her agonizing headaches or the shooting pains in her joints, the fevers and confusion, the countless side effects that came from countless medications. But Eve didn’t need to feel all of that to have empathy. She didn’t need to see Chloe’s tears or pain to believe her sister struggled sometimes. Neither, for that matter, did Dani. They understood.

“You’re sure?” Eve asked, suspicion in her tone. “Because you were awfully rude to Red yesterday, and that usually means—”

“It was nothing,” Chloe cut in sharply, her cheeks burning. Redford Morgan: Mr. Congeniality, beloved superintendent, the man who liked everyone but didn’t like her. Then again, people usually didn’t. She shoved all thoughts of him neatly back into their cage. “I’m fine. I promise.” It wasn’t a lie, not today. But she would have lied if necessary. Sometimes familial concern was its own mind-numbing symptom.

“Good. In that case, you can definitely join me for karaoke. The theme is duets, and I have been stood up by my so-called best friend. I require a big sisterly substitute as a matter of urgency.”

“Unfortunately, my schedule is full.” With a few flicks of her fingertips, Chloe minimized one window, maximized another, and scanned her client questionnaire for the section on testimonial slide shows. She couldn’t quite remember if—

“Schedule?” Eve grumbled. “I thought you were abandoning schedules. I thought you had a new lease on life!”

“I do,” Chloe said mildly. “I also have a job.” Aha. She found the info she needed and tucked it away in her mind, hoping brain fog wouldn’t turn the data to mist within the next thirty seconds. She hadn’t taken much medication today, so her short-term memory should be reasonably reliable.

Should be.

“It’s Saturday night,” Eve was tutting. “You work for yourself. From home.”

“Which is precisely why I have to be disciplined. Call Dani.”

“Dani sings like a howler monkey.”

“But she has stage presence,” Chloe said reasonably.

“Stage presence can’t hide everything. She’s not Madonna, for Christ’s sake. I don’t think you are grasping the gravity of this situation, Chlo; this isn’t just a karaoke night. There is a competition.”

“Oh, joy.”

“Guess what the prize is?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Chloe murmured.

“Go on. Guess!”

“Just tell me. I am bursting with excitement.”

“The prize,” Eve said dramatically, “is … tickets to Mariah Carey’s Christmas tour!”

“Tickets to—?” Oh, for goodness sake. “You don’t need to win those, Eve. Have Gigi arrange it.”

“That’s really not the point. This is for fun! You remember, fun—that thing you never have?”

“This may come as a shock to you, darling, but most people don’t consider karaoke exciting.”

“All right,” Eve relented, sounding rather glum. But, as always, she brightened quickly. “Speaking of fun … how is that list of yours developing?”

Chloe sighed and let her head fall back against the cushions. Heaven protect her from little sisters. She should never have told either of them about her list, the one she’d written after her near-death experience and subsequent resolution. They always made fun of her itemized plans.

Well, more fool them, because planning was the key to success. It was thanks to the list, after all, that Chloe’s imaginary eulogy was now looking much more positive. Today, she could proudly claim that if she died, the papers would say something like this:

At the grand old age of thirty-one, Chloe moved out of her family home and rented a poky little flat, just like an ordinary person. She also wrote an impressive seven-point list detailing her plans to get a life. While she failed to fully complete said list before her death, its existence proves that she was in a better, less boring, place. We salute you, Chloe Brown. Clearly, you listened to the universe.