Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(93)
To show them you cared. Or that you loved.
Maybe she should read the note. Maybe it wouldn’t be a goodbye after all. Maybe it would be sheer magic on a sheet of paper, and it would say exactly the right thing—the thing she couldn’t even define, the thing she didn’t know existed. The thing that would erase all the hurt she’d felt and make her brave enough to do this again.
And maybe she’d run a marathon tomorrow. But she wouldn’t bet her life on that, now, would she? So she steeled herself against her heart’s fanciful interpretations, and she put the jar beside the chocolate, and she absolutely refused to open the book.
Days passed and more gifts came.
Boxes of her favorite fruit and herbal teas. A little stuffed cat that looked so like Smudge, she might possibly have cried just the tiniest bit when she saw it. And maybe, perhaps, sometimes, she slept with it beside her. But that didn’t matter, because there were no witnesses.
Next was a guide to New York City, light enough for her to carry, that gave directions using major landmarks and street signs instead of maps. Then there was a tiny, plastic pink chair, studded with little diamantés, that she realized on a bark of laughter was supposed to be Madame Chair. It was followed by a bag of marshmallows, accompanied by a handwritten recipe describing how to roast them with an oven. She could tell he’d tried to be neat with his rounded block capitals, but there was a smudge of sunset-orange paint on the back of the thick, creamy paper that made her smile. He’d drawn goofy little cartoon pictures next to each instruction.
She missed him. She missed him so much that she was starting to hate him.
She found the gold notebook and held it in her hands and tried to make herself open it. She knew it wasn’t a goodbye. It was almost certainly an apology, an explanation that he’d panicked.
The problem was, Chloe had panicked that day, too, and she hadn’t stopped ever since. Dragging herself out of this confusing, teary fog of fear didn’t feel impossible, but it did feel daunting. As if she might not manage it alone. As if she might get lost in the dark. She could only think of one person who could shine a light on her murky thoughts.
She put the notebook down and grabbed her coat.
Gigi’s attic yoga studio was warm enough to make Chloe slightly drowsy, as was the low, gentle music and the smooth hum of the instructor’s voice. “Breathe in for me … and out. In … and out …”
Chloe found herself following those instructions as she waited awkwardly on a beanbag for the class of one to finish. She hadn’t realized what a jittery mess she was until she’d gotten in the car to drive over here. She’d ended up calling a taxi instead.
“One more time …” the soothing voice said. It came from Shivani, a depressingly happy, confident, and glowing woman in her midfifties who swanned about in sports bras and leggings and did inhuman things with her spine. Not ripping-it-out-and-beating-aliens-with-it type inhuman things, though. More like particularly impressive bow poses. She stood at the front of the room, opposite Gigi, who was also wearing a sports bra and leggings and had, beneath her fine, crepey skin, better abs than any of her granddaughters. Sigh.
The class wound down. Gigi and Shivani chuckled softly to each other as if their mutual flexibility, fitness, and, presumably, inner peace were some sort of hilarious inside joke. Then they hugged for several long, sweaty moments, murmuring things in each other’s ears. If Chloe allowed herself to think about it for more than five seconds at a time, she would have to accept that Gigi was 100 percent banging her yoga instructor and had been for about the last seven years, which was why Chloe did not allow herself to think about it for more than five seconds at a time.
“I’ll see you later, Chloe, love!” Shivani called out as she left. She wasn’t leaving the house, of course. No, she was just going downstairs to give Chloe and Gigi some privacy, and also to start Gigi’s wheatgrass, chocolate, and Baileys smoothie, the perfect predinner tipple. Apparently.
“So, darling,” Gigi purred, producing an electric blue silk wrap from thin air and slipping gracefully into it. She came over to the beanbags where Chloe had been waiting patiently for the past half hour. Or, to be truthful, where she’d been waiting sullenly and with a slightly frantic air. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“I just thought I’d pop by.” Chloe attempted to say this airily, but the words hit the professionally distressed wood floor like six lumps of lead.
Gigi arched a brow. “You, a woman who has not driven voluntarily since 2003—”
“Slight exaggeration, Gigi.”
“—were moved to get into your car, tootle out of your beloved, filthy, gray city—”
“I got a taxi for the safety of the public, actually.”
“—and scurry through the house like a sneaky little mouse to avoid your parents and Eve—”
“I did not,” Chloe lied hotly.
“—because you felt the urge to pop by?” Gigi pursed glossy lips. When had they become glossy? Had she just applied makeup by psychic command? “Darling, as the children say, don’t bullshit me.”
“Ah,” Chloe muttered, “my loving grandmother.”
“Your impatient grandmother who wants her smoothie and her Shivani. I know how you get, Chloe, my love. Save us both the trouble and spit it out.”