"No," I said, the word clean and simple as a stone.
A choked sound came from her end. Not quite a sob; the sound of a final door shutting. "Who are you?" she asked, not in anger, but in genuine, bewildered horror.
"The guy who took your advice," I said. "Goodbye, Chloe."
I hung up. I didn't block the number; she wouldn't call again.
Two weeks later, Sarah and I were at Sunday brunch. We'd been out three times. It was easy; it was fun. I'd signed a lease on a sunny one-bedroom with a view of the park, moving in the following week. My life was a blank page, and I was enjoying the process of sketching it in.
We were at The Green Fig, a popular spot known for its waffles and long waits. We'd gotten lucky with a patio table. Sarah was in the middle of a story about a disastrous client meeting, using a fork to dramatize, and I was laughing genuinely when I felt the shift in the atmosphere.
A shadow fell over our table. I looked up.
Chloe stood there.
She looked diminished—not ragged, but faded. Her hair was pulled back in a careless ponytail; she wore yesterday's jeans and a hoodie. Her eyes were fixed on me, wide and red-rimmed, burning with a toxic mix of desperation and fury. She ignored Sarah completely.
"Alex." Her voice was flat, a demand.
Sarah's story died on her lips. She looked from Chloe to me, her expression politely curious.