One day Chloe asked if I could drive her home. She went to the office and phoned her mom. I heard her say, “He’s not a boyfriend, Mom!” and then a few seconds later, “Yes, him.”
Her house was like a picture. It was surrounded on three sides by rolling hills covered in yellow crops bending in the passing breeze. It was as quiet as a church. She said her parents won’t be home til after 5.
“Want to come upstairs?” she asked, as though that’s what we do now, even though her house had no bullying siblings, no overbearing parents. “I can show you around,” she said. Chloe was 18, had short fluffy blonde hair and big round brown eyes. She was short, not too slim, and smiled as cute as a toy.
We went to her bedroom. She asked me to wait a minute. She came back wearing a pressed sharp red dress. “I wanted to show you this,” she said. I was waiting for her to tell me what the occasion was. She said, “You don’t like it.”
I said, “It looks incredible.”