Page 6 of Je T'aime, Actually

Maybe?

Her home smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Not unpleasant, just undisturbed. Monroe kicked off her shoes in the hallway, climbed the stairs, and wheeled the suitcase into the bedroom where it slumped unceremoniously by the wardrobe.

She didn’t unpack. She never did straight away.

Downstairs in the kitchen, she set the sourdough on the counter, unpacked the tomatoes and avocado, and put the milk in the fridge.

She made toast, halved the avocado, salted it, and threw on a few slices of tomato. Something about the simplicity of it—unfussy, clean—settled her a little.

Her phone was still on the counter where she’d left it. The message from Chloé waited, casual and unassuming, just a single line on the screen stood out. Monroe picked it up and reread it, then took her plate to the small kitchen table, sitting in the same spot she always did.

She stared at the message a moment longer.

Still up for that drink sometime?

She typed:

Monroe:Hi, Chloé, I made it back. Thank you for the company today. A drink sounds nice.

She hovered over the full stop. Deleted it. Added a smiley instead. Simple. Friendly.

Then, almost impulsively, she added:Though you should know I’m still a bit of a mess.

She paused, debated deleting it, but it felt honest. She liked being honest. No mixed messages.

She hit send.

Then she set the phone down, took a bite of toast, and waited.

five

Chloé leant back on the sofa, a glass of red wine balanced in one hand, lazily trailing through the curls of the shaggy terrier draped across her lap with the other. The Brighton flat was warm with the smell of garlic and tomatoes, Leah’s voice drifting in from the kitchen between the clatter of pans and bursts of French radio.

“I’m telling you,” Leah called out, “you’ve still got a type.”

Chloé smiled, eyes on the wine glass. “I do not have a type.”

“Oh, please.” Leah came through carrying two bowls of pasta, handing one to Chloé before dropping down beside her. “Sultry, self-contained women with beautiful eyes and complicated emotional lives.”

Chloé gave a soft laugh. “That’s disturbingly specific.”

“And accurate.”

The dog gave a theatrical sigh as if agreeing.

Chloé set her wine on the coffee table, reaching for her phone which had buzzed against the cushion. A smile tugged at her lips before she’d even unlocked the screen.

“She replied,” she said, half to herself.

Leah raised an eyebrow without looking up. “Monroe?”

Chloé nodded, reading slowly:

Monroe:Hi, Chloé, I made it back—thank you for the company today. A drink sounds nice ??

Though you should know I’m still a bit of a mess.

She sat back, letting the words settle.A bit of a mess.