Page 69 of Je T'aime, Actually

It was the first time she’d seen the new sofa in person. Chloé had chosen it long before all ofthishad started, and it had taken months to be made and delivered. As Monroe sank into the soft cushions, she had to admit it was incredibly comfortable. Spacious, too. Wide enough for spooning, and long enough for one of them to stretch out at either end without compromising the other’s space.

It felt like a sofa made for two people building a life together, as though Chloé had possessed some tangible foresight into where her life might lead. Monroe smiled to herself. The universe, it seemed, had conspired to bring them together.

“What are you grinning at?” Chloé asked, returning to the room with two glasses and an open bottle in hand.

“Just thinking about kismet,” Monroe said, taking one of the glasses, “and how our paths crossed...and this sofa being perfect for two.”

“Ah...I like that.” Chloé poured the wine and handed her a glass. “To us. To you. To love.”

“To having it all,” Monroe added, lifting her glass.

Crystal met crystal with a softting, and they both took a sip, eyes on each other, full of everything unspoken, everything still to come.

fifty-seven

It was idyllic, those first few days.

Monroe spent the first day unpacking, slotting books onto the shelves Chloé had cleared, folding clothes into drawers just for her. The physical act of placing her belongings alongside Chloé’s felt symbolic—like the deliberate stitching together of two lives.

Chloé, for her part, spent long days at work handling meetings, deadlines, and phone calls. But each evening, she came home to something new: Monroe’s cooking filling the house with warmth, a bath already run, soft music playing in the background—a sanctuary waiting just for her…just for them.

They ate together.

Talked.

Laughed.

Touched

And they made love—slow, exploring, and unrushed—as though they were building something wordless between them, layering each moment with care and certainty.

It felt, for the first time in a long time, like life was unfolding exactly as it should.

And then they had their first argument.

Something mundane and pointless like Monroe hadn’t emptied the dishwasher, or Chloé had left the bathroom floor soaked after a shower. It didn’t matter. It started as a sigh, a sharp word, a defensive glance. And in the blink of an eye, it had escalated from nothing to everything.

Voices raised. Arms crossed. Words thrown like they weighed nothing, only to land like lead.

“You’re not even trying to fit in!” Chloé snapped, frustration lacing her voice.

Monroe’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“You cook dinner and light candles, and yes, that’s nice—but that’s notlivinghere. That’s not…building a life.”

Monroe stepped back, jaw tight. “So now it’s not enough? I gave up everything. I moved countries for you.”

“For us,” Chloé corrected, softer now, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

Silence settled between them like fog. Thick. Uncomfortable. Neither quite sure how they’d gotten there. Neither ready to be the first to retreat.

It wasn't about dishes or towels or routines. It was about change, and fear, and the fragile, clumsy merging of two lives that had been so independent before.

They stood in different corners of the same kitchen, hearts pounding, unsure what came next.

And then Monroe broke.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “That came out sharper than I meant. I think I’m just…overwhelmed.”