I let out a long, frustrated huff, drop it back on the nightstand, and leave it to charge properly this time. My feet drag a little as I make my way to the kitchen.
I head straight for the fridge, the faint hum of it the only sound in the quiet apartment.
“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice chimes from the sofa.
I startle, spinning around. Chloe is perched there like she owns the place, glasses on, a glass of my wine in hand, flipping through papers. It takes me a few seconds to even register what I’m seeing.
“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I manage.
She doesn’t even look at me. “Well,” she drawls, “my son didn’t think you could manage on your own.”
Of course. I knew Matthew wouldn’t leave me stranded. Even if the person he asked for help is her.
I bite back the sting and say tightly, “He probably knew I wouldn’t be able to pick up the baby with my stitches.”
Chloe flips a page, then glances up at me briefly, eyes sharp. “I managed to pick up my baby just fine. But then again…” She shrugs lightly. “Times are different.”
I turn my back to her. “Yes, they are,” I mutter, pulling out containers of pre-cut meats and cheese. Sandwich time.
Before my due date, the girls from group brought me a bunch of frozen meals, things I could heat up one-handed, things that wouldn’t spoil. I told them I had Matthew but they saidbetter safe than sorry.They were right.
My appetite’s finally back enough for a sandwich, though not quite ready for the carb-loaded casseroles. I set the bread down, and line up the slices of turkey and cheese.
“Oh, darling, could you make me one too?” Chloe calls from the sofa.
My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. Still, I force my voice even. “Sure.”
Inside, though, I want to fling the mustard jar at her head.
I shake my head. Can’t believe I was stupid enough to think she’d be different. I slip my hand back into my dress pocket and check the baby monitor, Penny is quiet.
Is that safe? She’s been sleeping so much. Everyone says newborns give you sleepless nights, but she just… sleeps. Should I take her to the doctor? I’m gonna call Stella later to ask. Notlike I can call my mom, the afterlife doesn’t have cell service and Chloe is… well, Chloe.
“Honey, it’s a sandwich, not a three-course meal,” Chloe calls, distracted, from the sofa.
I trace my teeth with my upper lip and bite my tongue. Yup. She needs to go.
I wonder how I can get rid of her. I close my eyes, and smile faintly. She’s small enough to fit in the trunk of her Tesla. Do Tesla’s have trunks?
“Brooke. Brooke.”
The voice pesters in my ear. I startle, the fantasy dissolving. Chloe rolls her eyes and snatches the sandwich off the board.
“Huh. Sucker,” I mutter under my breath. I hadn’t even put the cheese on it.
Fine. I decide to toast mine properly. I hate unmelted cheese. And cold bread.
My sandwich comes together in no time-gooey, crisp, exactly how I like it. I take a bite, savouring the warmth, and grin to myself imagining Chloe chewing her way through a cold, bland slab of bread and meat.
Ha.
And to think, I used to get this kind of satisfaction from opening a plane door. Now I find it in serving my mother-in-law a cold sandwich.
I want to take my plate and retreat into the bedroom, but manners win. Instead, I carry my sandwich and a packet of chips to the sofa, lowering myself beside Chloe as she polishes off hers.
Protocol dictates I offer her some, so I hold the bag out. She shakes her head, dusts her hands on her slacks, and takes a long swallow of wine.
I smile tightly, take one for myself, and crunch down hard.
