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“That is not helping your case.”

I follow her into the kitchen while she begins unloading the bags.

“You have barely left this apartment,” Chloe says.

“I have left the apartment.”

“Going downstairs for your mail does not count.”

“I went to the pharmacy.”

She gives me a look over her shoulder.

“Congratulations. You have officially participated in commerce.”

Despite myself, I laugh. It is the first time I have heard the sound come out of me in days. Chloe notices, but thankfully she does not make anything of it. She just turns back to the counter and starts taking containers from the paper bag.

“What kind of soup?” I ask.

“Chicken and rice.”

“I might actually be able to eat that.”

“That is the plan.”

While she searches one of my cabinets for a bowl, I lean against the counter and watch her move around the kitchen with the confidence of someone who has known me long enough to stop asking permission before opening drawers.

Her gaze catches on the stack of mail sitting near the edge of the breakfast bar.

“You have not opened half of that,” Chloe says.

“I have opened some.”

She picks up one envelope, checks the front and sets it back down.

“What about the emails?”

“What emails?”

“The ones you told me about last week. The project inquiries.”

I look away. “I have answered a few.”

“How many is a few?”

“Two.”

Chloe closes her eyes briefly. “Blaire.”

“I know.”

“No, I do not think you do,” she says.

“You spent more than three months working on one of the largest private family collections in Europe, and now people are actively coming to you because of it. That is not something you ignore because your life is currently dramatic.”

“My life is not dramatic.”

She looks at me.