On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Eight - "'How' I Met Your Mother"

“Work, mostly,” I answered, not wanting to give anything away.

She peered at me curiously, “Do you know a Chloe Lane?”

My heart skipped a beat. Oh no. What the hell was this about?

“Um . . . is . . . I’m sorry, I never got your name.”

She smiled, “I never gave it to you. So, do you? She’s not in trouble or anything, I promise.”

“What’s this about?”

“I just wanted to know if she lived here,” she replied.

“Why?” I asked slowly.

“I’ll take that as a yes to both questions,” she answered.

I frowned. This woman was familiar, in a very unfamiliar way. She didn’t look like anyone I’d ever met, but somehow, she reminded me of someone I knew.

As she gave me a half-smile, it slowly dawned on me.

My blood went cold, “Are you . . . who are you?” I asked.

“It was nice to meet you, Fitch. Please don’t mention me to . . . anyone,” she said, and slipped into the back of the car. How the hell did she know who I was?

As the car started up, I tapped on her window. She rolled it down.

“Are you her . . . mother?” I asked slowly, treading carefully. But I knew. I just knew.

She gave nothing away in her expression, “You never saw me. I was never here.”

And with that, they left; and I was left with a weight so heavy, I found it painfully torturous to take a single step.

[January 20th]

She stared at me blankly.

“Chloe?”

“I heard you,” she said, barely audible.

“Okay. What are you thinking?” I asked, peering deeply into her face.

“My mom’s dead. She died when I was ten,” she murmured.

“I’m talking about your biological—”

She cut in, “I know. But like I said, my mom’s dead.”

“Is this denial?” I asked, cupping her face.

“I’m going to go to bed,” she blurted and walked off and out of the room before I could even respond.

“Good night,” I murmured into the empty hallway.

*

I tried to block the rays of light from my view by throwing my arm over my face, but it didn’t help much. Once I was up, that was it.

I pulled on my t-shirt and made my way downstairs. Ricky was the only person at the kitchen island when I got there.

“Where’s everybody else?” I asked.

“Kayla’s still asleep and Lexie’s in the shower,” he answered, pouring himself some coffee.

“Lexie’s here?”

“Yeah, she came in last night,” he answered with a grin, “Want some?” he asked, pulling out another mug.

“I’m good. Where’s Trey?”