I nodded, throat tight.
She’d ask about my summer reading. She taught me how to parallel park in our cul-de-sac. Once, she even defended me at dinner when my sister made fun of my “weird” taste in music. “Let him like what he likes,” Chloe said, winking. I nearly choked on a breadstick. mysitershotfriend
Of course, nothing happened. Nothing could. She was my sister’s best friend, temporarily living under my parents’ roof, and I was a scrawny kid with a learner’s permit and a disastrous crush. But for eight weeks, I became an expert at accidentally walking through the living room when she was watching New Girl , at offering to grill burgers just to hear her say “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” at memorizing the exact shade of her nail polish (coral, not red). I nodded, throat tight
I was seventeen. Chloe was twenty, wore ripped band tees like they were couture, and laughed with her whole body. She also had this habit of making coffee in the morning while leaning against the counter in nothing but an oversized hoodie and socks. The kitchen became my personal obstacle course of trying not to stare. Once, she even defended me at dinner when
Her name was Chloe. She was my older sister’s college roommate, and when their sublet fell through in June, my mom—bless her oblivious heart—said, “Of course she can stay in the guest room.” What my mom didn’t realize was that Chloe wasn’t just my sister’s friend . She was, in the most devastating, inconvenient way possible, *my sister’s hot friend.
By August, she moved into an apartment near campus. My sister helped her pack. I carried one box—the one labeled “winter clothes”—just to have an excuse to be near her one last time.