And then Chloe turned 18

Writing a short story with a twist ending

Summer had arrived, and the concrete of the sports center had replaced that of the city; the cries of children had replaced the sounds of cars below her window. Going to summer camp at the age of twelve felt like suddenly growing up; there would be a before and an after, just like when you first start bleeding, her mother had asserted. So she had said okay and had chosen swimming as her main sport because she liked mermaids.

On the second evening, when he had stuck his head through the doorway, she hadn't been afraid even though he had put on a deep voice to say, "Come on, girls, lights out! Come on, come on, everyone in their beds." And then Clarisse, who had the top bunk, who had freckles and who already had breasts, had said, "I don't care, I've got my flashlight," and had left with a mischievous laugh. So he had let out a growl like a hungry ogre and had approached the bunk bed, hands outstretched like a sleepwalker avoiding bumping into things. Chloe had to imagine the rest because all she could see was his shorts and the hair on his legs, but she could hear Clarisse bursting into laughter, and she thought she would have liked to be tickled too.

As the days went by, she came to hate the smell of chlorine, her instructor who pressed down on her head with the pole to make her do the breaststroke. Chloe changed her mind; being a mermaid was lame; she wanted to be a princess, his princess. The one he teased once the lights were out, the one he rocked in the intimacy of a sleeping room, in the narrowness of a single bunk bed. So for her last week, she chose athletics, to be with him day and night, and she discovered that butterflies inhabited her stomach, and when it was time to pack her bags, she cried even though she wasn't hurting anywhere.

And then one September day, as she was coming back from school, she found him sitting on the pink sofa in the living room. A three-seater sofa whose mere presence filled the space. Her mother, elegantly holding a cigarette, fiddled with her short hair, a little intimidated by this charming boy who was the same age as her eldest son but whose charismatic laugh and dark gaze made her voice rise in pitch. Chloe, her pigtails still in motion from running up the stairs, heard him thanking her for the forgotten ID card this summer, what a scatterbrain this girl was! And what a coincidence, he lived in the neighborhood, and yes, of course, it was easier than sending it by post, and with pleasure, he would stay for dinner, and as they parted, he mentioned that he would gladly stop by next time he was in the area.

And so hope settled in, the hope of coming back from school and seeing her prince's white horse grazing the grass between the cobblestones of the boulevard. And because the god she prayed to when she went to bed had a keen ear, she was rewarded. Every year, he appeared, in autumn or spring, like a Santa Claus without a season, bringing with him the impertinence of his beauty and his unbearable ease.

Chloe turned fourteen, fifteen, soon sixteen. They had since changed the sofa, but he passed through the neighborhood, didn't want to bother, came empty-handed, but yes, of course, it would be a pleasure to stay for dinner. Santa Claus did exist. They served him a glass of wine, and don't worry, the roast lamb is almost ready, sit next to me, look, the little one can sit at the end of the table, the one that remains when there are three. For his words, Chloe hated her mother as much as she despised her breast size. She too could put on airs, stand there like that cheap whore, perched on the edge of the chair to look refined, legs crossed under a skirt too short, back straight, and the lock of hair to the side. She really had to stop laughing like a donkey; she was embarrassing her story. So she complained of a headache, like grown-ups do, took her glass of water, didn't look up because their happiness hurt, and went downstairs hiding her tears. She lay down, the mattress directly on the floor, this room she had chosen when her older brother had left, because it overlooked the garden, you could see the moon from there, and it was far from her mother's room. She heard their chatter in the kitchen above, chairs being pulled out, a drawer being opened that wasn't closed again, or if it was, very softly. And then silence. She didn't recognize the footsteps on the stairs. The next moment, her bedroom door slid quietly open. She couldn't see anything, but she sensed a shadow crouching beside her, whispering that he didn't want to wake her up, hoping she would feel better soon, and that he had come to say goodbye. She couldn't remember if she had turned her head, if she had offered her cheek, or if she was already asleep... but she had felt his lips on hers, fleetingly, like a mistake. It was so dark. He had left, without a sound, without a word. As if she had ruined everything.

Chloe was one of the first to pick up her tablet; she had an hour of free time before her afternoon classes, her turtleneck was itching her, and she had one of those headaches! She was thinking about that when she caught his eye as she left the lecture hall. She had almost forgotten about him. He hadn't changed, but what was he doing here? It had been what? Two years already? Yes, of course, it would be a pleasure to go to lunch one day. What about now? Well, why not... but she wanted to change first because of her itchy wool sweater. He had his car parked there; she didn't live far, he already knew that. They smiled at each other because they remembered, and now Chloe was eighteen, she smoked, she had a boyfriend, and it was serious even if it was shaky sometimes. When they arrived in front of her house, she asked him to wait because she would only be two seconds, to leave the engine running, the planet would survive.

As she quickly put on a slightly wrinkled blouse, her gaze fell on the garden; autumn colors were her favorite. With the door behind her, she didn't see him. With the door open, she didn't hear him. She just felt his hand covering her mouth, extinguishing her eyes, and the pressure he exerted said she should be quiet and stop looking for the name of that fucking story that doesn't exist. And when her head finished banging against the wall, he was gone, without a sound, without a word.