Five

Mike watched Chloe. She had been talking on that phone in front of his house nearly constantly for the past few days; now she snapped it shut and threw it down onto the grass and began to cry.

Mike watched Chloe. She was hot, he supposed, in that traditional way you were supposed to believe that girls were hot; Mike typically preferred skinnier girls, taller girls, gangly girls. Like Sam.

The only thing that Sam had in common with Chloe, Mike though as he watched her, was that neither of them would ever give him the time of day, if he asked for it. He'd never asked Chloe, though, that was the difference. Sam was worth the try.



But then Chloe started to sit down on Mike's pesticide-treated lawn. He muttered a curse, threw on his jacket over his bare chest, and went outside to warn her. He threw open his front door and "Hey," he called. Chloe turned a tearstained face to him.

The tears threw him. If nothing else, Mike was a sucker for the whole damsel-in-distress persona. That was why he had such a huge thing for Sam, after all: she had that aura about her, like she was only holding in tears for the appearance of being strong. But Chloe, here, wasn't trying to pretend. She just cried.

"What?" Chloe asked, her voice breaking on the word.

Mike all but forgot his warning, his original reason for coming out here. Thoughtlessly, he crossed the pesticide-covered lawn in his bare feet. So he'd have to take a shower after this. Big deal. He sat down next to the crying girl. "What's wrong?"

His voice was infused with all the right concern. Oh, but didn't he have the pattern down just so, asking but not prying, showing concern but not seeming stalkery, and always, always having the right thing to say just waiting behind closed lips.

Finesse, that was the word. Finesse.

But for a moment it looked as if Chloe wasn't going to answer. Ah, but dear Chloe was just as tricky as Mike himself, and knew what character she had to play. And even though she didn't know Mike, nor did she particularly think she would like him, Chloe could appreciate that it wouldn't help to alienate him, especially if she had to stand in front of his house to make all her phone calls.

Besides, she really wanted to tell someone. She really, really did.

"My best friend didn't come home Sunday night," she told Mike, her tone bleak, morose.

He widened his eyes. A better tragedy he could not stand to hope for. With a best friend gone, there was no best friend for Chloe to turn to. Surely she'd have no choice but to look to her newfound protector. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled, a numbed echo. He could tell from the look in Chloe's eyes--a desperate, panicked look--that she was imagining the worse.

And as selfish as he knew it was, Mike couldn't help but hope that this best friend (was it Liz Meyer or Elena Harrison or Shawna Nie?) would stay away for a while. A month, at least. As the whole shock got more subtle, he'd be able to move in on poor, distressed Chloe.

Mike had never thought of himself as a fickle guy, but in those moments he all but forgot about Sam. It was a girl in need, wouldn't you believe it, that got him every time. And here was Chloe, needing him and maybe even wanting someone who knew she needed him, someone who would help and not necessarily ask for more because sometimes it was just the helping that was the best part and here he was wanting to be that boy who helped her out.

And if she had creative ways of thanking him, so much the better.

So Mike just put his arm around her shoulders gently, said, "My God, Chloe, that's terrible! What happened?" and didn't tell her about the pesticides.