"Are you fucking kidding me?" Chloe's not mad. She's not even pissed. She's absolutely fucking furious. She hasn't stopped pacing since you've told her the news, only occasionally stopping to kick or throw or punch something or the other because all she wants to do right now is to wrench you apart with her bare hands, but she can't so her room will do, instead.

"You're leaving, just like that?" Boom. She kicks, and a half-empty beer bottle rockets underneath her bed. She's seething, hands twisting in her hair like she's about to pull it out.

"Seattle. Seattle. Oh, that's fucking rich." She sneers, laugh hollow. Her leg swings out again, sending her skateboard flipping upwards in a cartoonish fashion—like a rake in an old sketch comedy. It takes down a lamp and several pieces of random shit with it, Chloe doesn't give a goddamn hoot.

How dare you? How fucking dare you. (Oh God, what is she gonna do without you?).

Chloe feels like her world is rapidly spinning out from under her. It's making her dizzy, head pounding and the taste of metal in her mouth. It's like the universe is playing the same, sick prank on her again and again and somehow she keeps falling for it, over and over.

She's trembling when she finally crumples down at the end of her bed, head sinking into her hands. Briefly, you catch a glimpse of her eyes through her fingers. They're glassy. Chloe is fucking terrified.

First Dad, then Max, then Rachel, now you? "You're a fucking asshole. You know that?"

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me thrice, shame on us both. What in the flying fuck do they say after the fourth time?