Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Cheyenne
Dragons and magic kingdoms are so much simpler than real life.
I’ve been curled up with this fantasy novel for two hours now, lost in a world where the rules make sense, where people say what they mean, and where running from your problems usually involves an actual dragon chase.
In my world, the dragons are gossip articles and text messages, and I can’t seem to outrun them no matter how deep I bury myself in fiction.
Jhett dozes at my feet, occasionally sighing in his sleep.
The apartment is quiet. Genna’s out with Paul—again.
Not that I mind. She deserves to be happy, and I’m genuinely thrilled for her.
But the silence feels heavier somehow, more noticeable, like it’s deliberately giving me space to overthink everything.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I ignore it. It’s probably another notification about that stupid article. I’ve been getting them non-stop for days now, each one a fresh reminder of how my private life has suddenly become public entertainment.
But then it buzzes again and again—the insistent pattern of a phone call rather than a text. I glance at the screen and nearly drop my book.
Mom.
She hasn’t called in over two months, and now she’s FaceTiming me out of the blue? My stomach knots as I set down my novel and pick up the phone. Taking a deep breath, I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound casual, like her call isn’t completely unexpected.
“Cheyenne!” Her face fills my screen, perfectly made-up as always, not a hair out of place despite the fact that it must be the middle of the night in Europe. “Darling, there you are!”
She’s in what looks like an elegant living room, all cream-colored furniture and tasteful art on the walls. I catch glimpses of high ceilings and what might be a chandelier in the background. Nothing like my cozy but decidedly unglamorous apartment.
“Here I am,” I echo, suddenly self-conscious of my messy bun and college sweatshirt. “Is everything okay? Isn’t it, like, three in the morning there?”
“Oh, we just got in from the symphony.” She waves dismissively. “Richard’s making nightcaps. But never mind that—why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone new? And a professional athlete, no less!”
My heart sinks. Of course. The article. That’s why she’s calling.
“Mom, it’s not—”
“Richard!” she calls off-screen. “Come say hello to Cheyenne. She’s dating that hockey player I was telling you about. The handsome one from the article.”
I close my eyes briefly, willing myself patience. “Mom, I’m not dating anyone. That article was completely wrong. Dylan is Genna’s older brother. We’re just friends.”
Her face falls slightly. “But those photos ... you were looking at engagement rings!”
“We were just window shopping,” I explain, heat rising to my cheeks.
“We were walking downtown after a game, looking at Christmas lights, and Dylan thought it would be funny to go into this jewelry store and pretend we were engaged. Someone took pictures and completely misinterpreted the situation.”
Mom tilts her head, studying me with narrowed eyes. “But you were holding hands in one of the pictures. And he had his arm around you.”
“We were putting on a show for the sales clerk,” I insist, my voice getting tighter. “It was a joke, Mom. That’s all.”
A tall, distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair appears behind my mother, placing a hand on her shoulder. It’s Richard—the surgeon who swept my mother off her feet and across an ocean.
“Hello, Cheyenne,” he says with a slight accent I can never quite place. “Your mother has been quite excited about this news.”
“There is no news,” I say firmly. “Just a misunderstanding that got blown out of proportion.”
Mom sighs dramatically. “Well, that’s disappointing. He’s very handsome, Cheyenne. And I looked him up on Google—he’s quite successful, too. You could do worse.”
The casual way she dismisses my explanation makes my jaw clench. “I just got out of a relationship, Mom. With Garrett. Remember him? The guy I dated for nearly four years?”
“Oh, right,” she says vaguely. “The tech person. I never thought he was quite right for you, honestly. Too ... rigid.”
I bite back a sarcastic response. She met Garrett exactly once, over a stilted Zoom call. She barely remembers him, yet somehow she’s formed a complete opinion on my relationship. Meanwhile, she’s already googled Dylan based on a single gossip article.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” I say. “We broke up on Thanksgiving. But I’m fine.”
“Thanksgiving?” Mom frowns. “That was nearly six weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried calling you,” I remind her. “Twice. You didn’t pick up.”
“Did I call you back?” she asks, sounding genuinely confused.
“No, Mom. You didn’t.”
She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Well, we’ve been terribly busy. The social scene here is non-stop, especially during the holidays.”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, the words sounding hollow. “I’m fine.”
Richard murmurs something I can’t quite hear, and Mom nods. “We should go, darling. It’s late here. But I’ll check in more often, I promise.”
“Sure, Mom.” I sigh. “Thanks for calling.”
“Love you, sweetheart. Have a wonderful Christmas!”
And then she’s gone, the screen going dark before I can even say goodbye. I stare at my reflection for a moment, taking in my pinched expression, the tension around my eyes.
Jhett stirs at my feet, lifting his head to gaze at me with concern.
“That was my mother,” I tell him, setting my phone down and reaching to scratch behind his ears. “Making her quarterly appearance. In case you forgot what she sounds like.”
Jhett’s brown eyes remain fixed on mine with that uncanny canine perception.
“Mom remembers I exist because someone took pictures of me with a famous hockey player,” I continue, my voice catching slightly. “Not because it’s almost Christmas and I’m alone, but because there’s gossip.”
I stand up, too restless to stay seated.
Jhett follows me as I move around the apartment, straightening things that don’t need straightening, adjusting picture frames that are already perfectly angled.
I rearrange the throw pillows on the couch, wipe down the already clean kitchen counters, organize the neatly stacked pile of mail.
“And now she’s ‘going to check in more often,’” I mimic her breezy tone. “Sure she will. Until she realizes there’s no exciting gossip to be had.”
It wasn’t always like this between us.
Before Richard, before Europe, we shared a tiny apartment where Mom would collapse on the couch after hospital doubles, still in scrubs that smelled of antiseptic and lavender lotion.
Sometimes she was too tired to speak, and I’d just curl up on the couch against her heartbeat.
Other nights, despite twenty-hour nursing shifts, she’d pull thrift-store books from her bag and read with ridiculous voices until I hiccupped with laughter.
Even when her nursing degree stretched her thinner—with longer hours, and less laughter—she remained present. I never doubted she loved me then.
I wish I could tell her how much I miss that version of her, who showed up for the boring parts, not just the headline moments. But whenever I try, my throat closes and sarcasm is all that comes out.
I toss the dish towel aside and lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted. Jhett nudges my hand with his nose, and I automatically drop to my knees to hug him, burying my face in his soft fur.
“At least I’ve got you,” I whisper. “You’re always here.”
Eventually, I stand up again and reach for my phone, opening my text thread with Genna.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to tell her about my mom’s call, about how it made me feel, but I stop myself.
Genna’s out with Paul. She’s happy. I don’t want to burden her with my drama, especially when she’s spending time with her new boyfriend.
Instead, I open Instagram, immediately regretting it when I see that the gossip site has tagged me in their post about the article. I tap on it before I can stop myself, scrolling through the comments with growing unease.
“Who is she? Never seen her with him before.”
“Another model? Hockey players and their arm candy lol.”
“Looks like Williamston’s latest conquest!”
“Mystery brunette doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll be with someone else by New Year’s.”
“Ring shopping? Yeah right. More like a publicity stunt.”
Each comment feels like a tiny paper cut, stinging in its own small way. But it’s the ones defending Dylan that somehow hurt the most.
“Dylan deserves better than some random chick.”
“She’s probably just using him for his money and fame.”
“Watch her try to trap him with a ring.”
I close the app and toss my phone onto the couch, rubbing my temples when a headache starts forming. How did this happen? How did one silly afternoon turn into this mess?
My phone pings with a notification, and I consider ignoring it. But curiosity wins out, and I reach for it again.
My stomach drops when I see the name on my screen.
Garrett.
His text sits there like a landmine waiting to be triggered. I stare at the notification, my finger hovering over it, knowing I should just delete it, unread. What could he possibly have to say that I need to hear?
But I tap it anyway, an impulse I immediately regret.
Garrett: Didn’t take you long to replace me. I always knew you two were more than friends.
His words somehow manage to twist the knife he planted in my heart on Thanksgiving. My hands begin to shake slightly, and my jaw clenches so tightly it aches. My eyes blink rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill over.
How dare he. How dare he break up with me, humiliate me in front of my friends, tell me I’m too childish and not serious enough for him, and then have the audacity to act jealous.
I type out a reply, fingers flying across the screen:
Me: You don’t get to have an opinion on my life anymore
But I delete it before sending. Too angry, too defensive.
I try again:
Me: It’s not what it looks like. We’re just friends.
Delete. Why am I explaining myself to him?
Third attempt:
Me: At least Dylan treats me with respect.
Delete. I don’t need to drag Dylan into this.
Nothing feels right. Nothing captures the complicated swirl of emotions his simple text has unleashed. And ultimately, engaging with him at all just gives him power over me that he doesn’t deserve.
I set the phone down without responding. But the damage is done. The words are in my head now, along with all the insecurities they’ve triggered.
I move to the window, looking out at the city lights blinking in the darkness. Arms wrapped around myself, I try to quiet the doubts spinning through my mind.
What is wrong with my judgment when it comes to men?
First Garrett, who made me feel like I wasn’t enough, who had me constantly trying to prove my worth.
And now these complicated feelings for Dylan—a man whose dating history reads like a who’s who of beautiful, perfect women.
Who has never shown any real interest in me beyond friendship.
Who was just playing another one of his games in that jewelry store.
Wasn’t he?
The memory of his arm around my waist, the softness in his expression as he looked at me ... was that all part of the act? It felt real in a way that makes my heart ache to recall it. But Dylan’s good at playing roles. It’s what he does—on the ice, on social media, in life.
My eyes drift to the corkboard above my desk, where I pinned the ticket stubs from recent hockey games. I quickly look away, not wanting to think about the next game, about whether I’ll go, about how I’ll face Dylan after all this.
I pick up my phone again, thumb hovering over Dylan’s contact information. I could text him. Clear the air. Figure out where we stand. But what would I even say?
“Hey, sorry about that gossip article making people think we’re engaged.”
“My ex just texted me about us, isn’t that hilarious?”
“Are we okay? Are we still friends? Did I imagine the way you looked at me in that jewelry store?”
I put my phone down on the table. This is ridiculous. I’m overanalyzing everything because of one stupid article, a few photos taken out of context.
Christmas is in two days. I’ll be spending it with the Williamston family, like I do every year. Dylan will be there. Genna will be there. It will be normal and fine, and I need to figure out how to go back to being friends with Dylan before I mess everything up.
Or maybe I need to figure out where we stand before I see him again. Before I walk into that house unprepared for whatever this new tension between us means.
But tonight, I don’t have the courage to find out.
Tonight, I just want to stop feeling like my life has spun out of control because of one moment captured in a jewelry store window.