Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cheyenne
I walk to my car with measured steps, keeping my spine straight and my chin up.
The gift bag full of my Christmas presents from the Williamstons dangles from my fingertips, swinging slightly in the cold December air.
I refuse to look back at the house. I refuse to let myself wonder if Dylan is watching me leave.
His words keep echoing in my head, each repetition another tiny crack in my chest. “We’re just friends.”
Right. Of course we are.
My car beeps as I unlock it, the sound too cheerful for my current mood. I slide into the driver’s seat and set the gift bag on the passenger side with more care than necessary. The leather-bound book Dylan gave me—the one with that inscription that made me think maybe, just maybe—stares up at me.
I flip it over so I don’t have to see the cover.
We’re just friends.
I start the engine, the rumble filling the silence as I sit for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white.
I feel like someone scooped out all my insides and left just enough to keep me functioning.
I back out of the driveway without looking at the house, afraid I’ll see Dylan in the window . .. afraid I won’t.
The streets are nearly empty on Christmas night. Lights twinkle from houses I pass, families together inside, celebrating.
I drive on autopilot, my mind replaying the entire day like a movie I can’t turn off.
The way Dylan looked at me when I opened his gift. The way his eyes followed me around the room. The almost-conversation we started to have by the tree.
And then: “You’re important to me. As a friend. A really good friend.”
Friend. Friend. Friend.
I should’ve known better. That’s the worst part.
I should’ve known that Dylan Williamston—hockey star, Instagram celebrity, notorious player—wouldn’t see me as anything more than his sister’s best friend.
The safe option. The girl next door. Not someone to date, just someone to talk to between the models and influencers.
“What did you expect?” I whisper to myself, the words bitter on my tongue. “You’re always the one hoping for more.”
It’s a pattern I can’t seem to break. I fall for emotionally unavailable men, or men who don’t see me, or men who view me as comfortable but not exciting.
I make myself smaller, quieter, easier to be around.
I convince myself that if I’m just patient enough, understanding enough, they’ll finally see me.
And they never do.
My phone pings from my pocket—another text from Garrett, no doubt. He’s been messaging all day, each one more desperate than the last.
I ignore it, just like I’ve been ignoring all of them.
But still, my phone pings again. I grip the steering wheel tighter.
The drive home passes in a blur of Christmas lights and empty streets. When I finally pull into my apartment complex, I sit in the car for a long moment, staring at nothing. My phone pings a third time, and something in me snaps.
I pull it out and stare at the screen. Three messages from Garrett.
Garrett: I’m serious about us, Chey. I miss you.
Garrett: Can we talk? I want to make things right.
Garrett: Please respond. I know you’re reading these texts.
I stare at his name on my screen, remembering how I used to feel when I saw it. The flutter in my stomach, the hope, the endless willingness to compromise. And then the slow, painful realization that it was never going to be enough—that I was never going to be enough for him.
Just like I’m not enough for Dylan.
But something feels different this time. The pain is there, yes, but underneath it is something else. Something that surprisingly feels like clarity.
I get out of the car, grab my gift bag, and head up to my apartment. Jhett greets me at the door, his entire body wiggling with excitement. I drop to my knees and bury my face in his fur, letting his unconditional love wash over me.
“At least someone’s always happy to see me,” I murmur against his warm body.
After letting him out briefly and refilling his water bowl, I sit on the edge of my bed in the darkened apartment, staring at my phone. Garrett’s messages glow on the screen, demanding a response I’ve been unwilling to give.
But maybe it’s time.
Maybe it’s time to stop ignoring and start standing up for myself.
Before I can overthink it, I hit the call button.
He answers on the first ring.
“Chey? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
His voice—once so familiar, once capable of making my heart race—sounds different now. Smaller somehow. Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed.
“I know,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “I got your messages.”
“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “Well, I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about us, about what happened. I made a mistake, Chey. I miss you.”
Six weeks ago, those words would have been everything I wanted to hear. Now they just ring hollow.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” He sounds confused. “Because we were good together. Because I love you.”
“No,” I say, the word coming out soft but firm. “We weren’t good together, Garrett. You were good, and I was ... whatever you needed me to be.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is true.” I stand up, pacing my bedroom as clarity continues to wash over me.
“I changed my personality because you said I was too loud. I chased promotions I didn’t care about because you said I wasn’t ambitious enough.
I stopped going to hockey games because you said it was too distracting.
I was constantly trying to be the girl you wanted, and it was never enough. ”
The line goes quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I don’t know where this is coming from.”
“It’s been there all along. I just didn’t want to see it.” I gather my courage. “I wanted to be the kind of girl you’d choose. But I’ve finally realized ... I don’t even like who I was when I was with you. So please stop texting me. I’m done.”
“Chey, wait—”
“Goodbye, Garrett.”
I hang up before he can say anything else, my hand shaking slightly but my mind surprisingly clear.
I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over his contact information.
The block button glows like an exit sign.
With one swift motion, I tap the screen and select “Block Contact.” I set my phone down on the nightstand and collapse on the edge of my bed, waiting for the wave of regret or second-guessing to hit me.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, something breaks inside me—not violently, but quietly, like ice thawing after a long winter.
Tears begin to slide down my cheeks, but they don’t feel like the desperate sobs of heartbreak.
They feel different. Cleansing. Like I’m finally releasing something I’ve been carrying for far too long.
I walk to my dresser where a small collection of photos is tucked into the mirror frame.
Most are of me with Genna, with Jhett, and with the Williamston family.
But there, in the corner, is one of me and Garrett from last New Year’s Eve.
I pull it free and really look at it for the first time in months.
My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. My body is angled toward him, while his is straight at the camera. My hand rests on his arm, but he’s not touching me at all.
How did I not see it before?
How did I convince myself this was what real love looked like?
“I’m smarter than this,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’m stronger than this.”
Jhett pads into the bedroom, sensing my distress. He pushes his warm body against my legs, and I sink to the floor beside him, burying my face in his fur again as the tears continue to fall.
My wrist feels suddenly heavy, and I look down at the bracelet Dylan gave me.
The silver chain catches the dim light from the window, but suddenly, it feels like a weight of another moment I misunderstood.
It’s beautiful. Thoughtful. Perfect. But right now, it feels like another weight I need to set down.
With steady fingers, I unclasp it and hold it in my palm for a moment. And that’s when I notice the dog charm is missing.
I must’ve lost it at the Williamstons. A pang of disappointment hits my chest as I open my jewelry box and gently place the bracelet inside, closing the lid with a soft click. I’ll decide what to do about it later.
For now, I just need to breathe.
I change into my pajamas and curl up on the couch with a blanket, Jhett settling in beside me. My eyes feel heavy, my body drained from the emotional day.
“I’m tired of making myself smaller,” I tell Jhett, who watches me with those soulful eyes that never judge. “I’m tired of hoping someone will finally see me. I’m tired of not being enough.”
He licks my hand in response, and I manage a small smile.
“Tomorrow will be better,” I promise him, and maybe myself too. “Tomorrow, I start being enough for me.”
Ding.
My phone glows to life on the coffee table. For a second, I steel myself, because life loves a good plot twist. But then I see who it’s from ...
Mom: Merry Christmas, Chey. I love you.
Her message is followed by an old photo—me at five, happy smile, standing in front of a Christmas tree, clutching a stuffed penguin in one arm and my mom’s hand in the other. An artifact from when loving and being loved was so simple.
I clutch the phone like a lifeboat and blink at the screen, the words blurring. Maybe it’s pathetic, but having my mom say I love you on Christmas ... is enough to split me open.
Maybe she does think about me, after all.
I text her back.
Me: Love you too, Mom. Merry Christmas.
I fall asleep there on the couch, one hand resting on Jhett’s warm body, exhausted but somehow lighter than I’ve felt in months.
“Morning. You’re up early,” Genna says, her eyebrows up, studying me.
“Morning,” I say, hitting the brew button on our new coffee maker. “I fell asleep on the couch. Jhett makes a good pillow, but not a great mattress.”
She continues to look at me, her head tilting to the side. “You seem ... different.”
“Do I?” I lean against the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew.
“Yeah. Calmer or something.” She moves into the kitchen, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. “You disappeared from my parents’ place pretty quickly last night. Everything okay?”
The coffee maker gurgles behind me, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. I consider deflecting, giving my usual “I’m fine” response. But something about last night’s revelations makes me want to be honest.
“Not really,” I admit. “But I think it might be—eventually.”
Genna sets the mugs down and turns to face me fully. “What happened?”
I take a deep breath. “Your brother told me we’re ‘just friends.’”
“He what?!” Her eyes widen. “But I thought—after the bracelet, and that book, and the way he was looking at you all day—”
“Yeah, me too.” I pour coffee into both mugs, buying myself a moment. “But apparently not. And then Garrett kept texting me—”
“Garrett?” Her voice rises in disbelief. “That jerk is trying to get back with you now?”
I nod, then add creamer to my coffee. “He’d been texting all day. Said he made a mistake, wants another chance.”
“Please tell me you told him to go to Hades.” Genna takes her mug, clutching it like she might need to throw it at something—or someone.
“I called him last night,” I say, watching her eyes widen further. “But not to get back together. I told him I was done. That I didn’t even like who I was when I was with him.”
A slow smile spreads across Genna’s face. “Cheyenne Harper Blackwell. Look at you, standing up for yourself.”
I feel my own lips curve upward. “It felt good. Really good.”
“It’s about dang time.” She gestures toward the living room. “Come sit. Tell me everything.”
We settle on the couch, steam rising from our mugs as I recount the previous night—Dylan’s comment, my drive home, the call to Garrett, my realizations as I perused old photos.
“It was like suddenly seeing clearly,” I explain, curling my legs under me. “I realized I’ve been trying to make myself fit what someone else wants, hoping to be chosen, to be enough.”
Genna reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’ve always been enough, Chey. More than enough.”
“Maybe. But I never believed it.” I look down at my coffee. “I always thought if I just tried harder, if I was just a little more perfect, then someone would finally pick me.”
“You always show up for everyone else, Chey,” Genna says softly. “But when are you going to start showing up for you?”
The question hangs in the air between us, simple but profound.
“I think I just did,” I finally answer, the truth of it settling warm in my chest.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping our coffee. Jhett wanders in from the kitchen and settles at my feet with a contented sigh.
“So, what are you gonna do about Dylan?” Genna asks eventually. “Are you gonna talk to him?”
I look out the window, watching the morning light play through the branches of the tree outside.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Eventually.” I turn back to her.
“But not yet. I need some time to figure myself out first.” I run my finger along the rim of my mug, gathering my thoughts.
“Why is it so hard for someone to just ... pick me?” The question isn’t bitter, just thoughtful.
“Guys are idiots,” Genna offers, making me smile. She sets her mug down and opens her arms. “Come here.”
I slide over and let her hug me.
“I’m proud of you,” she says into my hair. “And for what it’s worth, I will always pick you. I chose you to be my best friend a long time ago, and it’s the smartest decision I ever made.”
My throat tightens, but the tears that threaten to fall don’t. Instead, I hug her back, allowing myself to accept her words without questioning or diminishing them.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
When we part, I feel different. Changed, somehow. Like I’ve taken the first step on a path I should have found a long time ago.
A path that leads back to me.