Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cheyenne
OPEN POSITION: Senior Market Analyst – Applications Due Friday
The email subject line makes me freeze, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. I adjust my posture in the ergonomic chair that never quite feels right and take a sip of my now-cold coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.
This is supposed to be the promotion. The big title. The shiny badge of honor Garrett used to say I needed. “People respect titles, Chey. Senior Analyst sounds better than just Analyst.”
I can still picture the way he’d swoop in as I was talking about my job at parties, “clarifying” that I was on track for management. As if what I already was ... wasn’t enough.
“You should apply for that.”
I startle at the voice, looking up to find my boss Marissa perched on the edge of my desk with her ever-present coffee mug—today’s reads: I’m not bossy, I’m the boss.
“The senior analyst position,” she continues, nodding toward my screen with a smile. “I’d love to see your application by Friday. You’re one of our strongest candidates.”
“Oh, thanks for thinking of me.” The words come out automatically.
Marissa tilts her head, her dark eyes studying me. “You don’t seem excited. I thought this was your goal.”
“It is. Well ... I mean ... it was.” I press my lips together. “I just ... I’m a little surprised it’s open already.”
That’s not it, though. Not even close.
I close my laptop slightly, buying myself a moment to think. The truth is, I’ve been chasing this promotion because it was expected. Because Garrett thought it was important. Because it seemed like the “right” next step...
Not because I actually wanted it.
But Garrett isn’t in my life anymore.
And I’m done letting his voice dictate my choices.
“Actually, Marissa,” I begin, “I’ve been reconsidering my career path lately.”
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t interrupt. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about her; she actually listens.
“Rather than going into management, I’ve been thinking about a different direction,” I continue. “Something I’m really passionate about.”
I reach into my desk drawer, pulling out the leather-bound notebook I’ve been scribbling in for months. Instead of boring graphs and bullet points, it’s filled with colorful sticky notes and sketches.
“I want to explore consumer behavior around pets,” I explain, flipping to a page covered in notes and little paw print doodles.
“I’ve noticed this huge shift in how people treat their dogs—less like pets, more like family.
Owners are spending more on food, wellness, even tech.
It’s a market that’s exploding, but what’s really fascinating is the emotional side of it. ”
Marissa leans in, setting her coffee aside. “Go on.”
I smile. “Take me, for example. I won’t buy dog food without reading the ingredient list first. I pay more attention to reviews for his toys than I do for my own clothes.
And I’m not the only one. There are entire communities built around this.
People define themselves by how they care for their dogs.
That identity shapes what they buy, how they spend, even what brands they’re loyal to.
” The knot in my stomach loosens as I flip to a page with my study design and explain it in detail.
“Honestly,” I meet her eyes, “I’d much rather dive into research like this than move into management. ”
There. I said it.
The words hang between us, and I fight the urge to backpedal.
Marissa picks up my notebook, flipping through the colorful pages. “This is... really smart,” she says,
I blink. “You mean you actually like the idea?”
“I love the idea. Cheyenne, you’ve been one of our strongest analysts for years, but I’ve always felt you were holding something back. This”—she taps my notebook—“this is vision.” She smiles. “Send me a proposal by Friday. I’ll set up a meeting with the Director next week. He needs to see this.”
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.” Her smile deepens. “Companies thrive on innovators. And you’ve just proven you’re one of them.”
A grin breaks across my face, my pulse racing. “Thank you.”
I can’t help but remember Dylan’s encouraging words from a couple weeks ago.
He saw my ideas as worth pursuing. Now, Marissa does too.
Marissa stands, swooping up her coffee cup once more. “It’s good to see you advocating for yourself, Cheyenne. That confidence suits you. And it also deserves a raise.”
She heads back to her office, leaving me at my desk with my notebook open, feeling something fundamental has shifted.
Not just in my career path, but in how I see myself.
I turn to my computer and open a new document, titling it “Pet Owner Behavior Research Proposal.” My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, but there’s no hesitation now ... just a rush of ideas I’ve been holding back for too long.
As I start typing, I realize I’m smiling. It’s a true smile—a smile for me, for my choices, for finally trusting myself.
I stand in front of the fitting room mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me.
The Glaciers New Years Eve Party is tomorrow, and the black-and-pink sequined bodycon dress Genna insisted I try on is excessive, to say the least. It hugs curves I usually hide under looser clothes, the hem stopping daringly at mid-thigh.
I tug at it, but it refuses to lower even an inch.
“Are you still alive in there?” Genna calls from outside the fitting room. “Or just having a crisis of confidence? Because if it’s the second one, get over it and let me see!”
I take a deep breath, turning to examine my profile. The sequins catch the harsh fitting room light, sending sparkles dancing across the walls. It’s a lot. Maybe too much. But then again, playing it safe hasn’t exactly worked out for me so far.
“I’m coming,” I call back, giving the hem one final tug. “Just preparing you for the shock.”
When I step out of the fitting room, Genna’s reaction is immediate and dramatic. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes widening.
“Holy. Smokes.” She circles me slowly, like a shark assessing its prey. “Chey, you look...”
“Ridiculous?” I offer, crossing my arms over my chest, then quickly uncrossing them when I realize the movement makes the neckline dip even lower.
“Incredible,” she corrects, stopping in front of me. “Seriously, you look like you should be on a red carpet somewhere.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help glancing at my reflection in the three-way mirror outside the fitting room. The dress really does fit perfectly, clinging in all the right places. The pink sequins form a pattern that wraps around the black base like flames, drawing the eye upward from hem to neckline.
“It’s not really me, though...”
“Maybe it should be.” Genna adjusts a strap on my shoulder. “Maybe this is exactly who you are when you stop dressing for other people’s expectations.”
Her words hit close to home. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for years? Dressing for Garrett’s approval. Trying to look professional enough, adult enough, sophisticated enough. Always enough for someone else, never myself.
“Remember that talk we had after Christmas?” Genna continues, fluffing my hair around my shoulders. “About showing up for yourself for once? This dress is you showing up.”
“Fine.” I sigh, even as a smile tugs at my lips. “But if I fall over in whatever death-trap heels you’re inevitably going to make me wear with this dress, I’m taking you down with me.”
Genna’s answering grin is nothing short of triumphant. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve completed the outfit with strappy black heels (sensible height, I insisted) and a small silver clutch that will barely hold my phone and lipstick. The total price makes me wince, but Genna reminds me I haven’t splurged on anything in months.
“Consider it an investment in your new backbone,” she says as the sales associate wraps our purchases in tissue paper. “Strong, independent women who tell their exes to get lost deserve pretty things.”
I laugh. “Is that a direct quote from somewhere?”
“If it’s not, it should be. I’m very quotable.” She links her arm through mine as we exit the boutique, shopping bags swinging from our free hands. “Coffee? I’m in desperate need of caffeine after all that decision-making.”
“Lead the way,” I agree, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. The day is unseasonably warm for late December, the kind of deceptive weather that makes you forget winter exists until it returns with a vengeance the next day.
We settle at a corner table in our favorite café, shopping bags tucked safely beneath our table. The place is crowded with post-Christmas shoppers seeking refuge, but the buzz of conversation creates a comfortable white noise around us.
“So,” Genna says after we’ve received our drinks—a vanilla latte for her, black coffee with a splash of cream for me. She leans forward, elbows on the table, with that look in her eyes that means I’m in trouble. “What’s going on with you and my brother? Have you talked to him since Christmas?”
I stiffen, my hand tightening around my mug. I should have known this was coming. Genna’s never been one to leave emotional elephants sitting unaddressed in the room.
“Nope. Not since he reiterated to me that we’re ‘just friends,’” I reply, stirring my coffee with unnecessary vigor.
“Chey.” She reaches across the table to cover my hand, stopping my aggressive stirring. “My brother is an idiot.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “That’s your defense?”
“It’s not a defense, it’s a fact.” She sits back, taking a sip of her latte and leaving a tiny foam mustache that she quickly wipes away.
“But there’s no way he actually believes that.
He’s probably just freaking out because he’s finally feeling something real for once in his life, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. ”