25. April
APRIL
While I’m at the Busy Bee Bakery, reviewing my business proposal and the banking info, my inbox pings with an email. It’s from JW Commercial Real Estate. My hand shakes as I click to open it.
I should be screaming. Dancing. Calling everyone I know.
Instead, a clothespin pinches my stomach. My heart feels like it has rolled right into my throat.
The Barkery is happening. My dream is coming true. And all I can think about is how Clark has barely texted me in three days.
He’s been busy and I have too, but I fear that because we didn’t verbally define that we’re now boyfriend and girlfriend, I misread the situation.
There was no contract, no signatures. We didn’t shake hands.
Sure, we kissed, but it’s not lost on me that he didn’t say Will you be my girlfriend?
It would be easy enough a situation to fix, but what if I’m wrong, or what if having a relationship status conversation stresses him out?
He’s already under a ton of pressure right now.
Since my parents’ phone call at the real estate meeting, something feels off. He’s still here—technically. I still see him when I walk the dogs, but I detect a distance now, like he reviewed the rules we made all those weeks ago, realized we broke them, and has gone back to basics.
Maybe I’m reading into things, but the buffalo in my stomach have gone quiet. That’s never a good sign.
I still text him the good news.
Me: I got the lease approval!
I’m now walking the dogs—he’s at the Ice Palace—when he finally replies.
Clark: That’s amazing! Congrats. Sorry, busy with practice and PT. Talk later.
My chest sinks. Best friend Clark would’ve typed Let’s celebrate or I’m so proud of you.
Clark, who said he had feelings for me, just wrote Talk later.
Right now, this should be a full-on confetti feeling. Instead, it’s like the one thing that matters is slipping away.
I don’t hear from him again until he sends me some forwarded info from Whitaker about the final Love at First Wag campaign event.
It’s scheduled for this weekend in Kansas City, which is only a few hours away.
It’s a big adoption fair with tons of media coverage—a whole production.
It’s supposed to be our victory lap—the successful fake-dating couple who helped dozens of dogs find homes.
Except we’re not fake dating anymore.
Or are we?
I honestly don’t know what we are right now.
On Thursday afternoon, I let myself into Clark’s apartment to walk the dogs.
He’s at practice, as per usual, which means I have the place to myself for at least an hour.
The dogs greet me with their usual enthusiasm—Moose trying to climb into my arms, Scout herding me toward the leash hooks, Buster doing his shimmy-wiggle, and Purdy and Lulu dancing circles around my feet.
At least someone is happy to see me.
I’m clipping on leashes when I hear Clark’s voice from the bedroom. He must have come home early. I’m surprised he didn’t poke his head out when the dogs made their usual racket.
But my heart gets a little helium blast like a hot air balloon—maybe we can finally talk about whatever is happening between us.
Or not talk. That’s fine too. Perhaps I’ve been in my head and things will just be normal, but I wouldn’t know because we’ve hardly seen each other—no late-night texts, memes, or video reels of dogs doing funny things.
Then, through the door, I hear Whitaker’s voice on the tinny speaker of Clark’s phone.
I should announce myself and make noise so they know I’m here. Instead, I freeze when I hear my name. The next bit is garbled because of the dogs.
Then Whitaker’s voice carries to my ears. “I’m just saying, once the campaign is over this weekend, things can go back to normal. You can focus on the playoffs without all the extra pressure.”
“Yeah.” Clark’s voice sounds tired. “I can’t wait for this to be over.”
The leashes slip from my hands.
He can’t wait for this to be over.
For us to be over?
“The media attention has been intense,” Whitaker continues. “But you’ve handled it like a pro. Both of you did.”
I should leave. Should grab the dogs and get out before Clark realizes I’m here.
But my feet won’t move.
“So what’s the plan after Kansas City?” Whitaker asks.
“I don’t know, man. Just taking it one day at a time. See what happens.”
Like we’re a maybe instead of a definitely.
Like ten years of friendship and weeks of real dating can just dissolve into See what happens.
Like maybe he remembered this arrangement has a deadline.
I back toward the door as quietly as possible. The dogs whine softly, confused, but I can’t stay here. Can’t face him right now.
I need to think.
I need to breathe.
I need to protect my heart before it splinters completely.
Suffice it to say, the dogs get a very long walk—for my mental health and because I need to be sure Clark is gone before I go back to his loft.
But the walk doesn’t bring clarity and for the next few days, my thoughts whirl and swirl as I perform an elaborate dance of avoidance disguised as being busy.
He has extra practices. I have client meetings at my big girl job—I haven’t given notice because suddenly all my dreams feel as fragile as a chew toy in a dog’s mouth—we’re talking Moose, not Purdy.
Though she did some damage to the little bunny toy Janet got her for Easter.
Clark and I text instead of calling. When we finally do see each other as I drop off the dogs, it’s like we’re strangers.
“Hi there,” he says, hardly looking up from the game tape he’s watching.
“How was practice?”
“Good.”
There’s a beat of silence that ordinarily would be filled with him asking me a random question, inquiring about the Barkery, or just Clark being Clark and jumping off the couch, sweeping me into his arms and—well, as best friends we didn’t kiss, but he’d certainly do something zany like toss me over his shoulder and spin me in a circle until I was dizzy.
“How were the dogs?” he asks.
“Great.”
It’s like we’re barely acquaintances making small talk. Like we didn’t practically confess our love for each other mere days ago. Like we didn’t spend ten years as best friends before becoming more.
The ice between us looks perfect from a distance—smooth, pristine, ready for a game. But I know the truth. One wrong step and we’ll both fall through.
My phone rings and he doesn’t even look up. Instead of making myself comfortable in my spot on the couch, I slip out the door.
It’s my sister calling and I answer as I hurtle down the stairs. “Hey, I need to tell you something. Warn you, actually,” she says without preamble.
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Mom and Dad are on their way to Cobbiton.”
“What?” I repeat.
It’s not that we have a bad connection. I just can’t believe my ears.
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to get them to see how amazing you are, and how great The Barkery is going to be, but they wouldn’t listen. So I told them about the lease approval, hoping it would make them proud. Instead, they decided to stage an intervention.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I’m on a brief break and need to be in the judge’s chamber in two minutes. I tried to stop them. I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead.
Instead of going home or hitching a ride to Timbuktu, I walk over to the Barkery.
I finally have the key and have been staring into space in here, dreaming up what’s next.
I have everything planned and am just waiting on some quotes from contractors.
Of course, the A-2 Carpentry Crew, which is Mikey and Juniper’s family’s business, is at the top of my list, but when we spoke, Mr. Cruz acted oddly awkward and said they were busy, but he’d try to come by soon.
In fact, I thought I saw him leaving the other day when I’d pulled into the rear parking lot, but we must’ve just missed each other.
No sooner am I daydreaming about the shop—and okay, fine, Clark. I mean, how could I not daydream about the guy who daydreams—when two figures stand on the opposite side of the Dutch door.
My parents are as polished and professional as ever in their business casual attire—even after arriving from a flight. My father’s silver hair is trim. Mom wears her patent, sleek black bob.
When we were growing up, people would comment that my sister was identical to our mother. Her “mini me.” I was just the “other daughter.”
Now, as adults, since Elise followed their footsteps as a lawyer, people comment that “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Well, they only got one apple. That would be their eldest daughter. Somehow, they produced an orange and I went tumbling across the orchard.
My mother’s lips purse. My father’s expression is already disappointed before I even open my mouth.
“April,” Mom says, breezing past me into the shop space. “We need to talk.”
“You could have called first.”
“Would you have answered?” Dad asks, and he has a point.
I gaze at the floor because I have been avoiding them lately.
My mother breezes around the space and then returns to my father’s side like we’re about to have a faceoff. I remain standing, arms crossed defensively, when really, I want to curl into a ball and pretend they’re not here.
Mom begins the deposition. “Elise told us you signed a commercial lease.”
“I did.”
My father’s temple twitches.
“For a dog bakery.” The way she says it, it might as well be a pet cemetery.
“A dog bakery and training center. The Barkery. Yes.”
My father’s expression sharpens as if I just confessed a crime. “April, we’ve been patient. We’ve waited for you to work this out of your system. But this has gone too far.”
“Worked what out of my system?”
“This phase,” my mother says, waving her hand vaguely. “The dog walking, the training classes, the small-town life. We understand you needed time to figure things out after law school, but—”
“I didn’t need time to figure things out. I figured it out immediately. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”