Chapter 17
seventeen
chloe
The thing about dog walking is that dogs don’t care if you’re heartbroken.
They care about squirrels and fire hydrants and whether that other dog across the street is friend or foe.
They don’t care that you spent last night ugly-crying into a pint of ice cream while scrolling through Instagram posts that may or may not feature your ex-fake-boyfriend looking devastatingly sad.
Which is why I’m currently being dragged down Hennepin Avenue by three dogs who have very different opinions about which direction we should be walking.
Muffin—a corgi mix with Napoleon Syndrome—wants to investigate every mailbox.
Bruni—a Bernedoodle who thinks she’s still a puppy despite being seventy pounds—wants to say hello to every human.
And Princess—yes, you heard that right, Princess, a tiny Pomeranian with an attitude problem—wants to bark at literally everything that moves.
It’s seven in the morning. March in Minneapolis, which means winter is fighting with spring and currently winning. My nose is running, my fingers numb, but the dogs need walking. And I need the money.
Except, I don’t need the money anymore. Not technically.
The contract payment came through. All of it. Twenty thousand dollars, what’s left of it, burning a hole through my bank account. Bills paid. Rent current. Even my student loan’s looking better.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel like I sold my heart for financial solvency.
Great trade.
Princess lunges at a pigeon. I yank her back before she can commit bird murder. “No. Birds are friends, not food, Princess.”
She glares at me.
We pass Brew & Rumor Coffee Co. I don’t look in the windows.
I haven’t been back since the breakup. Can’t even step through the door without thinking about Brody sitting across from me, that stupid contract between us, back when I thought this was just a business arrangement and not the thing that would completely wreck me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably another Instagram notification. My account went from 800 followers to 50,000 overnight after the wedding video went viral.
Twenty-nine days ago.
Not that I’m counting.
Social media has divided into camps—#TeamBrody versus #TeamChloe versus #TeamTheyreBothIdiots.
I’m in the third camp.
The only bright spot was Penny Pepper’s Instagram post three weeks ago. Long and heartfelt, with a photo of her and Conrad at the wedding. The caption:
@PennyP: I Know What Real Love Looks Like.
She described the kiss she witnessed in the hallway. Called it “the most real thing I’ve ever seen.” She went on to say that she investigates lies for a living, and that kiss was pure truth.
@PennyP: Whatever that contract said, whatever that breakup looked like—I saw them in that hallway, and what I saw was two people who found something rare and precious and are losing it. From the bottom of my heart, I believe these two people are genuinely in love. #TeamLove
Two million likes. Countless shares. The new hot topic on everyone’s lips, igniting endless think pieces about “performative relationships” and “finding real love in fake situations.”
It should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
Because Brody hasn’t said a word. Not one. Twenty-nine days of complete radio silence.
The contract specified thirty days of no contact post-breakup. “Maintaining the breakup narrative.” Both of us playing our roles right up until the end.
One more day.
Then the contract is fulfilled. We’re both free.
Except, after what I said to him at the wedding, I don’t think I can expect a phone call when this is all over. Maybe I shouldn’t want one either.
After all, he pushed me away. He chose his career.
Made the decision for us.
We turn onto Lyndale, and I trudge up the slushy steps of Mrs. Butler’s house—the sweet seventy-year-old who pays me to walk Bruni three times a week. Her house is one of those charming bungalows with a front porch and flower boxes that will be full of tulips in another month.
“Thank you, dear,” she says, taking Bruni’s leash. Bruni immediately flops onto her living room rug, becoming one with the floor. “Are you all right? You look tired.”
“Just busy. You know how it is.”
“Hmm.” She gives me that look. One that says she knows I’m lying but she’s too classy to push. It’s one of the many things I like about her. “Well, take care of yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you’re running on empty.”
I smile, nod, make an empty promise, and head to the next doggy drop-off.
I’m worn out by the time I get home, my face wind-chilled but somehow still warm from the rising sun.
The mailbox in the lobby catches my eye. I almost never get mail. Just bills and junk and the occasional Christmas card.
But seeing as it’s March, I wasn’t expecting Christmas cards. Or anything else for that matter.
But there’s something there.
A manila envelope. My heart somersaults as I flip it over to see the return address for Stratton Publishing.
I take it upstairs. Set it on the kitchen counter. Stare at it like it might explode.
Then I open it.
It’s a letter. Professional letterhead. Stratton Publishing.
Dear Ms. Dawson,
After further consideration and internal discussion, we’d like to present a revised offer that better reflects the value of your work and the realistic timeline needed to produce quality illustrations.
Revised terms:
·Five-book series, timeline extended to twelve months
·$15,000 advance on signing (not $5,000)
·$10,000 per book on delivery
·Total advance potential: $65,000
·Royalties as previously discussed
We believe in your talent and want to make this work for you. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss.
Best regards,
Milo Brooks
Executive Publisher, Stratton Publishing
I read it twice. Then three times.
Sixty-five thousand dollars. Twelve months. My actual dream.
I don’t understand what I’m looking at, because I turned this offer down. Twenty-nine days ago. The morning I woke up in Brody’s arms.
Why?
Because the only way I could dream of finishing five fully illustrated books in eight months was if I was out of debt. If I had the money from our contract to hold me over while I wrote the books. And I was going to break that contract.
Lose the money.
And it would have been worth it.
But now?
Now the wedding is over. The contract has expired. I have time.
And someone—somehow—negotiated better terms.
I pull out my phone. Text Jessa.
Chloe
Did you negotiate with Stratton Publishing?
Her response is immediate.
Jessa
What? No. Why? I’m at the coffee shop btw, needed to escape the apartment.
Chloe
I got a revised offer. Way better terms. $15K on signing, 12-month timeline.
Jessa
WHAT? That’s amazing!
Chloe
You didn’t reach out to them?
Jessa
Seriously, I didn’t do anything. Maybe they just reconsidered? Or someone told him he was lowballing you? Does it matter? CALL THEM. Accept it. This is your dream, Chloe.
I set the phone down. Stare at the letter.
Someone fought for me. Someone told Stratton Publishing that I was worth more than five thousand dollars and a crushing timeline.
But who?
By six o’clock, I’ve accomplished exactly nothing productive.
I showered. Made coffee. Stared at the publishing letter for an hour. Scrolled Instagram (mistake). Tried to sketch (bigger mistake—everything I draw looks sad). Made more coffee. Stared at the letter some more.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Jessa’s still out—she texted that she’s meeting with an interviewee and won’t be home until late.
So I’m alone with my thoughts and a frozen pizza and the TV that I turned on for background noise.
Except it’s not background noise anymore.
Because it’s a hockey game.
Blue Ox versus Chicago.
And there he is.
Number 7. Brody Kane. On the ice.
The camera follows him for a moment, and I forget how to breathe. Yeah. He still has that effect on me.
I pick up the remote, my thumb hovering over the button to change the channel. I should turn it off. Really, I should. But…
He’s in his defensive position. Skating with that focused, controlled power I saw against Vancouver. Except something’s off. When the puck comes his way, he makes the hit against the boards, but the puck is passed off.
The ref blows the whistle, and Brody skates to the penalty box, looking fierce.
The camera zooms in on his face.
And he looks absolutely wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight. A darkness in his expression, one I don’t recognize.
No more Mr. Candy, clearly.
The announcer’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Kane’s defensive game has been brutal this past month.”
The color announcer says, “Yeah, but he’s racking up penalties, and now Chicago has a chance to score. He needs to learn to balance if he hopes to stay an asset to this team and close the deal on his contract renewal.”
My throat is tight. Eyes burning.
I know exactly why he’s playing as if he’s got nothing to lose.
Maybe because he’s already lost everything?
I abandon the pizza. Walk to the couch. Sit down.
Can’t look away.
Blue Ox loses. 4–2.
The announcers are already talking about the next game. “They face Chicago again tomorrow night in the second game of this back-to-back series. Let’s hope Kane can shake off whatever’s bothering him and get his head back in the game.”
I turn off the TV. Silence rushes in, pricking my ears.
I look at the publishing letter still sitting on the counter.
Look at my sketchbook on the coffee table. It’s sitting on top of my Bible.
Which of course tugs at me. I pick it up, and it falls open to where last Sunday’s bulletin is marking the page with this week’s verse printed at the top:
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9
I read it once. Then again.
Give up.
“All right, God, what are You trying to show me here? Because I’m lost.”
The silence stretches, fills the room with a holy stillness. And I listen. I wait.
I close my eyes, my heart slowing, settling. My fingers trace the edges of my Bible, fidgeting while I wait, then catch on a sharp edge.
My eyes open. I’m looking at a weathered piece of paper tucked between the pages. It’s folded and creased, lined pink paper—a remnant of the early days. From that summer after high school, when I first started taking my faith more seriously.
I unfold it carefully.
God doesn’t love you because you’re good enough. He loves you because you’re His.
I stare at the words, and that’s when I feel it—that little tug again.
My power is made perfect in weakness.
Not in strength. Not in performance. Not in earning it or deserving it or being good enough.
In weakness.
Well, goody, because I have that in spades.
Except I think about the publishing offer. Better terms. More money. Without me doing anything to earn it.
I think about Brody. Loving me when I was broken and struggling and falling apart.
But what if all of that was grace?
What if that’s the point?
I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to prove I was worth loving.
But what if I simply stop being afraid of being rejected? Stop trying to earn love and be brave enough to give it. Unconditionally.
A little like Jesus did.
I know what I have to do.
I open my laptop. Buy two tickets for tomorrow night’s game. Lower bowl, near the penalty box. Close enough that he might see me.
Then I pick up my phone. Text Jessa.
Chloe
When you get home, I need your help with something.
Jessa
Anything. What’s up?
Chloe
I’m going to make the biggest spectacle of my life.