Chapter 3 #3
“Listen, I need a favor. Small thing. There’s this…
situation. Gambling thing. You know how it is.
” He laughs, like we’re sharing a joke. Like calling your kids to bail you out is totally normal.
Come on over, son. We’ll play some catch, you can watch me get banned again from another casino.
It’ll be good times. “I got in a little over my head. These guys, they’re not messing around.
I need maybe ten grand. Fifteen, tops. Just to smooth things over. ”
I close my eyes. Shoot. Ten grand. Fifteen. Tops.
Last month it was eight. The month before, five.
And of course, the fifty large ones from Barcelona. He wasn’t too happy with my little detour. But I managed to bail him out, kneecaps intact. In fact, by the time I arrived, he’d managed to wheedle a loan out of the house and was back on a winning streak.
At least one of us was. It lasted all of an hour.
So I guess the fifty grand came in handy after all.
“You know, you got your charm from me. Your mother used to say you could talk your way out of anything. Just like your old man.” His voice gets softer.
Almost tender. The tone he used when I was a kid and he’d tuck me in at night, back when he was still Dad and not just a collection of problems I can’t fix.
“Before I…well. Before I messed everything up.”
There’s a long pause. More ice clinking. The sound of him taking a drink.
“I love you, Brody. You’re a good kid. Always have been. Just…call me back, okay? Please. I’m counting on you.”
The message ends.
I sit there in the silence, staring at the gray sky outside my windows.
You got your charm from me.
Just like your old man.
Yeah, the kind of charm that gets you called “Candy” until you forget your own name.
I delete the voicemail.
The silence in my apartment is suffocating. The gray January sky presses against the windows. My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark, offering no answers.
I need something. Anything. A distraction. A solution. A way out of this mess that doesn’t involve becoming my father.
My laptop is sitting on the coffee table. I flip it open without really thinking about it.
Instagram loads.
I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t look.
I look anyway.
I don’t even have to type it into the search bar. It pulls up in my history as if to say Ah, back to this again.
@everaftereventsco
I scroll through the usual posts—beautiful event setups, color palettes, behind-the-scenes shots of her work. She’s good. Really good. I can’t help but wonder why she’s not booking every event in the Twin Cities instead of her small town of Maple Lake.
Then I see it.
Posted twenty minutes ago.
It’s her. Sitting at a table, giant chocolate chip cookie in a skillet in front of her, whipped cream melting over the top. Her sketchbook is open beside her, and she’s smiling. Not for the camera, just…content. Happy.
The caption:
Sometimes you need to find peace in the storm
The location tag: Ironclad Desserts
I stare at the photo.
Twenty minutes ago.
She could be there. Right now.
My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and that giant cookie looks like exactly what I need…
And, oh hey, she’d be there too.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m grabbing my keys. Pulling on my jacket. Heading for the door.
My brain is screaming at me that this is a terrible idea. That I should let her have her peace. That showing up is creepy and desperate and exactly the kind of thing a guy who’s losing his grip would do.
But my feet are already moving.
Because giant cookies might not be the answer to all my problems, but maybe—just maybe—it’s the cure for six months of regret.
CHLOE
Don’t look at the Instagram post. Don’t look at the likes. Don’t refresh to see if anyone cared.
I’m doing it anyway. Obviously.
Three likes. One from Jessa (obligatory best-friend support), one from my cousin, who likes everything I post without actually reading it, and one from a bot account selling teeth whitening.
Cool. Great. I flip my phone face down on the table and stare at what’s left of my chocolate chip cookie skillet. The whipped cream has fully melted now, pooling around the edges in a way that looks sad and almost metaphorical.
The twinkle lights at Ironclad cast everything in the kind of soft glow that reminds me of Hallmark coffee shops and old bookstores—the kinds of places that usually manage to romanticize the chaos of my life.
She’s not late for a meeting and forgot to brush her hair, she’s fabulously busy and windswept.
She’s not stuck on a proposal, she’s just letting the creative juices flow over a warm cup of coffee…
and a pile of crumb-covered napkins. This is just the glamorous life of an event planner.
She’s not avoiding her life and eating her feelings in a cookie dessert shop, she’s… um…Okay, that’s exactly what I’m doing.
But it’s fine! Everything’s fine! I’ve got my sketchbook open to the seating arrangement (which we only need in order to avoid the very real possibility of Great-Aunt Muriel winding up in fisticuffs with Uncle Stew in front of the ice sculpture—two hockey sticks crossed over a heart, gag me) for the wedding.
And I’m trying to find a unique napkin-fold design, which of course led me to Pinterest, which led to Instagram, and suddenly I’m doomscrolling past everyone else who’s actually got their life together and not just pretending.
And now I’ve got something to prove, so I’m posting photos of my Obsidian Luxe Chip cookie.
See, look! I’m a successful, spontaneous girlboss who’s soaking up life to the fullest. Not a broke loser whose mom is so desperate to fix me that she tried to set me up with the waiter from Olive Garden.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
My phone buzzes. Text from Maya.
Maya
Mom mentioned you’re bringing a date to the meet and greet. Who is he? Do I know him?
I make a small noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. An older man with a laptop looks up briefly.
Look away. Trust me on this.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t sound completely pathetic, my phone rings.
Jessa. Thank You, God.
I pop in my earbuds and answer. “Hey! How’s your day going? Is it great? Because mine’s great too! Super great!”
“That bad?” Jessa says without preamble.
“Define bad.”
“On a scale from minor inconvenience to hiding in a coffee shop eating your feelings, where are we?”
I look at my decimated cookie skillet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Cookies are brain food. I’m hard at work on Maya’s wedding designs!”
“Chloe.”
“Jessa.”
“What happened at dinner?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been trying not to think about for the past hour while I stress-sketch and stress-eat and stress-post to Instagram like a well-adjusted person.
“Nothing! It was fine! Maya loved my napkin-fold design!” My voice is doing that thing where it’s too bright, too enthusiastic, like I’m a children’s TV host discussing something deeply upsetting. “She thought it was super cute!”
“That’s…good?”
“And then she asked if I could ‘maybe consult with someone more established’ to make sure it’s sophisticated enough for her venue.” I’m smiling while I say this, even though Jessa can’t see me. “You know. Someone who’s done this before. Someone professional.”
The word professional sticks in my throat a little.
“She didn’t.”
“Oh, she absolutely did! In front of everyone.” My parents.
Derek and his parents. Even the waiter. I take another stab at my cookie, shoveling a spoonful of crumbs into my mouth.
“It’s fine! It’s totally fine! She’s the bride.
She gets to want what she wants. I’m just here to help make her day special. ”
Jessa is quiet, but I think I can almost hear her eyes rolling. “So what did you do?”
I look down at my napkin. At the swan fold I’d originally designed.
“Oh, I invented a client emergency to escape, which everyone knew was a lie because I have exactly three clients, Jess. Three. In six months—all from Maple Lake. Which I’m starting to get a sneaking suspicion my mom had something to do with.
” I flatten the napkin again. “And then I came here and got a cookie, so I’d call that a win. ”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“The thing you do where you make everything sound cheerful so people won’t worry about you.”
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it. “I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do that. You’ve been doing it since college.” Jessa’s voice goes gentler. “How are you really? The truth.”
The truth.
The truth is I have five days to pay rent, and about sixteen dollars left in my bank account after paying for my twelve-dollar cookie.
My student loans are in collections because I haven’t been able to make payments in three months, and I’m living off dog-sitting money and the occasional dog-walking gig, which pays approximately enough to keep me in instant ramen and creative bankruptcy.
The truth is, I’m terrified I’m going to have to give up and ask my family for money, which means admitting I failed at the one thing I was supposed to be good at.
But I can’t say any of that, because Jessa already worries, and she’s got her life together—steady job working for an online magazine, benefits, a 401(k)—and I can’t be the friend who’s always drowning.
“I’m okay,” I say, aiming for somewhere between honest and not completely alarming. “I’m just…adjusting to the entrepreneurial lifestyle! You know how it is! Ups and downs!”
“Chloe, I love you, but you’re a terrible liar.” She pauses. “Listen, I know you’re a little behind on groceries money this month. I’ve seen the fridge. Have you been eating regularly? Real food, not just Ironclad cookies?”
Oh. That kind of question.
“Define ‘regularly,’” I hedge.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I had cereal yesterday! And a banana!” Both true. The cereal was the last of the box and the banana was extremely brown, but still. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a professional event planner living off dog-walking money.”
“It’s called a diversified income stream,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.
“You could ask your family—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. Too sharp. I try to soften it. “I mean—that’s really sweet of you to suggest. But I can’t. They’re already helping so much! Maya hired me for her wedding! At a discount! That’s incredibly generous!”
“She hired you for a discount and then criticized your work in front of everyone.”
“She’s paying me to do a job, and she wants it done right.
That’s reasonable! That’s normal!” I’m smiling again, even though she can’t see me.
My face hurts. “Besides, if I ask for money, it’s just…
My dad already introduces me as ‘our daughter who’s trying the event planning thing.
’ Trying. Like it’s a phase. Like I’m not drowning in debt trying to make this work. ”
There’s a long silence on Jessa’s end.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Just…you matter, Chloe. Your work matters. Maya’s opinion doesn’t define your worth.”
Something in my chest cracks a little at that. “Yeah, well. Tell that to the four clients who rejected me this week.”
“Four?”
“Technically, three rejections and one ghosting, but I’m counting it.” I shake out the napkin again. “I got another email right before the dinner from hell. The couple I was really excited about? The New Year’s Eve wedding?”
I don’t have to pull up the email to remember the headline. I’ve heard enough of them to commit to memory. “‘Thank you, but we’ve decided to go in a different direction.’ Which is corporate speak for ‘You’re not good enough.’”
“That’s not—”
“It’s okay.” Too bright again. Too cheerful. “Rejection is just redirection! That’s what all the Instagram motivational quotes say. Every no gets me closer to a yes! Growth mindset!”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I’m trying to!” My voice cracks slightly. “I’m really trying, Jess.”
The young couple in the corner booth is laughing about something, feeding each other bites of whatever dessert they’re sharing. They look so happy.
And suddenly I’m thinking about him. The Man I Will Not Mention.
Yeah, that guy. From Barcelona. The one who—
Nope. He doesn’t deserve space in my brain.
Oh, who am I kidding? I could draw him in detail on my sketchpad. Again.
“You’re still thinking about him,” Jessa says, because she can read my mind.
“No.”
“Chloe.”
“Fine. Yes. Sometimes.” I look over at my sketchbook, my fingers tracing the sketch of the Barcelona café.
The outdoor tables under twinkling lights.
The warm glow of votives. What can I say?
It makes for a good seating plan. “I’m pathetic.
It’s been six months, and I’m still trying to figure out what I did wrong. ”
Jess pauses. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says gently.
I’m quiet for a moment, staring at the Barcelona sketch. At the memory of twinkling lights and genuine smiles and dancing like nobody was watching.
An idea hits me.
“What if…” I say slowly, shaking out the napkin. I start to fold it into something that looks like gathered petals, something blooming. Beautiful and elegant…like Barcelona.
“I think I figured out the napkin design.”
“Of course you did. Babe, I gotta go. See you at home?”
“Sure thing.”
Jess hangs up, and I smile, looking at my design. This is good. I pull out my phone and snap a picture. I catch the time in the corner of the screen. Almost nine. The January darkness is deep outside, the twinkle lights reflecting in the window.
I slide from the booth and pack up my things—sketchbook, laptop, fabric swatches that are now covered in eraser shavings, colored pencils that are mostly broken.
I leave cash on the table and grab my coat, juggling everything while trying to check my phone one more time.
Maya’s text glares at me as I walk toward the door.
Maybe I just ignore it, pretend I didn’t see it…
I’m so focused on my screen that I don’t see the door opening.
Don’t see the person walking in.
Don’t notice anything until I’m walking straight into someone and suddenly there are hands on my elbows, steadying me, and my phone is flying and my sketchbook is hitting the floor and I’m making an undignified squeaking sound—
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—”
“No, that was my fault, I—”
We’re both talking at once, both reaching for my scattered things, and I look up—
And everything stops.
It’s him.
Barcelona Brody.
He’s staring at me with the same expression I probably have on my face. Recognition. Shock. And then that…that smile. That devastating smile that made my brains leak out of my head six months ago.
What? No—
I make a sound. Not quite a word. Not quite a breath. Something between a gasp and a wheeze.
And of course, those eyes are just like I remembered, deep and stormy.
And all I can think is…run.
So I do.