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.
