Barcelona was perfect and anonymous, and I ruined it before I could get the details that mattered.
I could probably set up camp at the Ironclad.
Or.
I could go after her right now.
Chase her down the street like I chased that purse thief. Risk making everything worse. Prove I can’t take a hint and don’t understand boundaries.
The January wind makes the decision for me.
I start walking.
Even if I’m crossing a line I have no right to cross.
Even if this is the worst decision I’ve made since leaving her in Barcelona.
CHLOE
Don’t run. Don’t cry. Don’t look back.
I’m speed-walking down Hennepin, which I’d say is pretty risky, considering the icy state of the sidewalks combined with my track record for clumsiness. But a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do, and right now, all I can think about is putting as much distance between me and Ironclad as humanly possible before my carefully constructed composure shatters into a million pathetic pieces.
Two blocks to the bus stop. Just two blocks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t even bother looking. It’s Maya. I know it’s Maya because that’s the way my life goes. When it rains, it pours, and Maya will be there to see it. And I can’t deal with that right now. Nope. Right now, I have the exact emotional capacity for one thing and one thing only—catching the Number 10 so I can fall apart in the privacy and discomfort of a dimly lit vinyl bus seat.
“Chloe, wait!”
No.
His voice behind me. Footsteps getting closer—the quick rhythm of someone taller, faster, not emotionally destroyed.
No no no no no.
“Please, just—give me five minutes!”
I don’t stop. Don’t turn around. Just keep walking because, if I look at him, if I see those eyes that made me feel—what was that word that Jessa used? oh, special—for one perfect night in Barcelona, I’m going to lose it completely, and I absolutely cannot handle a public breakdown on Hennepin Avenue in the dead of winter.
The bus stop appears ahead. Glass shelter. Metal bench. That useless digital sign that never works right.
Route 10 – 4 minutes
Four minutes until escape.
I can do four minutes.
I reach the shelter and finally—finally—turn around. Arms crossed. Chin up. Game face on. Never mind that my game face probably looks more “about to cry” than “unbothered.” Red-rimmed eyes or not, I’m not going to break that easily.
An older woman is sitting on the bench, bundled in a puffy purple coat, shopping bags at her feet. She glances up, sees us, and immediately looks back at her phone with the expression of someone who’s witnessed exactly this kind of drama before and knows to stay out of it.
Smart woman.
Brody stops a few feet away, breathing hard. His breath comes out in white clouds between us. Not from the running—he’s a professional athlete, this is nothing—but from something else. Stress? Desperation?
Can’t be that.
Doesn’t matter. I’m a stone wall, remember?
