“What do you do when you’re stressed?” I continue, needing to keep moving before this gets too heavy.
She pulls her gaze away, shrugging off the heaviness of the moment. “Oh, you know, the usual. Bread. Cookies. Just about any carb will do the trick. Ironclad’s velvet smash cookie is particularly soothing after a stressful day.”
I grin, trying to envision her buried in a cookie skillet after a hard day’s work. Maybe we’ll have to get dessert after this.
I try to think up another question, keep things light. But instead, I hear myself say, “I saw the dragon.”
Chloe freezes. “What?”
In hindsight, without context, that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. “In your sketchbook back in Barcelona.” It’s not breaking the rules—the topic’s not anywhere near the kiss that shall not be named. But still, my pulse leaps as I keep going. “It fell open for a second after I got your purse back. I saw your drawings. They’re really good.”
Her face flushes. “You never said anything.”
“You closed it so fast, I figured it was private. But I remembered it when I saw the sketch in your apartment earlier.” I pause. “What’s with the dragon?”
Chloe is quiet for a long time. “Don’t laugh.”
I scoff. “I would never!”
She takes another sip of her drink, pushes the patatas around with her fork. “I spent a lot of time in the library as a kid. After school, on weekends. Reading and drawing and making up stories about princesses and warriors and magical creatures.”
“Like the dragon.”
“Like the dragon.” She meets my eyes. “I have this crazy dream about becoming a children’s book author and illustrator.”
“What’s crazy about that?”
She tilts her head. “It’s not super practical. Doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”
There’s something in her voice. Resignation. Defeat.
Like she’s already given up on the thing that makes her eyes light up when she talks about it.
“Practical is overrated,” I say.
She laughs. But it’s hollow. “Says the professional hockey player with the guaranteed contract.”
I pretend to wince. “Ouch.”
The moment settles like dust in water, her laughter fading into a quiet smile.
I reach across the table. Not thinking. Just moving.
My hand covers hers.
She doesn’t pull away.
“You shouldn’t give up on being a children’s author,” I say quietly.
“I don’t know,” she says, her expression wry. “I got a rejection letter today. The publisher said it didn’t fit their current publishing needs. Translation: Not interested.”
“Aw, Chloe. That’s one publisher?—”
“It’s fine. It’s just a silly dream.”
“Stop.” I squeeze her hand. “Stop calling your dreams silly. They’re not. You’re?—”
I stop, because what I want to say is You’re incredible. Your art is incredible. And anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.
