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.
