We keep walking. Past a couple speaking softly in French, holding hands, looking at each other the way Brody was looking at me five minutes ago. Past a group of loud British tourists heading to the bars, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Past a cat sitting on a doorstep, watching us with unblinking yellow eyes.
Every step feels wrong. Like I’m walking toward an ending I don’t want, and I can’t figure out how to stop it.
My sunflower bobs sadly from my purse, the bloom drooping now, petals soft and curling inward.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, trying to keep my voice light even though my throat feels tight, “I had a really good evening.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
But he doesn’t sound like he means it.
We turn a corner, and suddenly we’re at my hotel—a small boutique place with a weathered yellow facade and wrought-iron balconies. I’d called earlier to extend my stay for another night, told the receptionist I’d missed my cruise. (Left out the part about wandering the city with a stranger who makes my heart do stupid things.)
There’s a small plaza in front of the hotel—more like a widening of the street, really—with a tree in the center casting shadows across the cobblestones. The air here smells like the potted geraniums on someone’s balcony, mixing with the musty scent of old stone.
We stop under the tree, and Brody finally looks at me.
Really looks at me.
And there’s something in his eyes—conflict, longing, pain—that makes my chest ache.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask, even though I know the answer. “I mean—not like that—just to talk or?—”
“I can’t.”
“Okay.” I’m trying not to cry. I’m tryingso hardnot to cry. “Can I at least get your number? Your last name? Some way to…”
My words drift off at the look on his face. Anguished—that’s the only way to describe it.
“I know this is a bad idea,” he says, and his voice is rough again, raw.
“What is?”
And instead of answering, he steps closer and kisses me.
One more time.
This kiss is different from the others—desperate, almost frantic, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of my mouth against his. His hand cups my face, and I can feel him shaking slightly, and I’m kissing him back just as desperately because I know—Iknow—this is goodbye.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against mine for just a second. I can feel his breath on my lips, warm in the cool night air.
“Take care of yourself, Chloe,” he whispers.
And then he’s gone.
Just—gone.
And I’m standing on a cobblestone street in Barcelona with a wilting sunflower in my purse and absolutely no answers.
Story of my life, honestly. I knew it was too good to be true.
three
brody
PRESENT DAY
Six months ago,I was a top-five defenseman in the league. Now I’m getting burned by rookies who probably spend more time scrolling TikTok than on the ice.
