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 beforemy 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?
The cold is already vicious. Single digits at least, maybe lower. That Minnesota cold that bites through thin coats and reminds you that winter doesn’t care about your problems.
“I said don’t follow me.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a small miracle.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. The wind immediately messes it up again. “But you need to hear this. What happened in Barcelona?—”
“I don’t need to hear anything.” I pull my coat tighter. The fabric is thin, not nearly warm enough. I should’ve replaced it last year, but rent took priority. “You made your choice six months ago.”
“Someone took our picture.” The words come out fast. Urgent. “That night. At the café. And…I panicked.” He stops. Breathes. More clouds between us. “I didn’t want to drag you into my drama.”
Wait. “What drama?”
He hesitates. There’s something in his expression—shame, maybe, or exhaustion—that makes him look less like “Candy Kane, media-trained hockey star” and more like the guy from Barcelona who told me about his fear of letting people down.
“My dad was in a big poker game. And he…” He sighs, and it works its way into my body like a hot-oil massage, letting downmy guard. “He owed money he didn’t have to people who don’t exactly take IOUs. I had to bail him out, literally and figuratively, and”—his voice drops lower, and it sort of sinks into me—“I didn’t need the press knowing about my life.”
