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 isYou’re incredible. Your art is incredible. And anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.
But that’s dangerously close to real-boyfriend territory. So instead, I say, “You’re talented, Chloe. Don’t let one rejection letter convince you otherwise.”
She’s staring at our hands. At the way my thumb is tracing circles on her palm without my permission.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
The server arrives with the other food—croquetas (as golden as I remember them from that night in Barcelona) and perfectly fried calamari with lemon wedges—followed by the delicious redolence of garlic and lemon and parsley.
Chloe glances at our hands, her fingers trailing mine as she finally pulls away. But a magnetic force remains.
“This is amazing,” Chloe says around a bite of croqueta. “Why is everything in this restaurant perfect?”
“Barcelona magic.”
“Is that a thing?”
