Sleep is impossible. How can I sleep when the man I love is inches away and completely unreachable?
My mind won’t stop replaying everything. The dinner with my parents. The overheard conversation. The text breakup or whatever that was. His injury tonight. The way he looked at me in the medical room.
I need to stand up to my parents. Set real boundaries. Stop letting their voices drown out my own.
But what if it’s too late? What if Clark has already decided I’m not worth the complications?
Beside me, I hear his breathing, but it’s not deep, not restful. He can’t sleep either.
Neither of us acknowledges it. We just lie there in the darkness, pretending we’re not both wide awake, both terrified, both too stubborn to bridge the gap.
At some point during the night, though, I must doze off. I’m not sure when or how it happens, but when I wake up at dawn, I find our fingers laced together on top of the covers, my hand and his meeting somewhere in the middle of all those dogs.
Like, even in sleep, we’re reaching for each other.
I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. The dogs stir but don’t follow—they’re too comfortable in their nest of pillows and blankets.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection. I look exhausted.Scared. Lost.
My phone rings.
It’s my mother.
Of course.
I almost don’t answer. But if I don’t, she’ll just keep calling.
“Hello?” I say in a hush.
“April, we need to talk about the other day.”
My stomach twists.
“That young man is clearly not right for you. Did you see how uncomfortable dinner was? He barely spoke.”
“Because you and Dad were interrogating him.”
“We were getting to know him.” Her voice sharpens. “Frankly, April, I don’t think you’ve thought this through. The hockey career, the instability, the lifestyle?—”
Something in me snaps.
Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s heartbreak. Maybe it’s finally having enough.
“Stop,” I say. “Just stop.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not doing this anymore, Mom. I’m not listening to you tear apart my choices. I’m not defending myself for being happy.”
“Happy? You call this happy? Running a dog bakery in the middle of nowhere, dating some athlete who’ll probably be gone in a few years?—”
“I love him.” The words burst out, raw and true. “I love Clark. I love my life in Cobbiton. I love what The Barkery is going to be. And if you can’t support that—if you can’t even try to understand—then that’s your choice. But I’m done trying to be who you want me to be.”
She doesn’t say a word.
“I’m twenty-eight years old,” I continue, building steam. “I have a career I’m passionate about. I’m opening my own business. I’m building something meaningful. And yes,I’m terrified it might fail. Yes, I’m scared that Clark and I might not work out. But that’s my risk to take. My life to live. Not yours.”
“April—”
