Like we’re a maybe instead of a definitely.
Like ten years of friendship and weeks of real dating can just dissolve intoSee what happens.
Like maybe he remembered this arrangement has a deadline.
I back toward the door as quietly as possible. The dogs whine softly, confused, but I can’t stay here. Can’t face him right now.
I need to think.
I need to breathe.
I need to protect my heart before it splinters completely.
Suffice it to say, the dogs get a very long walk—for my mental health and because I need to be sure Clark is gone before I go back to his loft.
But the walk doesn’t bring clarity and for the next few days, my thoughts whirl and swirl as I perform an elaborate dance of avoidance disguised as being busy. He has extra practices. I have client meetings at my big girl job—I haven’t given notice because suddenly all my dreams feel as fragile as a chew toy in a dog’s mouth—we’re talking Moose, not Purdy. Though she did some damage to the little bunny toy Janet got her for Easter. Clark and I text instead of calling. When we finally do see each other as I drop off the dogs, it’s like we’restrangers.
“Hi there,” he says, hardly looking up from the game tape he’s watching.
“How was practice?”
“Good.”
There’s a beat of silence that ordinarily would be filled with him asking me a random question, inquiring about the Barkery, or just Clark being Clark and jumping off the couch, sweeping me into his arms and—well, as best friends we didn’t kiss, but he’d certainly do something zany like toss me over his shoulder and spin me in a circle until I was dizzy.
“How were the dogs?” he asks.
“Great.”
It’s like we’re barely acquaintances making small talk. Like we didn’t practically confess our love for each other mere days ago. Like we didn’t spend ten years as best friends before becoming more.
The ice between us looks perfect from a distance—smooth, pristine, ready for a game. But I know the truth. One wrong step and we’ll both fall through.
My phone rings and he doesn’t even look up. Instead of making myself comfortable in my spot on the couch, I slip out the door.
It’s my sister calling and I answer as I hurtle down the stairs. “Hey, I need to tell you something. Warn you, actually,” she says without preamble.
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Mom and Dad are on their way to Cobbiton.”
“What?” I repeat.
It’s not that we have a bad connection. I just can’t believe my ears.
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to get them to see how amazing you are, and how great The Barkery is going to be, but they wouldn’t listen. So I told them about the lease approval,hoping it would make them proud. Instead, they decided to stage an intervention.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I’m on a brief break and need to be in the judge’s chamber in two minutes. I tried to stop them. I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead.
Instead of going home or hitching a ride to Timbuktu, I walk over to the Barkery. I finally have the key and have been staring into space in here, dreaming up what’s next. I have everything planned and am just waiting on some quotes from contractors. Of course, the A-2 Carpentry Crew, which is Mikey and Juniper’s family’s business, is at the top of my list, but when we spoke, Mr. Cruz acted oddly awkward and said they were busy, but he’d try to come by soon.
In fact, I thought I saw him leaving the other day when I’d pulled into the rear parking lot, but we must’ve just missed each other.
No sooner am I daydreaming about the shop—and okay, fine, Clark. I mean, how could I not daydream about the guy who daydreams—when two figures stand on the opposite side of the Dutch door.
