She looks down at the envelope in her lap. Then at the list.
Then at me.
“So, I’m just supposed to show up, smile, nod, wear beige, and act like I’m honored to be at your side?”
I lift a shoulder. “You forgotlook like someone I’d choose.”
That shuts her up.
For a second.
She folds her arms tighter. “You are unbelievable.”
“You already knew that.” I stand, heading toward the kitchen. “Now, go shower your dog.”
“What?”
“If he’s coming, he’s not arriving looking like he was fished out of a gutter.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dress him up. Sweater. Bowtie. Something ridiculous. Trust me. The partners love an ugly dog in costume. It makes them feel relatable.”
“You’re unwell.”
“And you’re in,” I say over my shoulder. “Try not to embarrass me.”
I don’t turn around to watch her leave. Don’t let myself see if she looks back.
Because if she does, I might remember why I used to think she was worth keeping.
Chapter Ten
Tessa
Ikick Rowan’s door open.
Okay, maybe notkick.
More like “aggressively hip bumping with my reusable grocery bag” because my arms are full of enough discount dog supplies to restock a PetSmart clearance aisle, and I still haven’t figured out how his building security works. But the vibe is a kick.
“Hey!” I shout as I barrel into his ridiculously pristine apartment. “It’s me!”
Waffles bounces at my heels, leash dragging, wearing the world’s most offensively plaid dog sweater. I picked it because it was on sale and had tiny elbow patches that scream,I read legal thrillers for fun,andI bite when nervous. Which felt spiritually accurate.
Rowan is not in the foyer, which is probably for the best because I’m currently shedding bits of kibble from a torn bag and juggling a collapsible dog tub, three bottles of lavender oatmeal shampoo, and a chew toy.
I dump everything by the kitchen island and call out, “I need your bathroom! Don’t worry, it’s not for me. I already cried in the Walgreens parking lot!”
Still no answer.
Perfect. I love an ominous silence.
Waffles darts past me and immediately beelines for the one rug that looks imported from a Scandinavian monastery. He circles it twice, sniffs, then flops down dramatically.
I scoop him up. “Nope. No, sir. You don’t get to claim land here. Not while you are filthy.”
I march toward the hallway. Rowan’s apartment is exactly how I remember: minimalist, sharp, expensive enough to make my FAFSA whimper. The kind of place where soap comes in black glass bottles and towels have tags that readEgyptian cottoninstead ofProperty of Mom’s Discount Linens.
