chapter 7
Daniel called once that day. I let it ring out. He texted: Let’s talk like adults. You owe me that.
I typed and deleted five replies, then wrote: There’s nothing to talk about. Please don’t contact me again.
He responded with a photo—not of himself, not of Ashley, but of the security box receipt. It was absurdly symbolic of him.
Honestly? If you cancel, you can at least return the ring. It was expensive, Chloe. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.
The ring, sitting on my old dining table, flashed in my mind. I remembered how he’d rehearsed the proposal speech he never used, because he got nervous and lost the words. I remembered how happy I was that day.
The memory tried to bite me. I turned it over, petting it carefully until it stopped showing teeth. Then I typed: It’s on the table. Ask your janitor for the spare key you keep taped inside the utility closet. He’ll let you in.
He didn’t answer. Maybe he was calculating what else I’d noticed and stored away for years.
On the fourth day, I went back to work. The studio smelled like coffee and printer heat. My coworker, Jen, slid a donut onto my desk and acted as if we’d always had a ritual of donuts.
“I told Claire you’re on the Harrison brand packaging,” she said, eyes flicking to my face and back to her screen. “Only if you want it. It’s a rush job, but they pay. And I put your name on the pitch deck in big letters.”
I didn’t know how to say thank you without sounding like a woman with a violin in her ribs. “I want it,” I said. “I’ll stay late.”
The late nights felt good. There’s a specific holiness in working with your hands on something that doesn’t bleed. I printed mockups and trimmed them with a blade until the corners matched perfectly. I colored in odd gaps with a tiny brush. I took the train back to the studio at midnight and slept with my laptop half-open, rendering export files like a little stove glowing beside me.
On Saturday, I visited my father. He lived an hour away, in the kind of building that still had a lobby couch wrapped in plastic.
When I told him the engagement was off, he didn’t ask for the details. He nodded, went to the kitchen, and returned with two bowls of sliced mango.
“You’re not a hallway,” he said, sitting. “You can leave any time you want.”
“I did.”
“Good. Did you eat?”
“Working on it.”