Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I manage a small smile. “That’s the hope.”
Julian’s expression softens again. “I believe you’ll do very well in Los Angeles.”
“Thank you.”
He pauses, then asks, “Do you have any plans for the Thanksgiving holiday?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going home to DC to be with my family. Then I’ll plan to fly out to Los Angeles the day after.”
He nods, approving. “Good. Family has a way of grounding big transitions.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I reply—and I realize it’s true.
He stands, signaling the meeting’s end, and I rise with him. He extends his hand and I take it, the shake firm and brief.
“Thank you again,” I say. “For everything.”
“You earned it,” he answers simply.
We exchange a final nod—professional, respectful, complete—and I turn toward the door, carrying both the weight of goodbye and the strange lightness of what comes next.
Chapter 29
Grizz
Iwalk because standing still feels impossible.
I don’t have anywhere to go, not really, but I can’t stay where I am. I can’t sit in my apartment with the walls closing in, hearing the echo of my own thoughts ricocheting off the ceiling.
I’m not going to continue to think of Daisy and the fact that my life feels fractured since I broke things off.
So I move. One block, then another, stride after stride, collar turned up against the cold.
Manhattan feels different today.
There are fewer locals out, fewer people moving with purpose, heads down, earbuds in. Instead, there are clusters of tourists with phones raised, voices loud and bright with wonder. They drift instead of stride. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of buildings I pass every day without looking.
I weave around them, irritation budding and dying just as quickly. They’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just seeing the city.
I remember the first time I did.
Draft day feels like a lifetime ago now, but the memory hits clearly. An angry, naive kid from Saskatchewan stepping into the bright lights of New York City. I was raw talent then—nothing polished about me, all instinct and edge and hunger. I didn’t know the rules yet, didn’t know how easily this city could chew you up and decide you were done.
But I loved it.
I loved the lights and noise. The idea that if you were good enough—if you were fearless enough—this place would let you shine brighter than anywhere else in the world. I relished it. The pressure. The scrutiny. The way every mistake was magnified and every success felt seismic.
I wanted to prove I belonged here.
Somewhere along the way, the proving never stopped.
My feet carry me without conscious direction, and before I realize it, the concrete gives way to paths and trees and the open dark of Central Park. The city noise dulls, replaced by a softer set of sounds—distant traffic, wind through branches, the quiet presence of other people sharing the same space.
I slow.
That’s when I see them.
A father and son walking a few yards ahead of me, bundled against the cold. The kid is talking animatedly, hands moving too fast for his gloves, and the father is laughing, the sound visible even if I can’t hear it. He reaches down, ruffles the boy’s hat, then pulls him closer as they walk.
They stop for a moment. The kid points at something—maybe a statue, maybe nothing at all—and the father leans in, listening with fascination.
I can’t hear a single word they’re saying, but it hurts to watch it play out.
The image presses into me, a part of me that never healed right. That deep wound… that jagged scar, it’s the reason I’m broken. I keep walking, inside the familiar ache blooming where memories live—of silence instead of laughter, of pressure instead of warmth.
I look away, but the feeling stays.
Some things don’t need sound to be loud.
I exit the park and the city crashes back into me all at once. Traffic and voices and lights and motion.
The quiet I stole between the trees evaporates.
Memories of my father melt away to images of Daisy and the way she looked at me when I told her to get out of my apartment. That we were through. There was hurt and sadness, but the only expression I see in my memory is one of disappointment. I failed to live up to what she thought me capable of, and that failure gnaws at my insides.
I’m right on the edge of it—right on the verge of spiraling—when I hear my name.
“Grizz.”
It feels like a hook to the ribs because I recognize that voice.
Turning, I see Julian Langley standing under a streetlight. Perfectly tailored coat, immaculate posture. A woman is on his arm—tall, elegant, devastatingly beautiful in a self-possessed way. She’s a woman who doesn’t look impressed by anything because she’s never likely had to be.
I walk toward them.
“Mr. Langley,” I say.
“Out walking?” he replies, like we’ve run into each other at a gallery opening instead of the edge of my unraveling.