Page 15

Chapter fifteen

Riley: The Picture

T he smell of cinnamon hit me as I stepped into the Bean & Biscuit.

It's one reason I love coming here on donation pick-up days.

The other? I never knew what I was picking up—money, dog food, chew toys.

I know the dogs secretly hope for those dog treats Janice likes to sneak to them.

I tugged my sleeves down over my hands and gave Evan behind the counter a quick wave.

"Morning, Riley," he called. "Give me a sec, the donations are in the back. You want the usual latte while I’m at it?"

"Sure," I said, managing a faint smile. "Thanks."

I moved off to the side and let my eyes wander to the community bulletin board—flyers for open mic nights, dog walkers, and a yoga class that had already come and gone. The espresso machine kicked on, drowning out most of the shop chatter, but not the voices drifting from a nearby table.

"...yeah, I hear he asked for a trade."

"Hayes? Seriously? I thought he was starting to pull it together."

"Guess not. A guy like that doesn’t stick around for long."

My fingers curled into my sleeves. My shoulders tightened. I stared at the edge of a curling flyer. One corner was held up by a bent thumbtack that looked like it had been pulled out once and shoved back in.

My stomach dropped. Like I was on a roller coaster. Except without the thrill.

"Hey, Riley—got the donations and that latte."

I blinked and turned. "Yeah. Thanks."

Evan slid them across the counter. I reached for the boxes, feeling the cardboard.

"I'll take the boxes to my car and come back for the latte."

My legs lagged, half a step behind, like they hadn’t gotten the memo to move.

I pulled in a breath, steadied the weight, offered the best smile I could manage, and pushed the door open with my shoulder.

Cold air slapped against my face.

By the time I got back to Timberline, the sky had turned a dull gray that didn’t seem to know if it wanted to snow or rain. I handed the latte off to Tessa, who looked way too cheerful for someone scraping frost off a kennel latch.

“Guess who found a way to chew through another blanket,” she said, nodding toward the far pen.

I didn’t even have to look. “Bruno.”

“Bingo. He’s now sleeping on a towel and his own poor decisions.”

I set the boxes near the donation shelf. “We still low on puppy pads?”

“Bottom of the bin,” she said. “I’ve got a tab open to reorder, but the site keeps glitching.”

“Try switching browsers,” I murmured, already halfway through the inventory checklist.

The rest of the morning blurred into quiet noise—kennel gates clinking, dogs barking, the scrape of a broom against concrete.

Tessa hummed something tuneless under her breath while prepping food bowls.

I ran my thumb over the intake board, the dry-erase marker in my hand hovering before I erased a name and rewrote it. Then rewrote it again.

“Did you see that family from yesterday called back?” Tessa said. “They’re thinking about coming back for Domino.”

“That’s good,” I said, without looking up.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I marked something on the clipboard. “Just behind on scheduling.”

Tessa didn’t press. She just handed me a leash and went to grab the next bowl.

I clipped it to Bella’s collar. “Come on, girl. Let’s go pretend everything’s fine.”

Bella trotted beside me, nails tapping against the concrete as we made a loop around the outdoor pen. The cold bit at my knuckles. My fingers were already starting to stiffen. I didn't bother tucking them into my sleeves.

Bella lowered her nose, snuffling deep into the dead grass, paws shuffling as if something buried under the frost might still be worth finding.

I crouched next to her as my fingers twisted the leash. “You remember when he called you a gremlin?”

Bella blinked up at me, tail wagging once.

"He acted like he owned the place after, like, two visits. Walked around reorganizing things like it was his name on the lease."

"The guy argued with me about how to store canned food, Bella. Canned food.”

She leaned into my knee.

“I mean, who even does that?” I shook my head. “And don’t give me that look. You liked him. Traitor.”

Bella’s tongue lolled, panting like she knew I was full of it.

“Ugh.” I rubbed her ears. “Fine. I didn’t hate having him around. There. You happy?”

A wind gust rattled the fence, and Bella’s ears twitched.

I stood up slowly, brushing my hands on my thighs. We circled once more, and when we came back through the gate, I unclipped her leash and hung it up by habit.

A car engine hummed outside. I didn’t think much of it until I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

My heart raced.

I glanced up.

It wasn’t him.

Just a delivery van.

I turned back to the towels.

I folded another towel and pressed the crease sharply. The cold edged in, but the tightness in my throat wasn’t from the weather.

Somewhere between folding towels and restocking biscuits, I realized the light had changed. The sun was higher, casting a sharp line of gold across the kennel floor.

My stomach was starting to rumble. "How is it one o'clock already?"

"Tessa," I shouted as I put on my coat. "I'm gonna run home to get some lunch. I'll swing by Fetch and Feed and pick up some supplies to hold us over until the bulk orders arrive."

I found myself behind the wheel idling at a red light near the rink.

The windows were starting to fog, but I could still make out the curved roofline, the faded team banner flapping weakly in the wind. My fingers flexed against the wheel, like they’d only just realized where I was. I hadn’t meant to drive this way. Or maybe I had.

I tapped the steering wheel with my thumb, then turned into the lot.

Only a few cars. Late practice? Early? I didn’t know the schedule anymore.

I cut the engine. Got out of the car and started walking towards the entrance.

The wind whipped past me, too loud to make out the rink noise.

And then—I did hear it.

The sharp echo of skates cutting ice. A voice calling out a drill.

My fingers had already curled around the door handle. I’d opened the door.

I stepped in.

The glass doors to the rink were foggy. I could see shadows moving. I heard the sound of a stick tapping the boards, the unmistakable cadence of someone shouting, encouraging, pushing, Colton's voice.

My chest tightened.

He was still here.

For some reason, I’d imagined he’d be gone already. That once the trade news broke, he’d just disappear. And that maybe I would get a text eventually.

But he hadn’t left.

And now I was standing here like an idiot, unsure what I had hoped to see.

Not that it matters, he is just not gone, yet.

I turned back to the car. Got in. Closed the door gently.

I sank back into the seat, letting the cold bite at my fingers. Maybe it was good that he was leaving. Perhaps I just had to let it be.

I stared at the key in the ignition. Through the windshield, the rink banner flapped once, then settled.

The rest of the day passed in fragments—refilling kibble bins, fixing a glitchy space heater, untangling two leashes that had somehow braided themselves together on the fence. I kept my hands busy, and my mouth shut, letting the noise of Timberline fill the gaps.

By late afternoon, I found Tessa in the office, balancing a half-eaten granola bar on top of a stack of intake files.

"The lawyer's calling in a few," I said, setting my phone on the desk. "Stay, yeah? Might be good for you to hear this."

"Already planning to," she said, sliding into the chair across from me.

When the call came through, I tapped speaker and leaned forward.

“Hi Riley, it’s Marla Breckman. Can you hear me okay?”

“Yep. I’ve got Tessa here too.”

“Great. So, I looked into the trust lease language. Technically, you’re month-to-month with a courtesy clause that gives you nine months’ notice. That’s... not a lot of protection.”

Tessa frowned. I stared at a coffee stain on the desk.

“The trust is entertaining other offers,” Marla continued. “There’s no guarantee they’ll renew, especially if a private buyer comes in with development plans.”

“What about first right of refusal?” I asked.

“That’s your best shot,” she said. “You’d need to petition for it formally, which involves showing Timberline is both viable and valued by the community. That means testimonials, financials, and a good-faith down payment.”

“How much of a down payment are we talking?”

“Depends on the appraisal, but it won’t be cheap. And you’ll need to retain counsel if the trust pushes back.”

Tessa gave me a long look. “We’ll make the case,” she said.

“I’ll draft what I can,” Marla added, “but the sooner we rally support, the better. You’ll want public backing. Media, if you can get it.”

“Thanks, Marla,” I said. “We’ll get started.”

As the call ended, the office felt too still. Tessa didn’t say anything right away, just gathered the files with quiet precision.

Then the digital frame on the corner shelf flickered.

I glanced over. The next photo rolled in. Colton, standing behind two of our volunteers, grinning like an idiot, one dog under each arm.

It was a full-body jolt.

Tessa’s voice cut in like she’d been waiting. “So… are we just gonna pretend you didn’t flinch like the photo bit you?”

I reached for a pen, like I might need it. “It was a weird angle.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t even bother looking up.

I clicked the pen, then clicked it again. “It’s not like I even liked him.”

Tessa let the silence breathe for a second. “Okay.”

I glanced over. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“You’re the one who’s been muttering to Bella about canned food storage.”

I almost laughed.

Tessa finally looked up from the files. “You miss him.”

I stared at the frame again, the next photo already cycling in. “He’s leaving. There’s nothing to miss.”

“You are hoping that if you keep saying it, it will make it true.”

I didn’t respond.

Tessa set the paperwork down.

Tessa didn’t say anything at first. Just watched me. Then, finally—“You keep pretending this doesn’t bother you.”

I didn’t look at her. “I’m fine.”

She let out a soft snort. “Yeah, and I’m an Olympic pole vaulter.”

I put my pen down. It hit the desk with a sharp clack , rolling once before stopping dead against the clipboard. “He’s leaving. What am I supposed to do? Throw a going-away party?”

Tessa shrugged. “I don’t know. But maybe stop acting like it doesn’t matter.” She nodded toward the frame. “I suppose I just imagined how you went stiff when it popped up."

My arms crossed before I even realized I was doing it. The cold pressed in, or maybe it was just me. “It was just… unexpected.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. “He’s complicated.”

“So are you.”

“I just…” I shook my head. “He’s got this life. Hockey, travel, media stuff. I’ve got Timberline. Bills. Volunteer schedules. The dogs. It’s not the same.”

Tessa didn’t move. “No, it’s not. But since when did ‘not the same’ mean ‘not worth it’?”

She tilted her head slightly, as if she were deciding how hard to push. Then—“For someone who knows how to keep everything running, you really stink at knowing what you want.”

My eyes snapped to hers. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious.” She leaned in just a fraction, voice steady. “You plan every fundraiser, every intake rotation, every supply run down to the ounce. But when something good shows up—something messy, something complicated, something that doesn’t fit neatly into your version of the world, you bail.”

My fingers curled against my sleeves, the fabric pulled tight.

I pushed up from the desk too fast, grabbing the nearest stack of papers just to do something with my hands. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

Tessa stayed where she was, arms still folded. “Or maybe you didn’t let it.”

I stared at the photo again.

She exhaled sharply. "You keep believing you’re the girl people admire but never want. But Colton didn’t just notice you—he wants you."

Tessa sighed, pushing off the desk, her voice softer now. “You didn’t get passed over this time, Riles. Not even close. So if you walk away, at least be honest—it’s not because you didn’t care. It’s because you were too scared to try.”

She walked out before I could come up with a response that wasn’t an excuse.

***

Midnight. The house was quiet. I flipped the pillow. Stared at the ceiling. Counted a faucet drip I hadn’t noticed until now. I kicked off the blanket, rolled to my side, and rolled back. Finally, I gave up and grabbed my phone.

I scrolled through various fundraiser photos—dogs in costumes, kids covered in frosting, volunteers laughing in between the chaos.

Then there was a picture of us.

At the gala. Holding me. On the dance floor. Just him, holding me during the slow dance, cheek resting against my hair, eyes closed.

My chest ached. I stared at it too long. Swiped past it. Swiped back.

I turned the screen off and sat up, rubbing my face.

OK, I need to look at something else.

The new dogs—we’d had a couple bad sleepers. I opened the Timberline app to check the security feed.

One of the clips had a yellow timestamp. Yellow means off-hours. The motion sensors shouldn't have caught anyone coming into the rescue.

I clicked it.

Colton.

He was in the rescue. At night. Tossing a ball gently down the hallway. Luna trotted after it. Returned it. Trotted again.

In the next clip, he was crouched by the crates, hand outstretched, letting one of the nervous shepherd mixes sniff his knuckles.

Another—he was refilling the food bowls. Another—folding blankets. Another—laughing when one of the puppies barked at his shoelaces.

I sat there, the blue light washing over my comforter, not even blinking.

He’d been here. Not once. Not twice.

I clicked to the following clip.

There he was again.

Still here.

When no one was watching.

Including me.