Page 17 of We Can't Be Friends

“Whatever.” He rolls over, pulling my floral comforter around him.

I exit my bedroom, rolling my shoulders and taking a deep inhale. Going back into the room to kiss him goodbye crosses my mind, but passes quicker.

Why are you still dating him?

No one is forcing you to stay with him, Henry.

“Come on, Tucker, let’s go for a walk,” I call to my six-year-old golden retriever.

He prances over to the door, sitting patiently as I hook up his harness.

The West Loop to Lincoln Park, the neighborhood Emerson lives in, is not a walk. It could be—a straight shot down North Halsted Street and a casual three miles—but Tucker would never make it there and back.

I’m forever grateful that select Ubers allow dogs. It was pouring rain when I picked Tucker up from a boarding stay this past spring. Before leaving, willing to bear the thunderstorm, the attendant told me about the feature. One app update and a dry dog, I now use the feature often.

We climb out of the back of a small SUV in Lincoln Park, a handful of blocks away from Emerson’s, and in front of her favorite coffee shop in the neighborhood.

At the walk-up window, I order our usuals: black coffee for Emme and an iced oat milk latte with honey for me. As soon as our order is ready, Tucker is nudging my elbow with his nose.

Impatient little shit knocks my coffee, splashing my biker shorts with the milky liquid. Tucker doesn’t care, getting what he wants: his pup cup.

“Sit.” His tail is wild, helicoptering against the brick. I bend over to set it on the ground in front of him. “Wait.” I sit on the concrete ledge of a raised flower bed, placing the coffees next to me. “Okay, you can have it.”

Might be a little shit, but at least he’s a good listener—and he never talks back. Men should take notes. Listening would resolve half of their issues, and save women from most of ours.

Before ramming his nose into the small paper cup, he’s momentarily distracted by a runner who passes by us.

The runner backtracks, casting a shadow over where I’m sitting.

“Henry,” the voice says excitedly. I don’t need to pick my head up to know who it is. Callum Sullivan.

“Sullivan.” My head tips up toward where he is towering over me. The morning sun is a halo around him, making his blond hair and tan skin glow—a sweaty angel.

“You’re up early.”

“Morning person.”

“Do you live around here?” he asks.

I shake my head no. “I’m in the West Loop. Close to where we went to dinner last night. I’m headed to Emerson’s.” Gesturing to the coffees beside me. “What about you?”

“Training run with Liam.”

“Are you slower than him?”

Cal laughs, a deep chuckle, then snorts. “He’s asleep.”

“You know that’s not a run with him then.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Cool.” I rub my eyes.

Cal tracks my movement.

“Is everything okay?” he asks me.

“Uh. . . yeah. Tired. Early, remember?”

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