Chapter Twenty-Five
Dean
Solange lays her head on my chest, draws the comforter to her chin, then lets out a satisfied sigh. I’m watching a favorite memory materialize right before my eyes. Wanting to complete the picture, I stroke her hair and twirl a curl. Yeah, this is perfect. Addictive, actually.
For the first time in forever, I’m considering the possibility of dating for dating’s sake. No agenda. No endgame either. Who the hell am I?
I’m a person with a plan. Someone well on his way to securing the stability he’s been chasing all his adult years. And fresh out of a relationship that was supposed to end in a long-lasting commitment. But maybe I should stop pedaling the life cycle and hit the pause button. Continue to focus on my career. Resume the multistep to-do list a little later. In the meanwhile, I can spend time with Solange on an exclusive basis—for as long as she’ll have me. I’d even travel to Ohio to see her if she wanted. Given how busy we’ll both be, maybe a long-distance relationship is the solution. Would she want that, though?
Solange groans as she snuggles farther into my embrace. “You’re doing it again. I wish you’d stop.”
“Stop doing what?”
“Overthinking. The surgeon general warns against it.”
Is this what it’s like to have someone know you well enough that they can guess what’s going on inside your head? I like it. A lot. “You’re right. We need a reset. So how about that movie?”
She disentangles herself from my arms and rests on her elbows. “Which one did you have in mind?”
“When Harry Met Sally.” I shrug. “It just feels like it should be our thing.”
“Our thing?” she asks, her lips jutting out as if she’s skeptical of the phrase. “We have ‘things’ now?”
“Yeah,” I say, tapping her nose. “It feels like our inside joke. Or it should be. Something that’s only between us.”
She shakes her head and pretends to grimace. “I don’t know, Dean. Are you feeling okay? Because that sounds kind of romantic.”
It does, doesn’t it? And I bet she doesn’t appreciate the mixed messaging. “Well, you and Brandon have ‘things,’ right?” I say, making air quotes. “And you two are friends.”
She swallows. “We do, and we are.”
“So this is the same idea.”
“Riiiight,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re absolutely right. Got it.”
“Okay, then,” I say, sitting up. “Let’s move this party to the living room, where surround sound and high resolution await you. We’re doing this.”
“Be right back,” she says. After planting a soft kiss on my lips, she slips out of the bed and walks her naked ass out of my room. She returns less than a minute later, her bag in one hand. “It’s a lot lighter now that it’s no longer holding enough contents to serve an entire bar.”
A bunch of stuff happens at breakneck speed: She dashes into the bathroom; emerges in a cropped tee and sweats; drops onto the bed to throw on socks; and gathers her hair into a messy bun, then jumps up. It’s a dizzying scene.
I crawl out from under the comforter. “You’re a damned tornado.”
“And you’re a slowpoke. I’ll meet you out there. Going to finish the caipirinhas.”
Minutes later, I enter the living area and pull up short as I watch Solange carry two cocktail glasses over to the coffee table. I take in her sweet expression, her vibrant presence, the way she settles on my couch in anticipation of watching a film that she’s already seen, probably dozens of times.
As soon as I settle in next to her, she drapes a throw blanket over our legs, presses play on the remote, and leans against my side.
I try to ignore the way the moment mirrors what I’ve always envisioned for a regular Saturday night. Belonging. Belonging to someone, more specifically. For years, it was an idea. But now I’m experiencing the reality, and it is so much better than anything I could have imagined. Because it’s Solange.
Okay, so it turns out I’m a liar. I don’t just want to watch a movie with her. I don’t just want us to have “things.” And I don’t just want to casually date her. I want her in my life. Only problem is, I don’t know how we can possibly make this work, especially since I’m not sure either of us is equipped to give the other what they need.
So I settle for watching the movie—because remaining in this happy place is easier than figuring my shit out.
* * *
“Billy Crystal’s voice is annoying as hell,” I say as I munch on the kettle chips Solange brought with her.
She hands me the bag. “Keep it. I’m full.”
“Meg Ryan’s cute, though.”
“Mmhm.”
“Harry’s hair is a mess. Is that how they wore it in the seventies?”
“Based on pictures I’ve seen, yes.”
“They’re going to drive eighteen hours together? That’s a recipe for disaster.” I set the bag next to me and rub my hands together. “Oh, is this the diner scene? This is going to be good.”
“No, that one comes later. After college. When they’re much older.”
“Oh, embarrassing herself in diners is a thing in this movie, I guess.”
Solange lunges for the remote, presses pause, and whacks me with a pillow, all within the space of seconds. “Are you incapable of being quiet during a movie? Because you haven’t stopped talking since the moment I hit play.”
I snatch the pillow away and give her a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I like it when you’re around, and I’m trying to get in all the words as if we have a time limit.”
Her eyes soften. “We don’t. I’m spending the night, remember? And I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
“I meant, you won’t be in DC much longer.”
Her gaze darts to mine as she fiddles with the remote. “Ah. Well, carry on with your gibberish, then.”
“No, you’re right. I’m being a pain. I’ll shut up so we can enjoy the movie.”
Unfortunately, my cell phone rings just when we’re ready to press play again, and a quick glance at the screen indicates the caller is using the condo’s intercom system. “Hello?”
“Dean, it’s your mom. Can you let me up, son?”
My stomach drops. Melissa Chapman isn’t one for surprise visits. She’s supposed to be across the country. In a motor home. With Harvey. I glance at Solange, who’s frozen in place, then place a hand on her thigh. “Hey, Mom. Are you alone?”
My mother doesn’t immediately respond. I suspect my choice of words isn’t helping. Finally, she says, “Yes, I’m alone.”
“Hang on. I’m in two oh six.”
“I know,” she says on a laugh. “I send you Christmas cards, don’t I?”
She sure does. Sometimes a card and a few phone calls make up the extent of our contact in any given year. Sighing, I type in the numbers that will unlock the front door, then slowly rise from the couch.
Solange follows suit. “We can always watch When Harry Met Sally another time.” She waves a thumb behind her. “I’m going to gather my stuff. It’s probably best if I make myself scarce.”
Seconds ago, I couldn’t contain my excitement about spending time with Solange. Now, it’s as if my mother’s arrival has drained me of even an ounce of energy. I pull Solange toward me. “Let’s play it by ear. See what’s going on first. For all I know, she could be dropping off a souvenir from her trip.”
Solange taps my chest. “I’m going to get my stuff together just in case. And I’ll give you two a few minutes to talk. In the meantime”—she winks at me—“I’ll just be perusing your medicine cabinet.”
I watch her jog out of the living room, then brace myself for whatever has brought my mother to DC. While I’m waiting, I glance at my phone notifications and see a recent text from Max among them. It says:
You sly dog. Lina filled me in. I’m not so sure about this, but I got your back. My advice? Convince Solange to accept the offer in DC. Worry about the rest later.
Offer in DC? What’s he talking about? It takes only a few seconds for me to grasp the gist of Max’s message: Victory Academy must have offered Solange a permanent position. And she didn’t tell me.
Disappointment courses through my body, a heavy weight cementing me to the spot. Either she didn’t want me to know about the job, or she’s already decided to decline it. Neither possibility suggests that she’s tying herself in knots the way I am. Wondering if we can make us work. Envisioning something more. And sure, it’s not like we’ve made any promises to each other, but we’re friends, right? Considering everything else Solange has shared with me, it’s telling that she never mentioned the possibility of staying in DC.
Rather than admit I didn’t know about the offer, I text Max a thumbs-up and set my phone on the kitchen counter. Seconds later, Melissa Chapman is at my door.
Despite the cheeriness I first heard in my mother’s voice when she was downstairs, the red-rimmed eyes, runny nose, and splotches of pink on her chin and cheeks tell a different story.
“Is everything okay?” I ask as I stand aside to let her in, my gaze moving past her into the hall to confirm that she’s not bringing anyone else along.
“I’m fine,” she says, rolling a duffel bag on wheels behind her.
“Do you need something? A drink? The restroom?”
She repeats herself, louder this time: “I’m fine.”
“So what’s going on?”
She parks her bag in a corner and spins around, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Harvey and I had a fight. The plan was to drive to Massachusetts to meet his kids before heading back to Delaware.”
“And . . . ?” I say, eyeing her shoes. I can’t fucking help it.
She rolls her eyes, then toes them off while she explains. “And it was clear he’d never told them about me. I was angry. He was confused. And when I shouted that it only seemed right that he would mention the woman he was going to be living with to his children, he balked. Apparently, sharing his home with me wasn’t in the plans. It blew up from there, so I asked him to take me to the closest train station, and now I’m here.”
“Why not take a train home to Delaware?”
She swallows before she responds. “I didn’t renew my lease.”
“Because you thought you’d be moving in with Harvey.”
“Yes.”
I don’t know how she can stand it. Every new man who comes into her life is “the one.” She gets all warm and fuzzy, then, when they inevitably disappoint her, it’s as if she’s starting at zero again. As a kid, I watched it happen time and time again. Still, part of me secretly hoped Harvey would be different. “You can stay here, of course. For as long as you need to. And I’ll help you find a new place.”
“Thank you.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it.
“What?”
Sighing, she shrugs her shoulders. “I thought he was my soul mate. I thought he was it for me.”
Christ. I hate this so much. My mother isn’t a bad person. She deserves better than to be let down by every man she dates. Then again, she scoffed at me when I told her that warm, fuzzy feeling wasn’t reliable. Maybe she’s finally ready to accept that I have a point. I bridge the distance between us and wrap my arms around her. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Turns out he was just as shitty as the others. Well, he was good in bed, I’ll give him that.”
“I could have done without that mental picture, thank you.” Looking around us, I add, “Let me get you set up in the guest bedroom.”
My mother takes a moment to survey my place. She widens her eyes when her gaze lands on the caipirinhas Solange made. “Oh shoot. Am I interrupting something?”
“A friend’s here,” I say, my mouth suddenly going dry. “She wanted to give us privacy.”
My mother gives me a devilish grin. “Wow, my son works fast.”
“It’s not like that,” I whisper.
“What’s it like, then?” she whispers in reply.
I grind my teeth and glare at her. “We’re not having this conversation right now.”
For at least two reasons. One, Solange is in my bedroom, and it doesn’t feel right to talk about her in this way. Two, I have no fucking clue what I’d say. It’s been a month since she crashed my wedding. If I hinted that Solange and I are anything other than friends with benefits, a barrage of questions would follow. I’m not an impulsive person. Telling my mother I have feelings—serious feelings—for a woman I met last month would raise all kinds of red flags in her mind. She knows that’s not my MO. Because it’s hers, and we couldn’t be more different if we tried.
Shit, comparing myself to my mother throws what’s been going on between Solange and me into sharp relief. Now that I think about it, what the hell am I doing? This isn’t me. At all. Instead, I’m taking a page from Melissa Chapman, and that’s the clearest sign that I’ve gone astray from where I need to be.
She puts up her hands. “Okay, okay. May I take a shower at least? I have seven hours’ worth of high-speed-train germs on my body.”
Before I can respond, the click of the door to my bedroom snags my attention and Solange enters the living room, her bag slung over her shoulder.
“Hello,” she says to my mother. “I’m Solange. Dean’s . . . friend. I was just leaving.”
My mother steps forward and, as they shake hands, says, “I’d never forget your face. Made quite the splash at the wedding. Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, sweetheart.”
Solange swallows. “Same.” She looks at me, then pokes my stomach. “Walk me out?”
I’m sure I resemble a bobblehead as I swivel around. “Of course.” I’m struggling to process everything cycling through my brain: the idyllic time I spent with Solange earlier; the implications of my mother’s unexpected visit; the revelation about Solange’s job. Hell, it’s a struggle just to figure out what to do with my hands. My natural inclination is to put one of them at Solange’s lower back, but my mother’s watchful gaze prompts me to slip them into the pockets of my shorts instead.
I turn back to my mother. “Make yourself at home. Sheets are changed. Towels are in the closet.” She mouths, Thank you, then I shut the door behind me.
We walk in silence to the elevator bank. There, Solange presses the call button, turns to me, and rests a hand on my stomach. “Is everything all right? With your mom, I mean?”
“Not really,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “She broke up with her boyfriend. The aftermath isn’t always great.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Her question doesn’t surprise me. Because even though Solange lives and breathes sarcasm and cynicism, she’s also an incredibly giving person. “No, I don’t think so. Short story: She gave up her apartment, and now I need to help her find a new one.”
“Will she be okay?”
“Only time will tell. It’s been a while since I’ve been around when one of her relationships imploded.” I shrug. “We’ll see. But just a heads-up: That means I’m probably not going to be available much. Between work and my mother being here, I won’t have time to spare.”
She furrows her brow and steps away from me; it’s like watching an alley cat hunch its back in defensive mode. “I don’t recall asking for your time.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “But I also don’t want you to think I’m ghosting you. It’s just . . . the circumstances.” My chest tightens. What the hell am I saying? I need a moment to breathe and figure out what the fuck I’m doing, but Solange is staring at me as if she’s seeing me in a new light—and it’s not a good one either. I forge ahead even though I probably shouldn’t. “You asked me not to blow smoke up your ass, remember, so I won’t. The truth is, I think I’ve been stuck on fantasy island, and as soon as my mother showed up, I realized playtime is over.”
“I have no idea what any of that means,” she says, crinkling her nose.
Why should she? I’m doing a terrible job of explaining myself—and probably pissing her off in the process. I clench and unclench my fists at my sides and try again. “I think all of this pretend dating messed with my head. I started to imagine that we could work as a couple. For real. But tonight, I remembered the reasons that isn’t a good idea. I need a sense of security. Normalcy. Order. It’s what I’ve been working toward my whole life. I have a plan—”
“And I don’t fit into it,” she says, scowling. “Got it.” She gives me a dismissive wave, as if she’s over this conversation—over me, too. “You’ve got every single one of your remaining days on God’s green earth mapped out. Where the hell do I get off interfering, am I right?”
“Oh, c’mon, Solange. You don’t even want to be a part of my life plan.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” she asks, her face tilted as she lasers me with those damn bottomless eyes.
“Well, if you thought there was a possibility of a future for us, you would have been up-front with me. Can you truly say that’s the case?”
“Who are you? The Riddler?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest. “You obviously have something on your mind. Just spit it out.”
“Fine,” I say gruffly, the muscles in my jaw tensing. “Why didn’t you tell me about your offer from Victory Academy?”
She scoffs, then begins to pace the hall, and it’s like I’m watching a snowball gather force as it covers more ground and picks up speed. “Because I haven’t decided one way or the other yet, and I need to do this on my own. And okay, yes: I don’t want you to be a factor in my choice. Because that would be a mistake, wouldn’t it? You refuse to fall in love, and I refuse to be with someone who won’t love me. You’re not wired for romance, remember?”
“Can you blame me?” I say, pointing at my door. “Solange, without me, she’d be out on the streets because she thought he was ‘the one.’ Listen, I know firsthand how volatile relationships can be. One day you’re in love. The next day, you’re not. You have expectations, and when someone doesn’t meet them, you’re disappointed. Gutted, even. Why wouldn’t I want to take all of that out of the equation?”
She tugs on my wrists, as if she wants to shake some sense into me. “Because then you’re just existing. Is that what you want? To go through life being physically present and emotionally absent?”
I don’t answer quickly enough for her liking, so she charges ahead. “Well, that’s a cop-out, Dean, and it’s lazy. You want the trappings of being in a committed relationship, but you don’t want to roll up your sleeves and do the work necessary to be worthy of it.”
“That’s been my point all along: We define committed relationships differently.” I blow out a deep breath. “Look, I’m not trying to hide the ball here. When Ella and I parted ways, I was fine. Picked myself back up, no problem. That wouldn’t happen with you, and that terrifies me.” My vision blurs. Fuck, this is hard. “I’d always be worried that you’re on the verge of leaving. Because you’re not tied to anyone or anything. I’m not saying that’s wrong—you should go out there and explore your options—but that’s not right for me. And I know you want more. Shit, I’d be the first person to admit you deserve more. You deserve everything. Sadly, I can’t be the one to give it to you. We just don’t line up the way we should.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and it feels as though someone’s slammed me to the ground.
“Don’t cry,” I say.
She steps forward and rests her forehead against my chest. “Too late.”
I run my hands up and down her back as we stand together in silence.
Her head still down, she eventually says, “I’m not upset because you’re wrong. I’m upset because you’re right. It’s true that I’m still figuring my shit out, and I’m good with that. What I know, though, is that I need someone who’s all in. And maybe that’s just not in the cards for me. Not now, anyway.” She wipes her eyes dry. “So what? This is it? You don’t even want us to be friends anymore?”
I take her hand and brush a thumb across it. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I want us to reach a point where we both feel comfortable being in each other’s lives. Wherever the hell you end up.”
She hiccups on a laugh, then jabs me in the stomach. “I’m going to hold you to that, asshole.”
I wrap my arms around her and press my mouth against her forehead. Everything between us is so astonishingly civilized. Makes me wonder if we’re making more of our differences than we need to. But no, there isn’t any point in wavering. Solange and I are puzzle pieces that simply don’t fit; trying to force us together is only going to frustrate us both.
The elevator car arrives, and Solange backs into it, her dull gaze never straying from mine. We’re still holding hands, neither of us quite ready to let go. After a long moment, she takes a deep breath and pulls away. Then the doors slide shut, and she’s gone.
A part of me wants to run down the stairs, stop her in the lobby, and kiss her senseless. But Solange isn’t the person for me; pretending otherwise is only going to lead to the kind of heartache my mother’s experiencing at this very moment. I’ll reach out to Solange in a few days. Make sure she knows that I genuinely want us to remain friends. Anything else would be impractical—no matter how much I wish that weren’t the case.