Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dean
After an overlong networking lunch with a prospective client, I return to Olney & Henderson and find Michael sitting in a guest chair in my office.
“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” I bark out as I round my desk and take a seat. I’m cranky, and I have no idea why.
“Don’t be an ingrate. I come bearing news.”
My gaze snaps to his; the new emails in my inbox can wait. “Good news?”
“Promising news. It’s about Kimberly Bailey.”
I’ve been on the edge of my seat wondering whether she’ll accept the firm’s offer. “Promising” doesn’t sound like she did. “What can you tell me?”
“Basically, she’s down to two firms: us and Gibson Connolly. She had questions for us—about long-term compensation and her path to partnership—and she was up-front in saying she’s asking the same questions of GC. So we’re in a holding pattern, but we’re not out of the running.”
“You’re right. That is promising.”
“That’s not all, either. Your name came up—in a good way. And given that Henderson’s been your biggest detractor, I’d say your efforts to reel in Bailey have helped you clear a major hurdle. Henderson even pointed out that you’d stepped up to the plate despite the recent setback in your personal life.”
Is that how they see my breakup with Ella? I suppose in the grand scheme of things it technically is, but if it hadn’t happened, I never would have spent so much time with Solange. I’d hardly consider that a setback. “Did they mention Peter?”
“They did. Henderson’s a fan. That’s all I’ll tell you.”
Which means he isn’t telling me everything. And that’s fair. I appreciate that Michael is willing to share this much. Above all else, I’m relieved. My mother doesn’t share much about her personal finances, but high school teachers are notoriously underpaid, and finding and furnishing a new apartment is going to take cash she probably doesn’t have. The jump in salary that comes with partnership would allow me to give her what she needs. “So, in other words, keep my head down, bring in a new client or two, and double up on work for paying clients.”
“The student has become the teacher.” Michael grins as he rises from my guest chair. “Just sit tight. If I hear anything about Kimberly Bailey, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, man.”
After Michael leaves, I close my eyes and take a rare moment to just sit with the fact that partnership is within my grasp. It’s an achievement, for sure, but I can’t help thinking that the past month has dulled its shine. I should be proud of myself. I should be anticipating what’s to come. More clients. More cases. More responsibility. Honestly, though, I’m thinking about the practical effect of it and nothing else. Partnership isn’t going to change my life; it’s going to keep it stable.
I return my attention to the emails waiting in my inbox. The sooner I can finish my work for the day, the sooner I can get home to my mother. If she’s alone for too long, I’m confident she’ll get wrapped up in the breakup. At least when I’m there, I can keep her occupied. Yesterday, we demolished the leftovers from the dinner for Cláudia and her family, took virtual apartment tours, and caught up on each other’s lives. She didn’t mention Harvey once; I thought about Solange only half my waking hours. Staying busy helped us both, apparently.
My phone buzzes. As if I’ve conjured her, Solange’s name pops up on the screen.
Solange: hey. sorry to bother you, but I think I left my bc pills in your bathroom
Me: bc?
Solange: birth control
Solange: I missed a dose yesterday so I need to get them asap
Me: got it. want to stop by tonight to pick them up?
Solange: can’t. have class. can I pick them up now? still have the key.
Me: my mother’s there. is that ok?
Solange: sure. I’ll leave the keys with her.
Me: cool. will let her know you’re coming.
Solange: be there in 15 mins. thanks.
I toss my phone on the desk, and it clatters to the edge. The way Solange and I interacted in that text exchange, as if we mean absolutely nothing to each other, was probably the least genuine moment in our entire relationship, even including the period when we were faking one. Solange and I only pretended to date, yet somehow I’m experiencing a damn breakup anyway. And fuck, there’s this ache in my chest whenever I think about her. Not good.
I stand abruptly and snatch up the phone.
My mother picks up within two rings. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to give you a heads-up that Solange needs to pick up something from my place. She’ll be there soon.”
“Solange?” she asks, a tinge of humor in her voice.
She’s doing this on purpose, and I don’t have the patience for it. “The woman you met Saturday night.”
“Oh yes, the woman who crashed your wedding. Such a pretty lady.”
I can barely hold back the growl in my throat. “Just don’t harass her, okay? Let her get in and get out. No twenty questions.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll shoot for nineteen.” Then she hangs up.
My gut’s telling me this isn’t going to end well; the mile-high stack of files on my desk and a three o’clock team meeting are telling me I can’t do shit about it.
Solange
Well done, Solange. You powered through those texts like a champ.
As I begin the walk from my apartment to Dean’s, I applaud myself for holding it together. There’s no use denying it: Distancing myself from him isn’t going to be easy. Even now, I want to be near him. Talk to him. Kiss him. But Dean isn’t my person, nor does he want me to be his. I knew this from the outset. Yet I got sidetracked by our chemistry, his willingness to wear his vulnerability on his sleeve, the way we played the role of lovers so skillfully that it began to feel real.
Silly me. Dean was never anything more than a diversion. I likely served the same function for him. No harm, no foul, right?
Wrong, Solange. It doesn’t even sound convincing in your own head.
Here’s hoping my and Brandon’s trip to Vegas will yank me out of this funk.
I trudge up the short walkway to Dean’s building, then square my shoulders before pushing open the outer door. In the box-size vestibule, I pull his keys from my purse, unlock the wrought iron security gate, and head straight for the elevator.
When I arrive at Dean’s condo, I take a deep, steadying breath and ring the bell. With any luck, Dean’s mother won’t engage me in conversation, and I’ll be able to slip in and out with no fuss.
Melissa Chapman opens the door with a flourish. She’s an attractive woman. The resemblance between her and Dean is striking. Same hazel eyes. Same dirty-blond hair, hers styled in a shoulder-length bob. Dressed in relaxed jeans and a cream linen top, she could easily be mistaken for his older sister.
“Solange, come in, come in.”
“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Ch—”
“Please. Call me Melissa.”
“Right,” I say, stepping inside. “Sorry to bother you, Melissa. I just need to grab something I left the other day. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“It’s no bother. Do what you need to do.”
I keep my head down, stride to Dean’s room, and find my floral birth control case next to his toothbrush holder. The bathroom’s spotless. No surprise there. I take a moment to scan Dean’s bedroom. The bed’s made, the window shades are drawn on each side at precisely the halfway mark, and Dean’s house slippers are lined up together in the only empty corner. A small stack of files rests on the nightstand; on top, a bowl of peppermints serves as a paperweight. The devil on my shoulder is whispering in my ear, encouraging me to leave his pristine sanctuary in disarray, but I mentally flick the suggestion away. This place is so quintessentially Dean, I don’t want to mess with it. Enough of this. It’s time to bounce.
When I return to the living room, Melissa grabs the remote and turns off the TV.
“Well, I’m all good to go.” I jingle the keys in my hand. “I’m just going to drop these on the counter.” I don’t know why, but I keep my hands visible and creep to the kitchen—as if one false move will set off a chain of events I’m not prepared for—then I place the keys near Dean’s coffeemaker.
Melissa watches me, her lips curved into a half smile. “Solange, please don’t leave yet. It’s been a while since I’ve had the opportunity to meet any of Dean’s friends.” She points at the armchair facing the sofa. “Sit with me a bit?”
Dammit. Here we go. I slowly lower myself onto the chair, then look at her and wait.
“How is he?” she asks. “Really, I mean. He says he’s fine, but just a month ago, he was going to marry Ella. I’m hoping you know more.”
“He seems”—I shrug—“okay?”
What else can I say? Dean and I didn’t talk about Ella that much. We just talked about everything else. And laughed a lot. And gave each other toe-curling orgasms. And blurred the line between fiction and reality even though we both claimed we never would.
She studies me curiously. “How’d you two meet, by the way?”
My chest contracts like a collapsed soufflé. I have no idea whether Melissa liked Dean’s bride. Will she turn hostile once she knows Dean and I were complete strangers when I stopped his wedding? Does it matter? She’s Dean’s mother; of course it does. “Um, I crashed his wedding.”
Her eyes go wide, and she falls forward. “That was the first day you two met?”
Okay, good. She doesn’t seem upset. Instead, she appears to be amused by the revelation, and I fall a little bit in love with her right then. I sit up in the armchair. “It was.”
“Well done, my dear.” Her expression sobers. “Is he . . . getting over Ella?”
“Honestly, I don’t think there was much to get over. It sounded like they’d convinced themselves a modern-day marriage of convenience made sense. I suspect in hindsight they’re relieved they didn’t go through with it.”
Or Ella is. I’m not so sure about Dean.
After letting out a long sigh, she says, “I did this to him.”
“Did what?” I ask, frowning.
“Made him wary of falling in love,” she says, picking at the nonexistent lint on her sleeves.
“Forgive me, but I doubt that’s true. We’re all informed by our experiences, but how we react to them is partly on us.”
“Then I exposed him to the experiences that led him to be wary of love. Better?”
I’m torn. One the one hand, I’m practically rabid for any additional insight into Dean’s psyche. On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t try to dissect Dean’s worldview any more than I already have. Not surprisingly, I cave. “Tell me why you think so.”
“Dean’s grandparents stopped communicating with me shortly after his birth. The why isn’t important. By then, his father had already abandoned us, so after the fallout with my parents, I was completely alone in the world. Twenty-five and alone. With a young child. I tried to find that missing stability in my relationships with men. Still do. But the reality is, my relationships were never healthy, and I ended up turning myself inside out to avoid being alone again.”
She grimaces as she considers her next words. “Dean bore the brunt of that. With age comes clarity, you know. We moved around a lot so I could remain close to whichever latest boyfriend I’d sworn my heart to. Which meant Dean didn’t really have a place he could call home. When a relationship ended, we were usually the ones moving out.”
Now I understand Dean’s dedication to working with clients having problems with their landlords. He relates to their need for security—because he’s been chasing the same thing his whole life.
“Dean heard the promises these men made,” Melissa continues. “And he was there to pick up the pieces when a relationship went south. At some point, I’m guessing he started to think those promises were meaningless. Or he didn’t want to turn himself inside out for love the way I did. And I think it’s more complicated than even Dean realizes. When all is said and done, Dean doesn’t believe anyone will ever put him first, because I didn’t. So he’s fashioned a life for himself that ensures no one will ever have to. If Dean looks out for Dean, he’ll be fine. Or so he thinks.”
So when I didn’t mention the job offer, I only underscored what he believes: that people won’t consider him a priority. But no one’s going to prioritize Dean if he isn’t willing to reciprocate. If he isn’t willing to risk that his life won’t always go according to his grand plan. That’s the impasse.
Melissa stares off into the distance, then stretches out her legs in front of her, settling her hands between her thighs. “Did he ever tell you he wanted to be a swimmer?”
“He did.”
She nods knowingly. “When Dean was fourteen or fifteen, I can’t remember precisely when, he tried out for his school’s swim team. Came home all excited about it. I came home excited too. Because I’d been dating a guy I met at a work conference, and he’d asked us to move in with him.”
A weight settles on my heart. I can picture a young Dean barreling through the door, his bright eyes dancing with excitement. “Let me guess, the guy lived somewhere else.”
Melissa nods. “Pennsylvania. We lived in Delaware at the time. I didn’t understand the effort Dean had put into getting on the team. He did it all on his own. So when we relocated to Pennsylvania, he was sullen. Moody. Way more than usual. I thought he was just adjusting to a new place, a new school, and he was. But he was also dealing with the loss of one of his childhood dreams. Now, maybe nothing would have come of his swimming career, but the point is, my choices made it impossible for him to even try.”
If Dean were here, I’d tuck him against me and just hold him. For however long he wanted. We’re a lot alike, actually. We both want to guarantee only positive outcomes in our lives. But that’s not how any of this works. Not by a long shot. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
She leans forward and takes my hand. “Because I saw his face when you left on Saturday. And I’ve seen his face each time I ask about you. He clams up. But there’s something in his eyes. He cares about you, Solange. Maybe enough to give himself permission to fall in love. But he’s terrified that he won’t figure into your life in the same way he’d like you to figure into his.”
I don’t like this conversation. At all. It’s giving me hope. Making me want things I thought were out of reach. And Dean’s mother is contradicting the very statements her son made just two days ago. I jump to my feet. “I appreciate the insight, Melissa. I really do. Dean’s a wonderful guy. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. But there are numerous parts to this equation, and I think Dean and I have maxed out on where our relationship can go. Thanks for chatting with me.”
She drops her head and sniffles.
“What is it?” I ask, alarmed by the abrupt change in her demeanor.
She hiccups through her response. “It’s just . . . I hate being here . . . alone. And Dean won’t be home for a while.” She waves her hands in my general direction. “Don’t worry about it, dear. This is all on me.”
Ah jeez. She sounds so tragic that I’m hesitant to leave her like this. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t understand her aversion to being alone; half the time I don’t even want to talk to my own damn family.
Oh.
That’s it.
She needs to meet the tias.
If anyone can show Dean’s mother there’s no shame in being alone, it’s them.
“Hey, Melissa, my mother and aunts own a small Brazilian grocery and café in Wheaton. It’s a bit of a hike, but it’d be worth it. You game for heading over there with me?”
She jerks her head up, then wipes away her tears. “Is that where Dean got all of that glorious food we ate yesterday?”
“No, that was a home-cooked meal. They only sell breads and bite-size snacks at the shop. Everything’s delicious, though.”
“Well, in that case, I’d love to!”
I send Dean a text to let him know my plans.
Me: I’m taking your mother to Rio de Wheaton. she’s bored.
Dean: seriously?
Me: no, jokingly
Dean: cute. this is great actually. I could use a couple more hours at work. thanks.
Me: no problem
Dean: promise you two won’t get into any trouble?
Me: I never make promises I can’t keep. tchau.
Me: psst. isn’t it freeing to let go of all those punctuation marks?
Dean: not really but I’m trying
Now that exchange felt better. Maybe we’re not doomed to be estranged after all.
I drop my phone into my crossbody and slip back into my shoes by the door. “Ready?”
“Sure! Can’t wait!” Melissa says.
Oddly enough, there’s no sign of the tears she shed literally a minute ago. Whatever. The tias will know what to do with her.