My heart beats faster at the mere mention of him. Oy. “Here and there,” I tell her, shifting back into the booth and fidgeting with my dress belt. “He texts me sometimes to see how I’m doing. He left me a nice voicemail on my birthday in August.” I chuckle then, thinking about our last interaction on social media. “He recently tagged me in this article showcasing the world’s greatest pranks and practical jokes. He said he was taking notes.”
Tabitha grins over her cup, tickling Hope’s toes when the baby squeals beside us. “That’s great, Cora. I’m glad it hasn’t been complete radio silence.”
Me, too. I wasn’t sure what to expect in those initial months after he left—I wasn’t even sure what I wanted. They say ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is the key to healing, but I never felt like I needed to heal from Dean. I needed to heal from myself. And I couldn’t imagine a future in which he simply didn’t exist anymore.
So, the occasional contact has been refreshing. We never let our conversations get emotional or veer into any intimate territory. He checks in. I check in. We send a funny meme here and there.
We stay connected.
Tied, but with a loose grip.
It’s enough for now.
I’m just not sure if it always will be.
Tabitha gives Hope a wafer to gum when the baby begins to fuss, and we continue our chat over coffee and giggles. Time runs away from us, as it usually does during our monthly get-togethers, and Tabitha needs to head out for a doctor’s appointment. When we hug goodbye, I feel her arms encompass me in an extra tight squeeze, her breath whispering against my ear.
“You’re such an inspiration, Cora. The true meaning of hope.”
Tears rim my eyes as we pull back, and I offer her a watery smile. “The feeling is very mutual.”
I watch the two girls depart the café, returning the wave Tabitha sends me as they disappear down the sidewalk. I grab my purse, about to follow her out, when I remember I wanted to bring home two puppuccinos for Jude and Penny—which is basically a cup filled with whipped cream.
What to know what else is whipped? Me.
I laugh at the absurdity of carrying home cups of whipped cream in my purse for my dogs, and shuffle over to the counter. I hear the door jingle behind me as I order, then I move off to the side and wait. When I collect the two cups and make sure the lids are sealed tight, I spin around and collide into a hard body.
“Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
That voice.
We both look up, making eye contact, and I freeze.
Then I drop one of the two puppuccinos, sending a spattering of whipped cream all over my boot. I feel like I should probably clean it up, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, and moving in general is definitely out of the realm of possibility.
Dean’s face is a mask of surprise, a little bit of wonder, and a hell of a lot of oh, shit. “You dropped something.”
I blink, registering his words very slowly. When they sink in, I can’t help but release a small smile that only brightens when his own smile begins to stretch. “Did I?” I squeak out, feeling a strange mix of disbelief, awe, confusion, and potent familiarity.
“According to my pant leg, you did.”
I glance down, my face flushing with embarrassment as I take in the whipped cream dappling the leg of his jeans. When I look back up, the humor has faded, and neither of us make any attempt to clean up the mess.
“You look amazing, Cora,” he breathes out, his eyes scanning over my healthy curves, shorter hair, and settling on the renewed sparkle in my eyes. “I didn’t even recognize you when I walked in.”
I duck my head, somewhat bashfully. “You’re just not used to seeing me in anything other than sweatpants,” I joke.
Dean is still studying me head to toe, but not in a sleazy way—it’s almost like he’s soaking me up. Reveling in all of my put-back-together pieces. “It’s not that.”
We both know it’s not that.
I swallow, trying to find the words I’ve so desperately wanted to say to him for eight long months, but now that he’s here, I feel tongue-tied. I nibble my lip, our eyes drawing back together. “You look good, too.”
Well, he does. He really does. He’s wearing a crisp, black button-down over a white band t-shirt with dark jeans. His hair is mussed and slightly overgrown, and a light stubble shadows his jaw. And I think his eyes are even bluer—is that possible?
I clear my throat when he doesn’t reply and attempt more words. “What are you doing back in town?”
Dean finally seems to be swept from whatever daydream he was lost in, and he scratches the back of his head, shuffling from one foot to the other. “I was visiting my mom. Also, my buddy, Reid… he had something he wanted to talk to me about, so I’m on my way over to meet him.”
I hate that I wish his answer had simply been… you.
I flick my fingers through my hair, brushing it over to the opposite side. I have a feeling I know what Reid wants to talk to him about, but it’s not my place to tell, so I just nod and stand there in awkward silence. I seem to have run out of words.
“I wanted to see you, Cora.” Dean presses his lips together, his cheek ticking as he lets out a low breath. “A lot. I just… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me, and I didn’t want to disrupt your life. I didn’t want to pass through and shake you up, only to walk away again. It seemed easier to keep my distance.”
“I get it,” I quickly nod, forcing an agreeable smile as my hand clings to the surviving puppuccino cup. My sweater sleeve slips to my elbow, catching Dean’s attention, and he stares at the small tattoo along my wrist. I don’t miss the sharp intake of air he sucks in when he spots it. I hold it out to him, proudly displaying my new piece of art. “Do you like it?”
Dean seems to drift for a moment, somewhere far away, and I wonder if it’s the same place I go to sometimes. He clears his throat through a nod. “Yeah. I like it a lot.”
I can tell he wants to touch it. He wants to reach out and press his thumb to the sensitive underside of my wrist, tracing the little design, sending goosebumps up my spine. I see it in his eyes. But he resists the temptation and slides his hands into his pockets instead.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re not in town long,” I blurt.
Those were literally the last words I wanted to say to him, but they just spilled out.
Judging by the tensing of his jaw and the shift in his gaze, I think they were the last words Dean wanted to hear, too.
“Right,” he says, tousling his dark hair with one hand and dipping his chin to his chest. “I should get going.”
“Okay.” I chomp down on my lip, keeping it from releasing more lies.
He strains a smile. “This was a nice surprise. You really do look good.”
“You, too.”
This isn’t us. We’re more than trivial conversation and superficial dialogue.
Dammit.
But then he starts walking away with his whipped cream jeans and eyes full of missed opportunity, and my feet stay glued to the coffee shop floor, unable to do much more than watch. I feel helpless. Stuck. Conflicted.
Dean glances over his shoulder at me before he steps out the door. So many unsaid words pass between us with that one, striking look. It’s brief. It’s here and gone within a blink, and yet, it clenches my heart like a tight fist.